Reign of Terror
Film
When oil is discovered in 1920s Oklahoma under Osage Nation land, the Osage people are murdered one by one—until the FBI steps in to unravel the mystery.
Finding the wolves in Martin Scorsese's newest film, Killers of the Flower Moon, is the easy part. From the nonfiction best-seller of the same name written by David Grann, this adaptation is an epic, brutalist true-crime Western told honestly and made for our modern times. The film meticulously recounts and reckons with the systemic exploitation and conspiratorial murdering of Osage Native Americans in Osage County, Oklahoma circa post-World War I. The hard part here isn't finding the wolves. The hard part is unpacking its creators' artistic intentions and contrite trepidations, assessing the deliberate manner in which Scorsese goes about retelling this especially dark chapter of American history.
(SPOILERS APLENTY)
Not long after geysers of black gold gush up from the Earth in Osage County and rain down immense wealth on its relocated Native inhabitants, the wolves are suddenly everywhere. These wolves are white-skinned. They're marrying into Osage families, acting as court-appointed guardians to restrict and control the Native People's influx of money, and slowly acquiring extremely lucrative oil-soaked land holdings. How are they acquiring this inherited land? If their Osage spouse were to die, their valuable headrights are legally transferred to these parasitic white-skinned in-laws. Under the oft-shadowed veil of love, courtship with the Osage was what you might call an abhorrent business proposition, where black gold turns into bloody money.
The affluent and publicly magnanimous William K. Hale, (Robert De Niro) a revered community leader, successful cattle rancher, reserve deputy sheriff, and most notably, is a trusted ally to the Osage – he’s oft referred to as the “King of the Osage Hills.” But behind the friendly façade, Hale assumes the role of the alpha white-skinned wolf. In broad daylight but behind closed doors, he operates as a sinister crime lord conniving with countless other conspirators to methodically murder off targeted members of the Osage Nation to soak up their oil-rich inheritances. After his dimly impressionable nephew, Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio), arrives in Osage County following the Great War, Hale’s pervasive scheming gains a new central accomplice whom he can actively manipulate and move around his chessboard as needed. Hale wastes no time suggesting to Ernest that he should court Mollie Kyle (Lily Gladstone), a wealthy Osage woman whose family owns lucrative oil headrights, an inheritance that Ernest will 'legally' receive a greater portion of should more members of Mollie’s family die. While Mollie and Ernest truly do fall in love despite her underlying distrust of whatever his white-skinned intentions may be, Ernest becomes gradually more aware of and involved with his uncle’s efforts to kill several wealthy Osage, including Mollie’s two remaining sisters. Despite the fact this series of murders is turning into an all-out genocide, there is no legitimate investigation conducted due to the corruption of local law enforcement. But as the body count climbs, a law officer working for the Bureau of Investigation (later known as the FBI), Tom White (Jesse Plemons), finally arrives in Oklahoma to unravel this complex conspiracy and help deliver justice for this series of murders.
At first glance, the thematic currents pulsing through Killers seem perfectly complimentary and in conversation with all the core tenets of the larger Scorsesean filmography: there’s white male violence, existential crises of faith, and nefarious behavior in the name of bloodthirsty capitalism. But even though Scorsese is in the director's chair, it would be a disservice to his efforts to label this simply as another gangster flick or an inspired literary adaptation or a tasteful period piece meets historical drama. This film, with its muscular runtime and 'no expense spared' attention to craft and talent, delivers on its promise to not only handle the telling of this Native story with brutal honesty and sincere respect but also to interrogate the exploitation and hypocrisy that's inherently susceptible within this mode of cinematic dramatization. No, Killers of the Flower Moon isn’t just Scorsese ‘playing his hits’ or tilling the same dirt – this a mournful meditation on a real-life tragedy that is purposeful in its framing, thoughtful in its social commentary, and masterful in its execution.
The decision by Scorsese and Eric Roth, who co-wrote the screenplay, to completely reshape the book's narrative structure to remove any real mystery or suspense behind the true nature of these crimes is crucial and wise. Unlike Grann’s book, Scorsese’s film doesn’t rely on rationed information or a stunning third-act reveal of who was responsible for orchestrating the Reign of Terror against the Osage Nation. This retelling isn't intended to be a propulsive or thrilling whodunit; instead, it is designed and best understood as an interrogation into the psychological complexities of complicity. The premeditated collusion and evils at work are presented here without tempered discretion and its perpetrators are often shown in broad daylight operating within plain view. There's no shocking cinematic twist deployed just to make things more suspenseful – within the first twenty minutes, the audience is fully aware of who the wolves are and what they're hunting. Sure there still are a few shocking twists and turns throughout, but the filmmakers' restraint to not sensationalize the despicable violence proves the intention is to disturb not titillate. When everything is this grounded and blunt, there is more time, energy, and care put into the authenticity of trying to psychologize the why and rather than worry to much about the how behind these events. Anything less than pursing an exercise in the truth here would be disrespectful to the victims and families of the Osage Nation.
At the film's true center is a love story, albeit a wicked and unforgiving one. Unpacking and investigating the emotional entanglement and toxicity between Mollie and Ernest not only adheres to this film's principal proposition, but it fully unlocks and unleashes the power of its central performers. This top-notch cast brings its A-game, particularly the three headliners in Gladstone, DiCaprio, and De Niro. There were moments throughout the film where I had goosebumps watching a fully-formed DiCaprio and emeritus De Niro share the screen and bring in years of shared history from the Scorsese ecosystem. Both men have spent much of their professional careers acting as muses in his films, and it felt like a truly full-circle moment for them to both be testing their limits with this level of material. Even still, the scene-stealer for me is still Gladstone, whose encapsulating presence provides a gravitas and integrity that is indispensable. She makes the most with still somewhat limited screen time, but she dominates the movie, even when she's off screen. She's marvelous.
Out of fear of rambling on, I'll keep my praise of the below-the-line craftspeople brief. There's Thelma Schoonmaker, Scorsese's long-time collaborator, who is in many ways as essential for making a movie feel like a Scorsese movie. There's Rodrigo Prieto, who is one of the more sought-after and accomplished cinematographers in Hollywood working today. And there's of course, Robbie Robertson, another long-time Scorsese collaborator who recently passed away after the completion of this score. His work here is outstanding, electric, groovy, and grave, and it is as complicated, textured, and tonally rich as the film itself. The posthumous recognition that Robertson deserves for his work here would certainly be earned.
As Scorsese appears on screen in the film's second to last scene, he is stripped of all vanity and isn't there to steal the show. True to his Catholic heart, he is there to confess his sins, acknowledge his shortcomings, and indict his participation in the exploitation of this same sort of capitalistic pursuit and violent sensationalism. The complicity the film is searching for can be tied back to its director. He's not asking for forgiveness, but he's owning up to his part in this story of America in way that is forthright, transparent, and carefully meta. Many of his films are ugly pictures painted beautifully, and his final soliloquy communicates clearly a sort of penance and sincerity that only Scorsese can achieve.
After fifty years of filmmaking, most directors experience some degree of creative decline. They often lose touch with their audience, fail to evolve artistically, or perhaps run out of things to say. With age often comes obscurity, and very few filmmakers can stay at the top of their craft, much less reinvent themselves. Many just lose their fastball. Of course, most filmmakers aren't Martin Scorsese. At the ripe age of 80, he directed another late-career masterwork, one that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with his very best films.
