The Alto Knights

De Niro 17 (And Just Beside Himself)

or

Keep Your Friends Close and Your Enemies Closer (Tough to Do When They're One and the Same)

 

It wasn't the stunt-casting of Robert De Niro in the two lead roles that made me want to see The Alto Knights. It was that this property had been "in the works" since the 1970's (when it was known as "Wise Guys"), being produced by legendary producer Irwin Winkler (who is now 93), with a script by Nicholas Pileggi (he wrote the screenplays and source-books for Goodfellas, Casino, as well as writing City Hall and executive producing American Gangster) and directed by Barry Levinson—who started out writing for Tim Conway, "The Carol Burnett Show", Mel Brooks, and directed such films as Diner, The Natural, Rain Man, Good Morning, Vietnam and his previous gangster movie, Bugsy. Levinson was the draw for me and considering the amazing work he's done in the past—he also executive-produced "Homicide: Life on the Street", a personal favorite—that was more than enough reason.

The Alto Knights tells the story of the Luciano mob family that went from bootlegging during Prohibition to gambling, and controlling criminal activities in Manhattan's Lower East Side. It concentrates on the relationship between Frank Costello, Luciano's consigliere and Vito Genovese, the gang's underboss, who grew up as friends but became bitter rivals once they achieved higher status in the Mafia. And it covers the time from when Costello ran the mob to the helter-skelter Apalachin meeting, the "mob convention" so flagrant that even the FBI's J. Edgar Hoover finally had to admit that organized crime actually existed (why he never had before has been an unexplained mystery).

If you've seen The Godfather, the story will have echoes of the same gun-fire—author Mario Puzo used details and scrambled them for his novel—but, at one point, Genovese (who'd been put in charge of Luciano's mob after its head was sent to prison for running a prostitution operation) fled to Sicily to avoid a murder charge, and was replaced with Costello. Costello and Luciano had deep contacts with New York politicians, and, with Costello in charge, it was easier to get away with murder. 

But when Genovese returned to America in 1945—witnesses to the murder had been very conveniently murdered before any trial could take place—the re-patriated mobster assumed that Luciano would put him back in charge, but, instead, Costello kept himself as the mob's boss, making him an enemy in the mercurial, less steady Genovese's eyes and for the rest of their lives the two stayed bitter rivals. 

The film chronicles that rivalry—from Costello's point of view, so it's more than a bit prejudiced—picking through pages of Mob history back and forth in time in flashback, beginning with the most obvious example of their rivalry, the botched assassination of Costello by Genovese's son on his Dad's orders (Genovese was never said to be subtle). It's that act that convinces the more strategic Costello to retire from the mob, but not without some manipulation of the volatile Genovese. Of course, it's all from Costello's self-sympathetic view of things. But, the film also has Genovese's wild divorce trial, the killing of Costello's hand-picked successor Alberto Anastasia, the Senate hearings of Estes Kefauver, and that ill-fated Mob convention.

Pileggi and Levinson keep it moving and some of the set-pieces are nicely conceived, with the director sometimes evoking Edward Hopper paintings (as he has done in the pas) this time with the aid of 81 year old cinematographer Dante Spinotti. 

So, since he's all over the movie, is De Niro any good? I mean, at playing two different characters in the same movie? Yeah, it's quite the show. Early on in the movie De Niro takes pains to separate the two personas—his Costello is more soft-spoken and cagey-eyed, while his Vito Genovese spits out his dialog and has a nervous energy (it's almost like De Niro is doing an impression of Joe Pesci). And the few scenes where the two characters are together and De Niro is literally beside himself, it's something of a wonder as the dialog flows naturally but the two characters interrupt each other, react to the others' accusations and gives the impression that, hey, this is two different guys here having a rather diffident conversation with each other (but it's the same actor doing both parts!). I have no idea why they did this (I've read that it was Warner CEO David Zaslav's), but it's an amazing to see. 

And, really, who is De Niro going to play against? Who has the caliber to go toe to toe with him? Pacino, maybe (but they've made a pact that they're not going to do anything together unless it's really good). Alec Baldwin would have been an interesting choice and quite capable. But, watching De Niro play two different characters...with two different energies...is a fascinating exercise. That he pulls it off (despite never fully convincing us that it isn't a "twins" act) impresses. "Molto rispotto."

