Before I start talking about the first of two David Grann works of non-fiction that Martin Scorsese has tackled, I just wanted to express some frustration. I cannot begin to express my frustration that so much of what surrounds the release of a new Scorsese picture, one of the indisputable giants of the greater creative sphere, is endlessly waylaid by discourse around superhero movies. Yes, he does not like your carnival house fun rides and bemoans the impact they’ve had on theatrical distribution. And it’s absolutely fine if you disagree. But to take such offense, and for these conversations to be endlessly capitalized on by bad faith actors in the “click-bait content mine” economy is very frustrating. Personally, much like its an affront to ask Alan Moore what he thinks about superhero comics, it’s even worse to harangue one of the greatest champions of cinema his thoughts about what Marvel Studios is up to and if it counts as “real cinema”. He’s said what was needed to be said years ago, I’m sorry he upsets you and your need to imbibe the cinematic equivalent of Happy Meals on a regular basis. Maybe by the time The Wager (his next Grann adaptation) hits, the further cell death of this stuff will have sunk in with some permanence and there’ll be more serious discussion around the work itself. I won’t hold my breath.
Okay, back to the matter at hand…Killers of the Flower Moon.
It’s a fascinating piece of history that Grann brought to the greater public consciousness in his book of the same name. Much like Tulsa’s “Black Wall St” was one of the earliest examples of concentrated minority wealth in the US, the discovery of oil in Osage County, Oklahoma by the Osage People produced an incredible wellspring of money being poured into the region and the development of a newly rising wealthy social class therein. Much like parasites, white men came to the state to worm their way into newly granted headrights that the US courts had awarded the Osage tribe. One of the key ways they were able to break into this funding stream was via marriage to many of the young women of the tribal families. While Grann’s novel is a more expansive overview of a plot to murder potentially hundreds of these enriched Osage people, Scorsese and screenwriter Eric Roth refocus the story a bit, by centering on one of those very marriages and how it lies central to the machinations of the greater tragedy that befell this community.
With Killers of the Flower Moon, Scorsese has finally united his two primary screen-stars and creative partners. Leonardo DiCaprio (his sixth film with the director) plays Ernest Burkhart, a yokel having just returned from war and begins working for his uncle and acts as a cab driver. Ernest, a role that DiCaprio specifically sought out, is a unique creation. Adorned in what can not so charitably be described as “Party City teeth”, Ernest is both disgusting but also still wrapped up in Leo’s good looks. He’s both an idiot, and also charismatic enough to push his way through to reach his uncle’s ends and also marry into one of those very families that hold those long sought after headrights. He’s driven only by money and his lust for it, with his soon to be wife playfully chiding him on his overtures to her “You just want money” and his exclamation while gambling with his cohorts “I love money, boys!” acting as firm declaration of character. On the other side of the coin is Scorsese’s longest on-screen partner, Robert De Niro (now on his tenth film with Scorsese) playing William Hale, Ernest’s uncle and the mastermind of the larger plot to manipulate the flow of monetary rights in one direction. Hale is a bit more one-dimensional, but it provides De Niro to once again bring forth is his ever-present ability to display both menace and to be very, very funny.
But the great mainstream discovery of Killers will no doubt be Lily Gladstone, in the role of Mollie Burkhart, the woman Ernest marries in the early going and the centrifugal force by which the narrative sways. Gladstone essays a specific knowing and stoic presence, that the meld of actor and part is the kind of flawless that leads to multiple award wins. It’s the greatest compliment that I can give that the film is slightly wounded at points when she isn’t on screen, particularly as its gargantuan runtime (three and a half hours) ticks on.
That’s not to say it doesn’t mostly earn it. Certainly for its first two hours, Scorsese produces a riveting account of the rise of this community through the eyes of its central romantic pair, the outset of the slayings, and the personal toll it takes on both Mollie and Ernest. That Scorsese and Roth pull this off through the narrative razzmatazz you come to expect from a Scorsese picture, particularly through some shifting and bruising POVs that play like testimony in the eventual trial. It’s a story caked in emotional absorption, tragedy and white hot anger. It just goes on quite a bit, to the point where one might argue, and I think I do, that it’s length does approach punishing in its final stretch. This gets back to the sidelining of Mollie, as once she’s subtracted from much of the proceedings and Ernest is the main focal point – for narratively sound reasons, but it doesn’t change the fact – I started checking the time more than I’d like. And as much as I love Jesse Plemons and Pat Healy, and how the filmmaker underscores just how tricky the burgeoning Bureau of Investigation was even at that point in their lifespan, the court room back and forth is an element that really needed either less or more time. Does that mean this was begging more for the miniseries treatment or as a tighter feature? It could go either way.
Still, a soggy last thirty minutes doesn’t wipe out just how powerful everything that preceded it is, and as per usual, Scorsese nails the final moments – not only with poignancy, but also with the most innovative approach to the usual pre-credits intertitles that I’ve ever seen. I almost gasped aloud.
Another late period winner from a giant.