Like all of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books, The Great Gatsby was out of print when he died in 1941, at just 44, of a heart attack. The 1925 novel has since become enshrined as one of, if not the great American novel, its fine-cut romantic power undimmed by years of ham-fisted high-school essays on the symbolism of Gatsby’s blinking green light and Doctor Eckleburg’s all-seeing eyes. Doing the book justice on the big screen has been an equally protracted process. Baz Luhrmann’s 3-D version, which comes out May 10, will be the sixth movie adaptation in 87 years. The novel also has inspired a play, an opera, a musical, an experimental theater version set in an office, a graphic novel, a teen novel, a version with vampires, even a Nintendo game. But a lustrous definitive movie version feels like it would be the most fitting and generous memorial, given Fitzgerald’s own doomed excursions into the movie business. After years of toil in Hollywood, he died with only one screenplay credit. His mind was perhaps too elegant for the mass audience carpentry of screenwriting, his romanticism (and sobriety) too delicate. But one can take comfort that Fitzgerald’s fate has only added to the enduring appeal of Gatsby’s doomed trajectory, especially for moviemakers.