But, any gangster movie is going to have that weird quality of upside-down absurdism (Costello wants to retire and lead a "normal" life...really?), which Levinson, with his comedy background, leans into heavily. The thing that's missing is any sense of moral outrage. These were gangsters, after all. Their day-to-day illegal activities are mentioned ("just business") and prominent assassinations are portrayed (because "if it bleeds, it leads"), but like Levinson's Bugsy, there isn't the sensibilities of penance being paid that you'd find in Catholic filmmakers like Scorsese or Coppola. For the criminal record, Genovese died in prison, while Costello died in his retirement penthouse at the Waldorf Astoria. A lot of their victims, we'll never know.

Frank Costello and Vito Genovese mug shots

 

Everybody's Fine

Written at the time of the film's release...

"Everybody's Fine. But the Film? N'yeah, Not So Much!"

 

Widower Frank Goode (Robert De Niro) has a big family reunion planned when all the kids at the last minute cancel. Assuming, as do we, that they're just avoiding seeing "the old man," he packs his bags, his keys and his pills, and buses and trains across the country to drop in, unannounced, on each and every one of them, with a mystery note. He doesn't fly, you see, as he's suffering from pulmonary fibrosis, which he's acquired from his job of weather-coating phone-cable with PCB's. It is the very nature of this movie to let no plot-detail go underutilized in this bubble-world of a movie, so, of course, that becomes important later.

When visiting each kid, he realizes that they're leading somewhat less successful lives than they and his late wife had led him to believe. And he's determined to get everybody back together for a big get-together at Christmas. It sounds like the excellent Christmas "ABC Movie of the Week," "The Gathering," in which a dying Edward Asner attempts to have one last Christmas with all his estranged adult kids before he goes to the Great Gift Return in the Sky. But this is actually based on an Italian film by Cinema Paradiso director Giuseppe Tornatore called Stanno Tutti Bene (or "Everybody's Fine") and de-cultured, simplified, sweetened and topped by an ineffectual Paul McCartney song by Kirk Jones (who made Waking Ned Devine and Nanny McPhee and should know better).

I haven't seen the original (shame on me, I loved ...Paradiso*), but I know it wasn't as slick and as simple-minded as this version. For example, it hinges on the false premise that nobody ever talks in this family...ever.

The entire movie could have been solved in an hour by Dr. Phil. Everybody keeps secrets, sure. But usually not very well. How long did these kids think they could keep their charades going, especially with the major life-changes they entail? The machinations that daughter Rosie (Drew Barrymore) has to go through are herculean and more than a little uncredible for what she's hiding, and also speak of a lack of feeling that the rest of her performance belies.

Added to that, the plot device of inflating your importance to your parents has been used in every sit-com ever conceived—but pulling it off on an elaborate movie budget tends to make the concept explode like shrapnel. It's especially frustrating, after seeing a mature film for adults like Up in the Air to see froth like this, designed for the eye-candy-and-blue-hair crowd, where no opportunity for closure goes unachieved with an unsubtle slam.

The cast in uniformly great, however. De Niro (man, he looks plasticized in that poster—they airbrushed out all his wrinkles to attract a younger crowd?) schlumpfs around the country, asking, ironically, "Are you not talking to ME?" and still manages to find simple, interesting ways to be "a joe." The kids are played by Barrymore, Kate Beckinsale and Sam Rockwelll**, who all do fine jobs given the paucity of material, though Rockwell looks particularly frustrated with his role.

Who could blame him? This isn't a film. It's a "project," gussied up with an all-star cast of available talent who have nothing in common other than they wanted to work with De Niro; a constuct that looks good on the surface, but has no underlying thought to it that would make it legitimate in its own right, and plausible as a story. It's Meet the Fockers done as drama, a collection of parts that don't fit for a coherent film, much less as a representation of real life. Everybody involved should be sentenced to a year of working in theater where they might stumble on some actual characters to play and thoughts to express. Their aspirations are too low, and need to be adjusted.

