The Wolf of Wall Street ★★★★½

How the fuck does a 70 year old man make a movie this fucking wild.

How the fuck does that happen.

The Wolf of Wall Street is a three hour, decade spanning epic that feels like it lasts five minutes. A broad, wacky comedy that's the most savage and brutal indictment of the one percent to ever be committed to celluloid. A drug fueled descent into madness that never once feels indulgent or excessive.

When this came out there was a lot of debate over whether or not Scorsese's decision to play this as comedy was irresponsible given that, well, it's a biopic of a real life criminal. But let's get one thing straight. They may share a lot in common, but The Wolf of Wall Street is not Goodfellas. In Scorsese's hands, Henry Hill is a folk hero. Jordan Belfort is a monster.

He's an enigmatic, electric sociopath, a man who never sees any of the people who flit in and out of his life as anything more than toys to be played with. If you can watch the scene where he pays his secretary to cut her hair just so he can laugh at the result and think Scorsese's totally cool with everything happening on screen, you are part of the fucking problem. If you think Belfort attempting to enter his car while fucked out of his mind on quaaludes or enroping his distant relatives in elaborate embezzlement schemes is just wacky hijinx, you're as bad as he is. And DiCaprio is electric here, never letting him become sympathetic while never letting him fall into caricature.

Everything about this movie is just flawless. Every performance, every cut, it's just too much to put into words. This is pure cinema, in an out. And that's real.

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