The Great Gatsby, Wilton's Music Hall, review Do you remember the "American century"? It's starting to seem rather remote now - all that early morning confidence and dew-fresh sparkle. Few writers caught it so well as F Scott Fitzgerald and he nowhere else so well as in The Great Gatsby (1925), his arch portrait of the rich and restless on Long Island. We turn to it when we want to glimpse the impossible glamour of long-ago fabulous parties and to luxuriate in the sort of heart-break only money can buy. Peter Joucla's new version at Wilton's Music Hall operates as an unashamed nostalgia party for a world we never knew. Like some fancy-dress do, the requirement (only lightly enforced) is that we wear our best Twenties bib and tucker. I've never seen such a swell-looking crowd: the girls dolled up in flapper-age finery, the boys got up like tyro tycoons. They should hand out prizes for the best-dressed couple, to add to the Prohibition-themed cocktails they're shaking at the bar. This is a show that majors in fun; and it's no surprise to see it's a cult hit - who isn't seeking a spot of stylish, well-heeled hedonism in these glum times? It's highly likely, though, that you'll remember the ecstatic looks on the faces of those volunteering for a crash-course in the Charleston during the interval more than any of the theatrical action itself. Joucla's account, which he directs too, doesn't solve the riddle confronting any adaptation, which is how to tell the story when so much of the book's genius lies not in the dialogue or plot but in the narration. Baz Luhrmann will have his go on the big screen later this year; next month, New York's Elevator Repair Service brings over its brilliant but exhaustive solution, featuring every word and running to eight hours. This, by contrast, feels manageable but meagre; the actors seem more confident in their interspersed a capella rounds of drolly apt show-tunes than in their thinly sketched roles. All the same, you've got to admire the attempt. The small ensemble works hard and the leads are strong - Kirsty Besterman as Daisy, the beautiful, married object of Gatsby's thwarted devotion, and Michael Malarkey as the enigmatic bachelor hero. He's quite a dream-boat; when he appears in his swimming kit before being shot by poor, cuckolded garage-owner Mr Wilson, this old music-hall resounds to audience wolf-whistles. Diverting, then, but hardly definitive. To May 19.