* And the same director's Maléna and last year's documentary about Ennio Morricone.

* That's another thing: there's no way De Niro could have had these three kids without marrying three different wives. Nobody looks like they belong in the same family. It looked good on paper on the Miramax ledger-sheet, I'm sure, but it looks like sham on the screen.

What Just Happened

I'd say "written at the time of the film's release" but I mention the DVD commentary, so it must have been a year later or so.

What Just Happened (Barry Levinson, 2008) Ben (Robert De Niro) is a producer in Hollywood and he has a tough life. His new movie starring Sean Penn just previewed and the audience reaction cards don't look good. The director, wanting to be "edgy," has a scene where the bad guys shoot Penn's dog, then kill Penn. Audiences are upset about the dog. The studio (run by Catherine Keener) is upset about the audiences and wants to re-cut the film, the director is upset about his "vision" being changed and refuses to cooperate. Ben wants the to keep the director happy, the studio happy, the audiences happy, the two ex-wives (including Robin Wright) and three ex-children (including Kristen Stewart) happy, while still worrying about where he's standing in a Vanity Fair "Power in Hollywood" photoshoot.

On top of that, he's got a big budget movie starting its shoot on Friday and the star (Bruce Willis playing Bruce Willis) is being payed $20 million to star in it, but there's one little hitch—he's grown "a Grizzly Adams" beard, and the studio is panicking—people want to see Bruce Willis when they see Bruce Willis and they want Ben to coax the temperamental star to shave it off, which he refuses to do for "artistic reasons."* Ben's life is an endless soliloquy of superficial arguments, hastily-composed rationalizations and insincere ego-stroking in the gamesmanship of Hollywood, played over a Blue-Tooth behind the wheel of a constantly in-motion Lexus. 

Based on producer Art Linson's book (sub-titled "Bitter Hollywood Tales From the Front Line") and adapted by him for this film, it's a nice study of how removed from reality, logic and best practices the industry is. But, at the same time Barry Levinson's film of it, while duly making note of the sliding loyalties Ben displays, also seems to expect you to feel sorry for him. One would, if one didn't want to have this life. There is no tragedy here, merely minor inconveniences that whittle away at Ben's soul and career. But, he still has a roof over his head. He has a car (and the insurance for it), a cell-phone, a blue-tooth, a fancy-schmancy espresso machine, the ear of many Hollywood players, and the phone numbers of ambitious actresses. Boo to the Hoo. Yes, Hollywood's crazy...but it's not homeless and crazy.

That's why backstage dramas in tinsel-town are really only good when played for laughs, and should only be reserved when the writer-director-producer has completely run out of ideas (and when that happens, they should read a book, instead). You look at movies like The Oscar, or The Big Knife, with the hand-wringing of the elite, and you can look right into the soul of industry people who have lost touch with their audiences**...like Norma Desmond screeching about her woes. It's why Sunset Blvd. is such a classic gem of a movie. Norma is crazy...and pathetic...and clueless.

Howard Hawks had it right. After awhile, he was making movies about making movies—but, they were well-veiled allegories. Anytime Hawks had a group of disparate people coming together with a single goal in mind, he was talking about what he and his crew did for a living...only they were flying the mail, or capturing live rhinos, driving the cattle, getting the headline, or battling the monster at the research station...anything but making movies. That would be as much fun as watching sausages being made. If you want to complain about being in the entertainment industry, try pumping gas...then, have a drink or climb onto the shrink's couch. Don't get "meta" on the audience. They go to the movies to escape their troubles, not hear about yours.

But, like Fellini, pretty soon the writers start penning their autobiographies.  Linson might be thinking that he did a good job changing the names to protect the innocent, but listening to  his DVD audio commentary with director Levinson, one hears the vagueness, the "rote"-ness of his expressions, as if he's just passing through, and once the credits come up, he's already out the door (he's gone before the "A Barry Levinson Film" credit comes up). The two were in separated facilities recording their tracks, and as Linson gets up he says "Good seein' ya, Barry" "uh...talking to ya," says Levinson. "Oh.  Yeah...well..." says Linson. "We should get together when you come to New York."

