The Wolf of Wall
Street is an entertaining, often hilarious film that seems to perfectly
capture the amoral, heartless world of greed and classless hedonism that Wall
Street embodies. There are prostitutes, orgies, drug binges galore, people
rolling around in money, yachts, expensive cars and beautiful penthouses and
mansions. It provides a telling window into how easily people can be taken in
by a huckster and how often the old adage a fool and his money are soon parted
really is. Leonardo DiCaprio again shows his acting chops, surrounded by an
adequate, if not sterling, supporting cast (Jonah Hill is generally funny in a
role that takes emoting to a whole new level). DiCaprio plays the real-life
Jordan Belfort, who made an unimaginable fortune selling penny stocks to suckers
across the income ladder, building a firm from scratch that took on the big
boys before finally getting caught by the feds; though he only serves three
years in a minimum security prison for the wealthy before heading out on the
inspirational speech circuit.
The film is the latest in a growing list of what I call lifestyle porn: films and television
that show us the lavish wealth and sex lives of the rich and famous. The genre
took off in the 80s with Dynasty, Falcon Crest, Dallas and, of course,
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, among many others. The rich were everywhere
from sitcoms (even blacks became rich in the 80s, in The Jeffersons and The
Cosby Show) to rom-coms to teen romances, where a poor girl invariably ended up
with a richer and more popular boy (or vice versa, as in The Breakfast Club). More recently, we can think of The Kardashians, Real Housewives of …, The
Apprentice and Entourage. Wolf follows
in this tradition, taking the orgasmic bacchanalia to heretofore unrealized
levels. There is midget tossing, crack smoking, a long rumination on the
inherent benefits of Quaaludes, nudity, insane wealthy, copious cocaine use,
brutal violence, money thrown about with abandon and plenty of sex. The film
ends up feeling like a combination of one of those screwball comedies from the
80s with plenty of sex, nudity and partying with a more mature, though sardonic
character study. Belfort is not only a hedonist but really a bastard without
many redeeming qualities beyond his ability to rally the troops, his generosity
with his fortune and his good-time-Charlie attitude.
And yet it is hard to watch the film without thinking that Scorsese
is celebrating this character, who I believe embodies a more crass, exaggerated
version of almost everyone who is successful on Wall Street. Greed is their
call to arms, their raison d’etre and their only redeemable quality. Creating
wealth is something to admire and Wall Street is tasked with managing risk and
funding the future; both essential roles for our economy. But does Belfort play
either role? Is he anything but a shyster who takes money from people too dumb
to realize they are betting on almost sure losers? I couldn’t help but leave the
film thinking we are supposed to respect Belfort as a self-made man that lives
the life we all want. And yet, even if this is true, should Scorsese feel any
accountability to how this portrayal might be read by the viewers watching the
film? Is there any sense that maybe this wealth was built on the back of a lot
of suffering – with all those people on the other side of the trades losing
their savings, their homes or even worse? One could argue instead that Scorsese
is simply doing a very entertaining infomercial for Wall Street and the
continued decline of American culture.
The real question is whether Scorsese feels any accountability
for his work at all. There has always been a rather troubling celebration of
violence in his films that glorifies it as a sign of masculinity and eroticizes
it for the viewing public through slow motions and other film tricks. There is
the rather negative portrayal of women as sluts to be used for sex and monsters
that simply want the money and power of the men they seduce. And there has been
a tendency to celebrate money as the god on the altar to whom we all bow and
pray. But beyond this is a tendency to celebrate the worst aspects of American
capitalism as if crime really does pay in the end. Sure Henry Hill ends up
ratting on his friends and living in the suburbs, but he looks back fondly on his
days of killing, gambling and drug running. And this is a common trend in Scorsese
films, where the protagonist often loses what he had, but rather than learn a
lesson from the loss and find some ethical, moral or deeper personal value,
they simply look back with nostalgia and regret for the loss. We see this at
the end of Casino, Taxi Driver, Goodfellas, Gangs of New York, The
Age of Innocence (in a more complicated way) and Raging Bull. Maybe we should read their ultimate failure as the
moral of the story, but it often feels as if Scorsese is asking us to feel that
nostalgia right along with these protagonists, to forgive their past sins and
feel sorry for them having been punished for them in the first place.
Martin Scorsese is among our greatest directors and has made
an impressively diverse array of quality, entertaining films or over 40 years. His
filmmaking and editing is nonpareil and has moved the industry forward in countless
ways. His mixture of cinema verite (in the past) with strong narrative
structure and voiceovers has created some of the most compelling films of our
time. And his films almost invariably contain a perfect mix of humor, drama and
breathtaking action. But it is worth asking what audiences have been sold all
these years. A mentally unstable taxi driver kills a bunch of really bad guys
and gets away with it. A group of mobsters die, but our hero always makes it to
the other side, with his memories intact but his past long gone. A Wall Street
crook lives a life of lavish luxury, loses his wife and friends but is back
selling at the end, as if little has changed. Underneath it all may be an
inkling of ethical responsibility, but really it just feels like nihilism. It
could be that the world is meaningless, that there is no justice, that the bad
often win and the good suffer, that love is fleeting and unhappiness reigns
supreme. But shouldn’t art aspire to something more? Shouldn’t art at least
pretend that there is something deeper at the heart of our lives? That they
mean something more than pleasure and pain? Scorsese will continue to entertain
us with beautiful mis-en-scene, riveting action, compelling plots and
characters, first-rate editing and plenty of laughs, gasps and maybe, on
occasion, tears, but will he ever truly inspire us? I guess we’ll have to wait
and see …