Killers of the Flower Moon: The Wolves Telling The Story
Thoughts on Scorsese's weakest film in decades, and the problem with the white perspective in an Indigenous story.
It made perfect sense when it was announced that Martin Scorsese was set to adapt David Grann’s 2017 book, Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI, a non-fiction story full with twists and shifting characters in a 1920s Oklahoma amongst the Osage Nation and the white opportunists trying to get a piece (or all) of the wealth that the Osage had acquired from oil found on the land they were forced to live on. Scorsese’s made a career of characters who exploit the system to manufacture their own version of the American Dream, but he’s also got the craft and sensitivity to tell stories with deep strains of tragedy and suffering without exploiting the subject for entertainment, so it seemed a natural fit for Scorsese to take on a story this nuanced and inherently American in its portrayal of greed and the moral injustices committed in the pursuit of wealth, even if it wasn’t really his story to tell.
A great recent example of that craft and sensitivity is seen in 2016’s Silence, a masterclass in slow contemplative filmmaking, following two Jesuit priests and their struggle to keep their faith in a 17th century Japan where Christianity has been outlawed. Beautifully told with great care and passion, Silence saw Scorsese in complete control of his facilities, making one of the most tender and moving films of his career. A similar display of formal control was again at play in 2019’s The Irishman, set against a backdrop of organized crime and politics, a world that Scorsese knows well, but approaching it with a solemn spirit and unfolding the story over its 209 minute runtime, it was more steeped in an aged sadness than get-rich-quick thrills.
These weren’t Scorsese's first films operating in this mode of restrained beauty and patient storytelling. Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, New York, New York, The Age of Innocence, and Kundun all fall into this category in Scorsese’s oeuvre. When it was announced that Scorsese would shift the story of the film away from the birth of the FBI to focus on the Osage tragedy at the heart of the story, it seemed we were headed in that direction, especially as details were shared about Scorsese’s collaboration with the Osage Nation to make sure that the story was told appropriately.
I was surprised watching Killers of the Flower Moon to realize that that wasn’t the kind of film Scorsese made, and that this was something totally different from any expectation I could have had. The film instead marries a few different styles of Scorsese’s filmmaking into something new to Scorsese, mixing the corrupt dealings of back-alley characters we’ve seen in Goodfellas, The Wolf of Wall Street, and Casino; the period piece grandiosity and scale seen in The Aviator, Gangs of New York, and New York, New York; and the sensitive portrait of a community seen in Silence, The Irishman, and The Age of Innocence. If that sounds like too much to ask of one film, you’d be right, as the results are mixed here, and there are tonal shifts and scenes wildly out-of-place in this film that’s trying to be everything all at once.
Scorsese’s choice to shift this story from the perspective of the FBI investigating these murders, and instead of placing the point of view with Mollie Burkhart, having it told through the eyes of her husband, Ernest, is one of the stranger choices in Scorsese’s career. While Mollie’s story isn’t really one for Scorsese to tell, Ernest’s story is something insidious and evil, which at first glance makes perfect sense for Scorsese to mine, given his long history with knotty anti-hero protagonists, which he’s used to great effect, but this ends up centring the story with a white perspective in a mostly frustrating way. It’s easy to understand Scorsese’s reasoning to place the perspective with Ernest, but that choice comes at the expense of focusing on the white characters in a story of atrocities committed against Osage people, and unfortunately this never justifies or earns that perspective past making it’s intended white audience feel unsettled.
In a reversal of stereotyped director motives, we’re given an anti-white saviour film, where the white characters are abhorrent and terrible in their acts of manipulation and violence against the Osage, but it’s a white story all the same, and one that never really lends itself to the Osage people past the viewer’s guilt and pity towards them. A disappointing outcome given how much publicity this film has received for the lengths it went to portray the Osage Nation with authenticity and nuance, especially knowing a film centred around Mollie would have been more empathetic and potent, and an altogether plausible direction. Not that the film as it is isn’t politically potent, but the toxicity of the messaging is so geared towards the white viewer and without great subtlety that it’s unlikely to affect anyone outside its white politically left audience.
The film investigates our complicity in structural racism, or as Christopher Cote, the film’s Osage language consultant, put it so eloquently in his critique of the film, it asks the white viewer “how long will you be complacent with racism.” It puts the viewer in a position to watch all the small failures of conscience that happen along the way when these kinds of evils are brought against vulnerable people, which is a frightening position to put in, but no one on either side of the political spectrum is going to see themselves in Ernest Burkhart, because the film can’t reconcile his supposed love for his wife with the unsettling nature of the plot he’s involved with to murder her family for their wealth. We don’t buy his guilt at the end, and his end feels more like an act of a resignation than an act of love or regret.