Yes, we "really" should.

* True story, although I won't mention the movie or the star (it's easily found, actually).  But, it reminds me of the struggles Richard Donner had while making Superman, the Movie—making a man fly was easy compared to star-negotiations.  Donner had a meeting with Marlon Brando, where the actor was pitching character ideas that would keep him from having to appear on camera, like playing Superman's kryptonian father as a suitcase or "a green bagel," and Gene Hackman didn't want to shave his moustache to play Lex Luthor.  Donner finally said to Hackman on-set. "Look, Gene, you shave yours off and I'll shave mine off."  Hackman agreed, shaved and came back on-set.  "Okay, now it's your turn."  Donner then peeled off the fake moustache he'd been wearing, which delighted Hackman.

** (The same could be said for politicians—anybody in Washington looking at cutting the health-plans for those in the legislative branch...if not, why not?)

Righteous Kill

Saturday is traditionally "Take Out the Trash" Day...

Righteous Kill (Jon Avnet, 2008) Someone is killing "Scott Free's"—those scum-bags that you just know are guilty but have some smooth-talking fancy-pants lawyer or some milque-toast judge who lets 'em walk, sneering, to prey on Society again...until they show up with a bullet-hole in the middle of their forehead. Two buddy cops, Turk (Robert De Niro) and Rooster (Al Pacino) start to add things up when one of the perps they arrested shows up deader than a Keanu Reeves performance. Looks like it's murder "and somebody's responsible." A vigilante? Certainly. But, if its revenge they're after, why are so many of these guys showing up dead? It's then that they think that the killer may be a cop.

But who?

Complicating matters is that most of the cops, including De Niro, Pacino, plus Carla Gugino, John Leguizamo, plus Donnie Wahlberg-o are creeps, so it could be any of 'em, except for the Captain of the squad (Brian Dennehy) but only because you couldn't believe Dennehy could sneak up on anybody but a bed-ridden quadriplegic.

So the question is: which of the crazy actors is playing the crazy character killing all these people?

The answer: who cares? With a movie this terrible, and victims painted so sneeringly evil they're cartoons it's hard to work up much sympathy or even interest in finding their killer. That's the problem of the writer. But director Avnet is so ham-fisted, he can't seem to hold a shot or light a set without sabotaging the drama of a scene. He's so busy "nuancing" things that you have trouble following the plot. He's not even talented enough to get out of the way of De Niro and Pacino (or, God forbid, rein them in) to make a scene play.

And, let's face it, having those two legends on the screen should be a treat: they didn't work together in The Godfather: Part II (obviously), but their scenes in Michael Mann's Heat were tantalizingly short. Here, they're in almost every scene together (although Avnet can't seem to find the wherewithal to keep them in the same shot), and you realize they're like oil and water, or Mumbles and Loudmouth—they're two actors who've known each other for years, but their characters don't seem to. Or else the movie would be over in five minutes. But no, the suspicions and subsequent doubts must be fully explored, the red herrings must stink up the joint, and the script-writer must throw in a couple of feints that make no sense once the movie is over—they're there just to con the audience.*

What a waste. The big mystery is given this script, how could it attract two of the most iconic, respected and (when paired) legendary actors? Sounds like the biggest con was going on behind the scenes. Righteous Kill is the last thing you would expect a film starring De Niro and Pacino would be—a very pedestrian run-of-the-mill movie.

2024 Update: The story goes that at the premiere of this film, De Niro approached Pacino and said that they should never do another movie like this again, that they should find properties they could be proud of appearing in together.

 

As a result, the two actors didn't appear in another film until Martin Scorsese's The Irishman (I Hear You Paint Houses).

* Now, movies are by nature, the manipulation of reality—and the audience—to tell a story.  But, there's doing it well, and there's doing it the Righteous Kill way. 

Silver Linings Playbook

No Dolby; No Squelch
or
"Hey!!..."

