Here’s “The Wolf of Wall Street” in a nutshell (skip to paragraph three to avoid spoilers):
“Man discovers a way to get rich quick. Man spends millions on prostitutes and drugs. Man is convicted of several crimes. Man rats on his associates to reduce his sentence. Roll credits.”
Given that “The Wolf of Wall Street” is three hours long, you might think I’m leaving something out. Perhaps the man to whom I referred, Jordan Belfort, experiences a change of heart and repents. But no. There’s no admission of wrongdoing, and no sins are washed away. Rather, the bulk of the movie is “Man spends his millions on prostitutes and drugs,” and then there’s the bit at the end.
Although audacious, it’s all true. Belfort is alive and well, and has laid out his transgressions in a book on which director Martin Scorsese based the movie. The drugs and the prostitutes were the least of his offenses; beating his second wife ranked higher, as did running a corrupt stock brokerage firm.
Belfort’s bold declarations are nothing new in the realm of nonfiction, but they are a rarity on film. Movie audiences prefer villains laced with sympathy. In the recently released “American Hustle,” writer and director David O. Russell tells the story of Irving Rosenfeld, a con man who bilks desperate people out of money they can’t afford to lose. But Russell is more interested in the good in Rosenfeld than he is the hustle. His con man adopts a son, refuses to leave a bad marriage because he doesn’t want to lose the kid, and has a crisis of conscience over entrapping a politician who became an unexpected friend. The hustle is great fun to watch, but the movie is compelling because of the varying shades of its main character.
Belfort is simply “Man who lines his pockets with ill-gotten gain.”
So what’s the point? Is there a purpose to the drunken, sex-crazed hedonistic excess in the film? Or to the lengthy sequence in which Belfort overdoses on quaaludes? Or to the slap on the wrist the American justice system gave him?
Absolutely. With “The Wolf of Wall Street,” Scorsese holds up a mirror to America and says, “This is us. This is our culture. We should talk about this.”
Scorcese doesn’t soften the behavior of Belfort or his associates, but he doesn’t condone or glorify them, either. Rather, he wants to start a discussion. While he’s late to the party - most Americans are aware of the scandals that rocked the corporate world in recent years - he’s made daring artistic choices with “The Wolf of Wall Street.”
Thematic discussion aside, how’s the movie? Scorcese does good work from behind the camera, although I missed his auteur’s touch, evident in his best films. The visual flair for which he’s known is missing.
Scorcese’s longtime editor, Thelma Schoonmaker, does her usual bang-up job, and even at three hours, “The Wolf of Wall Street” moves briskly. Some scenes feel indulgent, but that’s the point.
Also, Leonardo DiCaprio does the best work of his career. I’ll be shocked if he’s not nominated for an Oscar. He didn’t just bring Belfort to life; you can see the man’s decadence, self-interest, and disregard for other people oozing from his pores.
There are plenty of things to admire about the film – Matthew McConaughey makes the most of his few scenes, for example – but I won’t be watching it again. The gratuitous sex, the 506 f-bombs, and the copious drugs didn’t faze me; what got to me was the hollowness of its characters. They existed only to steal money from people who’d earned it, and then spend it on lavish, orgiastic lifestyles. When I left the theater, I wanted to wash their smell off of me.
Again, that’s the point. “The Wolf of Wall Street” is an empty film, but its emptiness has a purpose. Scorcese doesn’t just tell Belfort’s story; he tells the story of a culture that exists only to feed itself. We should talk about this.
Three-and-a-half stars out of four. Rated R for, well, everything, and lots of it.