In an interview that he gave for Deadline shortly before the premiere of Killers of the Flower Moon, which quickly became viral, Martin Scorsese gave the following answer upon being asked if he still has the energy to direct at his age: “Got to. Got to. Yeah. (…) The whole world has opened up to me, but it’s too late. It’s too late. I’m old. I read stuff. I see things. I want to tell stories, and there’s no more time. Kurosawa, when he got his Oscar, (…) he said, “I’m only now beginning to see the possibility of what cinema could be, and it’s too late.” He was 83. At the time, I said, “What does he mean?” Now I know what he means.”

If anyone ever doubted that Scorsese’s trademark narrative method (or, rather, the way of gazing straight into the worst, darkest corners and faults of the human soul via noir mechanisms) would ever be limited to his works on gangsters, well, the very clear answer just arrived, via his three-and-a-half hour epic, Killers of The Flower Moon, probably the most anticipated feature at this year’s edition of the Cannes Film Festival. And what better proof than that of a storyline that unwaveringly looks straight into one of the darkest episodes of modern history, a period piece whose mission is to unveil the very spring of the corruption (especially moral, but also political) that deeply poisons the very foundations of American society?

“I’m old. I read stuff. I see things. I want to tell stories, and there’s no more time. Kurosawa, when he got his Oscar, (…) he said, “I’m only now beginning to see the possibility of what cinema could be, and it’s too late.” He was 83. At the time, I said, “What does he mean?” Now I know what he means.”

Martin Scorsese

I’m not using the term political carelessly, since this is the auteur’s most engaged work in the past decade, at the very least – and certainly, his most explicit when it comes to the topic of racism: to paraphrase Screen Slate, these are some of the vilest and villainous characters in the entirety of Scorsese’s oeuvre, and the scale of their crimes is so large and (inter-)connected with the basis of modern American capitalism (and with the USA’s administrative and political systems) that the two become practically indistinguishable. His choice of an opening scene is not at all coincidental – a scene in which a community of Native Americans is performing a ceremonial burial of a peace pipe: both a definitory and sacred symbol of a culture that is at threat of extinction (also see the titular Flower Moon, a plant that takes over the prairies in spring), but also of the extreme violence that comes down upon these people and their lands, marred by the curse of “black gold”.

Briefly put, the plot is set in Osage County – more precisely, in Fairfax, Oklahoma – shortly after the First World War, which at the time was the richest region per capita in the world due to its rich petrol reserves. Said reserves were owned by the Osages, but they had limited rights with regard to their finances, as the law required them to have white custodians – the sort of legal terrain that, of course, practically invites the latter to do everything they can to misappropriate the First Nation’s riches.

One of these stories is that of protagonist Ernest Burkheart (Leonardo DiCaprio) – a former platoon cook during the war, who has returned from the front and ended up at the doorstep of his uncle William Hale (Robert De Niro), a cattle farm owner and deputy sheriff of Fairfax. However, at the same time, he’s the ringleader of an ample racket that seeks to steal the property of the Osages, while pretending to be a great friend of their community (for example, he is fluent in their language). With the guidance of Hale, Ernest sets his sights on the youngest sister in one of the richest families in Fairfax, Mollie (Lily Gladstone, absolutely extraordinary in her calm and candor), one of the four daughters of the elderly Lizzie. Although his feelings towards Mollie often seem sincere, giving birth to increasingly strong contradictions, the veteran is slowly and increasingly manipulated into participating in a plan that systematically kills off his wife’s family in order to gain their riches, with the help of both Fairfax officials and of a cohort of thrives, vagabonds and petty criminals. The fact that a large part of this scheme relies on the systematic destruction of Osage women’s lives is very significant: women have always been the collateral victims of men’s actions in Scorsese’s cinema (especially in Raging Bull, 1980), but the filmmaker’s empathy towards those who have been affected by the actions of abusive men had never been clearer than this.

Only one word can fully capture the factual essence of these men’s actions – and that is genocide. The natives are ethnically cleansed in Fairfax, one by one, either through neglect or through outright murder, all the more significant in the case of a rich community – and Scorsese uses the chance to draw a parallel with the infamous Tulsa massacre, which put an end to the most prosperous African American community of the early 20th century –, and whose deaths are staged akin to the gangster hits in Mean Streets (1973), Goodfellas (1990) or even The Irishman (2019).

But only describing this part of Scorsese’s work would be a mistake – for example, see his ample usage of archival material, used to contextualize the atmosphere of the Prohibition Years (or the scenes which emulate their aesthetics), his wonderful traveling shots of the masses of people who take the streets of Fairfax, and, last but not least, the richness of characterization. Ernest is more than just a pathological liar (even toward himself) whose lack of honor is especially the result of his utter lack of morality or initiative, but also a deeply avaricious man – no matter how rich he becomes, it’s never quite enough (see the armed robbery he wantonly commits with his seedy friends, basically for sport); in contrast, Hale is certainly amongst the most slippery protagonists in Scorsese’s cinema, the kind of man capable of saying absolutely anything that serves this vile aims, put into motion by a Robert De Niro who is in his highest form in decades.

A few words must be said about the acting of Leonardo DiCaprio – words often too easily spoken, but this role is truly one of the heights of his career: this dizzying gamut of duplicitous expressions, of fake smiles and vicious frowns animated by a Southern hillbilly accent, slowly dissolving into pure despair during the film’s final act, when the weight of his crimes is starting to catch up with him. „I’m lazy but I like money”, he tells Molly at the very beginning, with a smile worthy of the nickname she picks for him – coyote. Yet, the emptiness of his eyes betrayed the profound vacuity of this character that incarnates the very notion of the banality of evil.

The fire that burns the earth will turn itself towards the sinners, at one point – even though their punishment, however satisfactory, will never be able to account for the sheer scale of their crimes. After Hale’s farm catches fire, the camera rests for a while on the out-of-focus image of the burning plain, at night, as if it were melting away from its heat. Killers of The Flower Moon is the image projected by the light of these flames, onto the wall of a society that still profits from the massacres and tragedies of colonialism – and a gorgeous swan song on the part of one of the biggest, most decisive filmmakers in history.

Flavia Dima

Film critic & journalist. Collaborates with local and international outlets, programs a short film festival - BIEFF, does occasional moderating gigs and is working on a PhD thesis about home movies. At Films in Frame, she writes the monthly editorial - The State of Cinema and is the magazine's main festival reporter.