In Silver Linings Playbook, there's a scar above Bradley Cooper's nose that I found myself focusing on throughout the entire movie. It's not like Harrison Ford's chin-scar that has followed him around from movie to movie; this one is just a line-scab that never seems to heal and I found that apt—the movie's all about a guy, Pat Solatano, Jr., whose lost everything and wants to get it back, despite that losing it might have been the best thing that ever happened to him. He's undiagnosed bi-polar, but he keeps wanting to return to the halcyon days when he didn't know he was bi-polar and was married to Nikki (Brea Bee), a schoolteacher, and was living a fairly normal life, or as normal as bi-polar can be, undiagnosed or not.

When he gets out of the Baltimore Psychiatric Hospital, he's focused on getting his old life back—he's whipped himself into shape, goes (reluctantly) to a therapist, stays on (reluctantly) his meds, and is determined to make himself the man Nikki wants him to be—there's just that little thing about the restraining order and the fact that he caught her having sex with a school administrator. And that he caught them making love to their wedding song which was Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour," which sends him into an "episode" every time he hears it.

And there's that focus issue. He's not kidding himself anymore, but his constant stream of truthiness, socially correct or not, keeps getting him into trouble, with his folks (Robert De Niro and Jacki Weaver), his brother (Shea Whigham), his pal Ronnie (John Ortiz) and Ronnie's wife Veronica (Julia Stiles)—who just happens to still be friends with Nikki. Pat, Jr. latches on to them to try and make contact with his ex, and, to do so, agrees to have dinner with them. Also invited is Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence), Veronica's sister, who has issues of her own, still grieving from the death of her policeman-husband.

Pat and Tiffany do NOT get along at dinner, and only connect over their mutual history with anti-depressants. That seems to be enough for Tiffany, as she announces she's had enough family time and asks Pat to walk her home. They share enough information there for Tiffany to be repulsed by Pat, and for Pat to think Tiffany is crazy.  

But, then, Pat thinks everybody is crazy (except for himself).

And...he might be right (except for the last part). He's very quick to point out the eccentricities in others, probably because he possesses those traits himself. He notes his Dad's OCD—he goes through rituals while watching each Philadelphia Eagles game, as he's taken to book-making since losing his job, and has a sports fanatics' passion for football (and probably more so as he's been banned for life from the stadium). In Pat's mind, everybody is dysfunctional, because Pat's mind is dysfunctional. While reading the books on Kiki's syllabus, he tosses "A Farewell to Arms" through his attic window for its downer ending. And his own obsession with his ex-wife becomes a means towards an end for Tiffany when she offers to sneak a letter to Nikki for him—if he'll be her partner in a dance competition.

The director is David O. Russell, who also adapted the book (by Matthew Quick) and did a brilliant job cataloging family feuds in The Fighter. Family seems to be his forte, mining the mania for subtle comedy while not diminishing the seriousness of the hysteria bubbling under the surface. And Russell imposes enough energy in his direction and editing that he invigorates the already simmering outbursts the performers put into it. De Niro we already know can pull a manic act for both comedy and drama and Wilkins manages to keep a look of fret even when happy. The ones who surprise are Lawrence, who's cute as a button and volatile as a cougar in a surprising performance, and Cooper who has a crazy flame in his eyes throughout. His outbursts never surprise; it's his semi-even keel that is interesting to watch, and worry about.*

Yes, they're crazy. But, in Russell's world-scheme, everybody is in the U.S. of OCD, whether the obsession is sports, gambling, love, and competition. And Russell does a nice job of turning the dark side of rom-coms before the camera, and making decided call-backs to the past for his ending. Despite our relationships with the past and flirtations with the future, hope still vaults eternal in the perpetual grasping for something better, in the hope of no longer clinging to what was.

One suspects, after the movie is over, that that tell-tale scar will start to disappear.

* In the same scheme of things, Russell has cast Chris Tucker as one of Pat's fellow hospital incarcerees.  It's the best performance Tucker has ever given, subtle, scary and controlled. Anybody who's seen his other work, knows what he's capable of  and the effect here is like watching Jerry Lewis do drama, but without the self-awareness and ego. 

The Score (2001)

Written at the time of the film's release...

