killers of the flower moon

Martin Scorsese’s filmography is far too diverse to attempt and slot it into some sort of reductive thematic box… but there’s no doubt a good number of his movies are fixated on how the American Dream has become inextricably entwined with the malignant influence of capitalism. In Goodfellas, Henry Hill sees his larger-than-life gangster fantasies (exemplified by the cars they drive, the wads of cash they brandish, and the power and influence they wield) disintegrate into a pathetic, coke-fueled paranoia nightmare. Casino uses Vegas as the backdrop for its sprawling rise-and-fall tragedy - a symbol of the Faustian allure of instant (and unearned) wealth (the true American Dream, some might say) - while The Wolf of Wall Street distorts the world of high finance through the most hilariously ghoulish lens imaginable, suggesting that economic excess is the most addictive and soul-destroying drug of all.

Joining the list is Killers of the Flower Moon, Scorsese’s long-awaited adaptation of David Grann’s nonfiction bestseller, which was about, well… many things, but mostly cast a light on one of the more shameful racial transgressions in the history of a nation that’s had quite a few of them. Set in Oklahoma in the aftermath of World War I, the story reveals that the Osage Nation became the wealthiest people per capita on Earth after discovering oil on their reservation. Early scenes offer the surreal sight of the Osage impeccably clothed in the finest suits, furs and flapper fashions and chauffeured in the fanciest of automobiles, the obsequious white townsfolk flitting about them with naked, wolfish avarice. Independent of the tragedies that would ensue, Scorsese gently broaches the subject of whether this financial windfall was of genuine benefit, beyond superficial materialism. The character of Lizzie Q (whose family controls a large share of the oil headrights, and whose four daughters reside at the heart of the story) laments the erosion of cultural identity; her children assimilating via white husbands represents a literal and figurative diluting of their native bloodline. The sight of the Osage - at the crucial moment of discovery - staging a whooping, celebratory dance while bathed in black gold isn’t necessarily the moment of triumph it appears on the surface... one senses Scorsese’s queasiness with the image - and repercussions - of their bodies being tainted, literally, with this country's poisonous lifeblood. 

Eventually the Osage - the majority of them young and seemingly healthy - begin turning up dead at a virtually epidemic rate… each fatality punctuated with the same chilling refrain - “no investigation.” The story isn’t really framed as any sort of mystery; we grasp from the get-go that local ranching titan William “King” Hale (Robert De Niro) is orchestrating the murders… both to gain control of the oil wealth, and to correct the natural (racial) order he believes has been subverted. Much has been made of how the narrative was chosen to be framed - whether it might have been strengthened from the Osage perspective, while also acknowledging that this wasn’t necessarily Scorsese’s story to tell (further complicated by an understanding that, while indigenous filmmakers have made great strides in recent years, no studio or streamer is likely to hand one a 200-million budget just yet). Purely from a dramatic standpoint, it’s a tricky approach to navigate… particularly over a monolithic 206-minute runtime… not only because the perpetrators are singularly repellant, but also due to the fact that - aside from the Machiavellian Hale (played with a wicked, matter-of-fact menace by De Niro) - these are fundamentally dull, brutish, thoughtless characters who do little to engage the dramatic senses. The movie grips through sheer force of will, but it doesn’t necessarily captivate the same way that the pillars of Scorsese’s filmography do - like a drug that hits the cinematic bloodstream. 

There is a clear-cut narrative purpose at work here, however. Enter Hale’s nephew, Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio), recently returned from the war (where he served as a cook - the film is quick to stress there was no heroism on his part). He begins courting - and eventually marries - Molly Kyle (Lily Gladstone), the key chess piece in Hale’s master plan (he begins eliminating her sisters one-by-one, ensuring her family’s headrights coalesce around her). The emotional reality of Ernest and Molly’s marriage remains elusive… but one gets the sense that there is both love and genuine conscience on Ernest’s part; he’s simply too weak-willed to make good on them, particularly when he’s instructed to start doping Molly with tainted insulin. This is a shuddering portrait of the banality of evil (to see Ernest as conscienceless is to let him off the hook) and DiCaprio - a movie star operating at the absolute peak of his powers - gives a performance completely shorn of any trace of vanity. Slouching and sallow-faced, his mouth twisted in a pout of consternation, he feels, by the end, as if the competing demands on his soul are forcing him into a paralyzed fetal position. It’s a truly pathetic showing, in the most complimentary way. Gladstone has an incredibly interesting countenance that holds the screen; she’s at her best when she’s at her most still, allowing you to lose yourself in the contours of her face, in the veiled intensity of her gaze. Where her career might go from here is exciting to contemplate.​

Grann’s book was as much about the rise of J. Edgar Hoover’s fledgling Federal Bureau of Investigation (its subtitle is literally “The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI”), which comes to unravel the conspiracy - but lawman Tom White (played by the ever-dependable Jesse Plemons) isn’t really much of a character here. There’s a strong case to be made that this material would have been better served by a miniseries, which would have offered more elbow room. But Scorsese’s cinematic mojo appears in no danger of cresting. Killers of the Flower Moon isn’t as rapturously entertaining or stylistically intoxicating as his very best pictures, but it simmers and throbs with diamond-cut indignation. The final scene, expertly sprung by a director whose craft knows virtually no bounds, lands like a blow to the solar plexus. Some have argued that, like Jordan Peele did with Nope last summer, Scorsese is subversively condemning the very medium he’s operating within… and castigating the audience’s complicity in the process. That may or may not be true, but there’s little doubt that the ending casts the concept of justice in this country in a very stark and sobering light. After all… it’s easy to view the tragedy of the Osage through a 21st-century lens of moral outrage, but it doesn’t change the fact that the atrocities perpetrated against them were relegated to little more than historical footnote for decades. It’s not an easy truth to digest. It sits like gravel in your gut.