‘Killers of the Flower Moon’ Critique: DiCaprio Shines in Scorsese’s Uncompromising Crime Saga

"Martin Scorsese's envisioned 'Killers of the Flower Moon' as his long-awaited Western, yet this remarkable American epic, delving into the genocidal conspiracy against the Osage Nation in the 1920s, gains even more strength and individuality when it dabbles in other genres that emerge throughout its sprawling three-and-a-half-hour duration.

Among these genres, the first and most conspicuous is a gangster drama reminiscent of Scorsese's earlier works. Just when it appeared that 'The Irishman' would mark the director's final statement on this signature genre, he is drawn back in, presenting another film brimming with ruthless murders, cutting voiceovers, and sharp insights into the corrosive nature of American capitalism. While 'Gimme Shelter' may not have made the final cut, the infectious bass-driven rhythm of Robbie Robertson's brilliantly anachronistic score almost convinces you that it could have."

However, the "Reign of Terror," triggered by the discovery of oil that catapulted the Osage Nation in Oklahoma to become the wealthiest community per capita worldwide, presents an uncomfortably expansive backdrop for Scorsese's typically intimate crime saga. The source material for "Killers of the Flower Moon," a sweeping narrative that explores the demise of the Wild West and the emergence of the 20th century, allocates nearly equal attention to the modern sociopath orchestrating the Osage murders and the old-fashioned cowboy dispatched by J. Edgar Hoover to apprehend him. Scorsese's rendition, though more tightly focused, acknowledges these seismic shifts in American history but treats them only peripherally. Its principal concern lies with the diabolical mastermind and his devoted lackey, two cunning individuals whose perception of the evolving American landscape remains confined to the delusion that it still exclusively belongs to them.

In William Hale's perspective, the Osage people were merely caretakers of the wealth that his nation had unintentionally bestowed upon its indigenous population through the act of seizing their land. He clung to a fervent belief that America remained a realm where certain individuals could commit murder in the name of white progress and escape punishment. Scorsese's film presents disturbing scenes that shed light on why Hale might have sustained this belief even after being pursued by the Bureau of Investigation. However, while Grann's book unfolded as an expansive conspiracy thriller, gradually unraveling the case while keeping a keen eye on America's shift from mythology to modernity, Eric Roth's screenplay promptly exposes the murderers. This iteration of "Killers of the Flower Moon" doesn't ebb and flow; instead, it seeps from the earth and gathers in a few distinct locations, delving deeper into the complex relationship between the perpetrators.

Needless to say, Roth's approach doesn't yield favorable results for the aforementioned cowboy. Tom White, portrayed with quiet moral strength by Jesse Plemons, is diminished to the point where he would barely make an impact in the narrative if not for Plemons' performance. He becomes a stiff figure in a striped suit, lacking the vibrant essence of a symbol representing the faded American West. Ironically, Roth and Scorsese initially envisioned White as the story's protagonist, but they reset their approach upon realizing that focusing on law enforcement would detract too much attention from the Osage people themselves and the devastating toll the events took on their entire community. Even in the final version of the film, despite the remarkable performances from Native American actors like William Belleau and Tantoo Cardinal, their haunting witness to the horrors surrounding them feels somewhat overshadowed by the silence enveloping it.

Roth's adaptation, however, allows "Killers of the Flower Moon" to evolve into a captivating exploration of multi-dimensional characters behind the massacre. Furthermore, it transforms into a twisted love story, centered on the marriage between an Osage woman and a white man who, unbeknownst to her, played a role in the brutal murder of her entire family to inherit their oil fortune. This sepia-toned saga of self-denial and slow poisoning thrives on the most remarkable performance of Leonardo DiCaprio's illustrious career. The former matinee idol fearlessly embraces the portrayal of morally repugnant characters, and his nuanced and uncompromising portrayal of the despicable Ernest Burkhart uncovers new depths from the actor's longstanding refusal to rely on vanity.

In the bustling main street that serves as the vibrant and immersive backdrop of Scorsese's film, some men find their pursuits in photography or car sales, taking advantage of the thriving atmosphere (with the invaluable contributions of legendary production designer Jack Fisk). However, for others of a more cunning disposition, their objective lies in marrying into Osage wealth. Exploiting a flagrantly racist "guardianship" system that deemed Native Americans as "incompetent" to manage their own finances, these opportunistic individuals would gain complete control over their wives' fortunes.

Ernest, not particularly bright, seems mostly bemused by the unfolding situation. A mediocre catch in New York but a prized catch in Fairfax, he strolls through town with a slack-jawed swagger, fueled by the knowledge that he has an unlimited supply of moonshine at the beginning of Prohibition. DiCaprio brings Ernest to life, delivering each of his drawling half-formed thoughts from the depths of his hollowed-out cheeks. Picture a performance reminiscent of the Lemmons scene in "The Wolf of Wall Street," portraying a character designed to appease those who argued that Jordan Belfort was just too darn likable.