The Score (Frank Oz, 2001) This one is most notable for being the last movie Marlon Brando appeared in, and his presence is probably why DeNiro and Norton and Bassett signed on, because, really, this is no great shakes as a film. It's a rather simple "heist movie," with some interesting switch-backs along the way, which works as an effective metaphor for a bunch of people merely generating a paycheck for themselves. 

 

The first movie directed by Frank Oz that wasn't either a comedy or fantasy, the plot revolves around master-thief Nick Wells (DeNiro), who has decided to retire after a near-disaster during a routine burglary. He knows it's time to get out—he's not getting any younger or any more agile—plus, he's got a rather swanky jazz club to run and right about now would be a good time to settle down with his stewardess girlfriend (Bassett). He's smart, and lasted long enough to know enough to get out while the getting is good.

Then, his fence, Max (Brando) calls with a proposition. The proverbial "one last job" of heist movie clichés. The one to retire on. Seems there's this French scepter thingamabob that was being smuggled into the U.S. through Canada and didn't exactly pass customs. It's being held in an impenetrable safe in a security basement with extra CCTV cameras and infrared sensors at the Montréal Customs House. Everything about the job sets alarms off in Nick's head that it's too risky, from the elaborate job to the extra help he has to take on in the form of Jack Teller (Norton), who has all the details of the job from working as a mentally challenged janitor. Jack has all the details, but he's a bit headstrong, and more than a little reckless.

Of course, there are complications of extra security measures and some inconvenient timing and one twist that should be seen coming a mile away—and luckily the characters in the movie are just as prescient as the audience. It's all quite credible—Mythbusters even gave a thumbs up to the safe-cracking method—and Oz stages it elaborately, but in the end, it's just another heist movie with complications.

One can say that The Score is also notable as having three generations of the top "Method" actors—Brando, DeNiro and Norton—all in the same movie together and doing scenes with each other. But if you expect to see sparks fly between DeNiro and Brando (The Two Don Vito Corleones) the way they did between Pacino and DeNiro in Heat, you're going to very disappointed.  

Bassett is completely wasted in the movie as "The Girlfriend," and Norton pulls off one of his "so-good-it's-scary" impersonations, this time as a retarded kid, which borders on the cruel. No, the only sparks are the ones that happened between Brando and director Oz. Brando didn't like the way he was being directed, so he decided he'd play games calling Oz "Miss Piggy" (of course, Oz played her in "The Muppets") It's just another indication of how far Brando was slipping—a perpetual jokester and lover of comedy, he couldn't even be charitable acknowledging Oz's gifts as a performer. The Score is not a great indicator of anyone's work (except the cinematographer's—Rob Hahn), but it's a shame that Brando went out on this one.

Killers of the Flower Moon

Coyote Ugly: The Curse of the Pierce Arrow

or

The Conformist of the Plains

 

David Grann's output of articles and books has provided fodder for lots of movies: The Lost City of Z, Dark Crimes, The Old Man and The Gun, Trial By Fire, and now Killers of the Flower Moon (with its director, Scorsese's next film to be based on Grann's latest book "The Wager"). Grann wrote his book about a moment of long forgotten history—The Osage Indian Murder Case, what the newspapers at the time called "The Reign of Terror" from 1918 to 1931. It was one of the first murder cases taken over and solved by the nascent Bureau of Investigation, what would soon become acronymed as the FBI, an attempt to coordinate crime data into a national data resource that could be shared amidst the disparate state jurisdictions and law enforcement agencies. 

Grann's book is a fine read—it spent 49 weeks on the New York Times non-fiction best-seller list—breaking down the story into three narratives: of Mollie Burkhart (played in the film by Lily Gladstone) of the Osage Tribe, who saw three of her sisters and her mother die (under suspicious or downright murderous circumstances) in a short space of a few years; of Tom White (played in the film by Jesse Plemons), a former Texas Ranger, recruited by the Bureau to investigate the murders—his unique way of assembling a team and having them blend in with the community was a bit unpracticed, but did lead to convictions; and a modern post-investigation appraisal. When Martin Scorsese announced it for his next movie with Robert De Niro and Leonardo DiCaprio