Ernest’s mix of denial and stupidity don’t suspend our disbelief of his awareness of his actions and the scheme unfolding around him enough to see past the greed at play, and so this likely won’t help anyone see through their own denial of their place within our white supremacist society. Instead we’re asked to sympathize with a monster who can’t see himself for what he is in the name of love. "That’s not love" as Christopher Cote said.
David Grann’s book was ultimately a mystery thriller. The reader is unaware of who’s responsible for the murders for much of the book, leaving the reader deflated when they find out it was Ernest all along, even if it’s not that surprising. The film opts for the perspective of the killers and their plotting from the start, which takes away the film’s momentum, turning this into a long depressing dirge. We barely care about the Jesse Plemons character and his team of investigators by the time they arrive, and their hunt for the killers feels more like an inevitability than a inspired manhunt. The story thuds along awkwardly instead of moving with grace. Nothing is ever revealed to the audience. We’ve got all the cards from the beginning.
Whenever Scorsese tries to find a groove in the story, the tone becomes unnatural and forced. There are many great supporting performances throughout the film, but their place in the plot is mostly unwanted, like a Scorsese crime caper being manufactured on top of the Osage story we came to see, feeling like little more than opportunities for DiCaprio and De Niro to make their bid for awards and add some brevity to the film, feeling mostly like a distraction. Whenever we dip into the Scorsese world of character actors and the machinations of their corruption, these asides grate against the Indigenous story at the core of the film. I’ve never seen the seams in a Scorsese film so clearly.
DiCaprio’s performance is overdone and contrived, a complete 180 from the natural presence we’re used to seeing, with many of his scenes feeling like an odd mix of a weak script and forced improvisations. Robbie Robertson’s score is underwhelming musically, serviceable in its quieter moments, and completely disruptive and out-of-place when it ups the tempo, forcing the tone of pace of the film into something unnatural and upbeat. De Niro is sturdy and unsettling, especially as his delusions become clearer, and further when he’s in the presence of the Osage people and speaks their language, while Jesse Plemons isn’t given much to do at all, turning in an unexpectedly muted performance.
Lily Gladstone is wonderful in a world weary performance, but there isn’t enough of her in the film, and she’s not allowed much range past being a resilient sickly woman heartbroken by her situation. Every time the story drifts off with Ernest, we’re left wondering where Mollie is, and what she’s thinking or feeling as her family drops dead around her. She does have a few moments of power and agency where we really get to see her shine, but those moments are few and far between. I can’t help but wonder the powerhouse she would have been had the film focused more on her.
William Belleau, Tatanka Means, Cara Jade Myers, and Tantoo Cardinal standout in the Indigenous cast, filling out the Osage community with believable characters, as do performances from Jason Isbell, Sturgill Simpson, Ty Mitchell, and Tommy Schultz. Brendan Fraser proves to be more of a distraction than anything else, as does Jack White in his cameo. Scorsese's brief appearance at the end is respectful and is a suitable finale. It's clear Scorsese wanted to do a good job with this story, and his avuncular presence is welcome after spending three-plus hours with Ernest and Hale, even if it plays as a admission of his inability to wrangle this story into the film this story deserved, a confession of his own limitations within the form for a subject bigger than any Hollywood saga could ever represent properly.
This film reminded me most of Gangs of New York, another bloated prestige period drama that is better in theory than in practice, oddly out of sync with itself and the story it's trying to tell, with a clunky DiCaprio performance at the centre. This is also Scorsese’s weakest film since Gangs of New York, lacking the grace and formal control of tone and style that we’re accustomed to with Scorsese. Everything comes up a bit short, including the visuals, performances, dialogue, and the various choices made in telling the story.
The final scene, dramatically cutting to a radio broadcast retelling of the murder, is straight out of the Spike Lee handbook, as is cutting to a modern shot of the Osage Nation gathering together in ceremony for the final shot. An ironic comparison, given how Killers of the Flower Moon suffers from the same slightly out-of-touch approach to morally driven political storytelling that’s become common in Spike Lee’s recent films. They’re all condemnations of our complicity within racist structures, which on its own is a strong message, but for all the sensitivity and attention to detail, the nuance of the characters feel lost in the shuffle of their blockbuster budgets and the agenda to serve the A-list actors in the cast.
I’m curious to watch this film again at a later date with my expectations readjusted. Scorsese’s last few films have been so rich and rewarding that it’s shocking to see that cohesion get disrupted. He’s not as sure of himself here, and he’s working with a subject matter and setting that’s new to him, and it’s easy to wonder if he got caught up in the importance of the story and trying to tell it respectfully, that some of his better judgements and sensibilities were possibly overlooked or missed. I believe the conversations surrounding this film will do more good than the film itself, which will have to do.