Despite Ernest's attractiveness, lack of intelligence, and disregard for consequences, his upwardly mobile uncle, William Hale—the self-proclaimed "King of the Osage Hills"—recognizes his usefulness as a gullible pawn. Robert De Niro embodies Hale, sickly sweet yet unwaveringly sinister, a local businessman who condescendingly claims to love the Osage like his own children. In truth, he wishes they were his own offspring, with their headrights flowing into his wallet like oil extracted from the earth beneath their feet. As Hale advises his nephew, "If you're going to cause trouble, make sure it's grand."

At this stage, Hale has already pinpointed Ernest as the perfect instrument for tapping into one of the most lucrative veins in town—Mollie Kyle, an unmarried Osage woman. Soon to be known as Mrs. Burkhart, portrayed by the immensely talented Lily Gladstone (known for her breakout role in "Certain Women"), Mollie may be considered "incompetent" under the white man's law, but her every word betrays the fiercely bitter intellect of someone who comprehends the situation, realizes she's being manipulated, and reluctantly acknowledges her people's limited alternatives.

Gladstone effortlessly conveys a multitude of emotions within mere seconds of gracing the screen—an essential feat in a lengthy film that unfortunately doesn't dedicate enough time to her character. In the initial stages, Mollie's flirtation with Ernest showcases the pinnacle of "The Killers of the Flower Moon," where Scorsese's directorial prowess ignites and captivates. However, as Mollie's close relatives meet untimely fates and Mrs. Ernest Burkhart succumbs to a diabetic stupor, rendering her bedridden for the duration of an entire "Kundun," the surrounding narrative loses its cohesion, scattering into a collection of disjointed details that fail to surpass the sum of their parts (at least upon the initial viewing of a film that defies complete digestion in one sitting). When Mollie finally resurfaces in the spotlight hours later, remaining the film's most complex character, it's too late to delve into the full complexity of her emotions regarding the terror, both on a personal and collective level.

This proves particularly frustrating because Mollie and Ernest make an enthralling pair, especially as their genuine affection for one another endure despite the demise of many of Mollie's family members. Ernest becomes so accustomed to the leash held by Hale, nearly surrendering his last vestiges of free will. Yet, against all odds, DiCaprio's performance elicits an unexpected sympathy for this repugnant, clueless man who has lost touch not only with the truth of his own feelings but also the role he may have played in poisoning the only person who truly cares about him. It's thrillingly ambiguous and discomforting material, and Gladstone matches DiCaprio beat-for-beat as a woman who experiences the same unease, fully aware of the truth behind her own emotions.

The film's ability to endure the semi-tedious courtroom drama it evolves into towards the end is a testament to Scorsese's enduring genius for exploring toxic relationships. Few storytellers possess the ability to blur the line between love and exploitation as masterfully as Scorsese, be it between two individuals or two communities. While it may be overly simplistic to perceive Ernest and Mollie's relationship as a metaphor for the one between white America and the Osage Nation, the anguish and confusion that Scorsese extracts from it are so profoundly resonant that it practically demands consideration within a broad historical context. At the very least, it resonates within Scorsese's own body of work: as De Niro's scheming Hale plots the destruction of the same Osage Nation families who regarded him as a benevolent intermediary to white America, echoes of disassociation (or perhaps precursors) reminiscent of "Casino" and "The Wolf of Wall Street" reverberate. It brings to mind the final thought that crossed Ace Rothstein's mind before a car exploded beneath his feet: "When you love someone, you've gotta trust them. There's no other way. You've got to give them the key to everything that's yours. Otherwise, what's the point? And for a while, I believed that's the kind of love I had."

However, the love Ernest gave and the kind Hale extends to the Osage Nation is far from genuine or altruistic. Unbeknownst to the Osage, Hale firmly believes their time has come to an end, and he sees himself as a mere instrument of destiny, helping relieve them of their wealth before they fade into the annals of history. With Ernest's brother and a group of loyal henchmen at his side (including the immensely talented Sturgill Simpson and the morbidly hilarious Louis Cancelmi), Hale callously massacres the Osage, displaying the indifference of a predator attacking its prey.

Yet, despite Hale's distorted reasoning, the film's narrow focus hinders the audience from fully grasping him as anything more than a murderous capitalist. While this characterization is undeniably accurate, without a broader context, this smiling monster appears more like an anomaly rather than a symptom of a deeper affliction within America (with the filmmakers' wise inclusion of the Tulsa Race Massacre serving as a notable exception). Cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto skillfully utilizes a palette of dry and dusty browns to evoke a palpable sense of time and place. However, the camera's frame rarely expands beyond Fisk's Main Street set, gradually transforming a story that initially contemplates the boundless potential of America's future into a series of medium shots that exclude the very people whose futures were unjustly denied.

It is a delicate balancing act for a filmmaker as gifted and operatic as Scorsese, as his ability to convey any narrative clashes with the acknowledgment that this may not be his story to tell. Consequently, for better or worse, Scorsese transforms "Killers of the Flower Moon" into the type of tale that he excels in telling above all others: a narrative of greed, corruption, and the tarnished soul of a nation founded on the notion that it could be claimed by anyone callous enough to seize it.

-IndiaWire