“I do like money,” admits Ernest Burkhart (Leonardio DiCaprio)—thereby joining the Martin Scorsese tradition of dimwitted, mercenary protagonists. Like his predecessors, Henry Hill of Goodfellas and Jordan Belfort of The Wolf of Wall Street (also played by DiCaprio), Ernest can’t resist the temptation of the green. But Killers of the Flower Moon takes a gloomier survey of American greed than those other two films because not only does Burkhart commit greater evils by far than his parallels, but, unlike them, he never attains the dream of wealth that motivates him in the first place.
Scorsesean violence has always allowed a glimmer of amusement: like Tarantino, he enjoys the suffering of the crooked. But what about when the violence is one-sided, and the victims are faultless? That’s the new territory of Killers of the Flower Moon. And perhaps surprisingly, Scorsese proves apt in supplying the appropriate tone. Absent is the humor of Goodfellas; absent is the clinical eye of Taxi Driver; absent even is the cynicism of The Departed. Pervading the film instead is a sense of elegy, of personal pain; for better or worse, the movie’s true precursor may be Schindler’s List. (Not accidentally, Scorsese imitates his peer with a late, Spielbergian cameo.)
Much of the pain is felt through the great performance of Lily Gladstone as Ernest’s Native American wife, Mollie. In the movie’s most memorable shot, Mollie wails in despair after the death of her sister. Gladstone’s acting gives the moment dignity and power, while Scorsese’s framing of the scene from above, with the characters huddled in a pitiful basement, conveys their helplessness in the face of unmoored scheming and violence. Bringing both truths to the screen has often stymied directors: Spielberg, for example, couldn’t strike the balance.
An even more interesting duality in the film has to do with Scorsese’s portrayal of the American everyman. Typically, blue-collar, plain-speaking types are sympathetic characters. Their lack of cleverness serves as a virtue, a promise of honesty. But Scorsese, in Killers of the Flower Moon and his previous film, The Irishman, has illustrated a darker side to ignorance. In those two films, witless simpletons commit unspeakable horrors because of their witlessness: easily manipulated by tyrants, they become unnaturally malicious. Ernest is aptly named, as he’s indeed “earnest” in his love for simple pleasures and for his family. But Scorsese shows us that earnestness isn’t enough: while the character sincerely mourns the declining health of his beloved wife, he injects her with the very poison causing her infirmity.
Overall, Killers of the Flower Moon is another variation on classic Scorsesean themes. If I had to summarize his body of work, I would describe it as an examination of money, stupidity, and violence—and their repeated confluence through American history. His newest output follows that track exactly. Nevertheless, with each new release, he brings a slightly different approach, challenging himself in a new way, even at 80 years old. He’s one of the masters, and his remaining work deserves to be cherished.
–Jim Andersen
For more reviews, see my thoughts on Oppenheimer.