starring it was originally just going to focus on the FBI investigation with DiCaprio as White.But DiCaprio had other ideas—he wanted to play "a villain" and so the film was re-tooled by Scorsese and Eric Roth to feature more of the role of Ernest Burkhart, husband of Mollie and his role in the web of deceit and murders...all to obtain the headrights (the land mineral rights owned by full-blooded Osage tribe-members) to their oil-rich pocket of Oklahoma, that made the Osage "the wealthiest people per capita" in the nation. The Osage became prosperous with their oil stipend, creating a power dynamic where they ostensibly ran things in Fairfax, Oklahoma, but they were also targets for any scam and flim-flam the other residents could concoct in order to benefit from their prosperity.

And that included marrying into the money, the oldest way for profligate men to get a sustainable nest-egg and not waste it all in a short period of time. If there's children, then there's always inheritance, or better yet, the idealistically labeled "trust-fund," that can be exploited as long as no one is following the trail of money. In Fairfax, Oklahoma, the trail was not only monetary, but one merely had to trace family ties and the obituary column to see that something was surfacing besides oil.

Clocking in at a back-breaking 3 hours 20 minutes, Killers of the Flower Moon begins where most Scorsese movies do, following the bad guys. Ernest Burkhart (DiCaprio) exits the train to Fairfax after serving in the First World War and receives a warm welcome from his uncle, cattleman William Hale (De Niro), who is perfectly agreeable to taking Ernest under his wing, despite his lack of experience. Under an avuncular pretense, Hale gives his nephew the lay of the land, giving him a book on the Osage people ("Do you read?") and asking pointed questions about his taste in women. Hale speaks the Osage language and extends his avuncular charm to express support for the Native land-owners, especially dealing with the white city officials, the police and Sheriff, the local doctors, even the undertaker (that'll come in handy!). He also is quite familiar with the local underworld (even handier!), and his network makes him less than a town father, and more of a puppet-master.

Burkhart is his primary puppet, lending support to a romance between Ernest and Mollie Kyle (Underwood, who in her mandarin understated way, steals the show as well as hearts), who is already seeing signs of poor health in her family, who have a tendency towards diabetes. And when a "specialist" is needed for some special work to be done, Hale uses his nephew as a go-between, the better to keep his immaculate hands clean. 

But, the center cannot hold. In the community, the deaths become less and less isolated and more overt, culminating in a house-bombing that kills Mollie's sister and her husband, who has been asking questions and connecting dots, while resisting any overtures to share information with Ernest. That signs his death warrant and the egregiousness of the crime—the sheer audacity of it—mandates outside help. Private detectives had been hired before...but had disappeared never to be heard from again. A meeting between tribes leaders and President Calvin Coolidge allows Mollie to make an entreaty...and for once, the Great White Father keeps his word.

This is where Plemons' Tom White from the Bureau of Investigation comes into town from Washington, and it only takes a couple of inquiries to determine that he's being stone-walled...by everybody. Evidence goes missing, records disappear, stories are vague and sometimes conflicting. But White brings in some other agents with varying backgrounds to infiltrate the town and integrate themselves into both the White and Native communities. Then, they share information and find the links...and discrepancies. And they attack from within.

If the film has a fault in conception, it is in the sheer repetitiveness of the crimes (although, to be clear, the crimes DID happen as depicted and over that long period of time, which shows how frustratingly slow any shred of justice could be brought to so insular and complicit a community). But, the numbing volume of the crimes strains credulity and patience for an audience, even one used to the slow process of justice and the bull-headedness that passes for politics but stinks like conspiracy. Not to minimize the scope of the crimes, but to see every one of them played out through the machinations of Hale through the prevarifications of DiCaprio's Burkhart makes it a long stretch of the same thing repeated over and over.

Gladstone is the acting highlight of the film, and De Niro—although a bit too long in the tooth to be playing Hale—does a good turn as evil posing as the friendly neighbor.

DiCaprio, though, is an issue. Sure, he's good box-office (and he's an Executive Producer on the film), but it may be time for the long string of Scorsese collaborations to end. At times, one can see him using Brando tricks and an occasional Jack Nicholson strategy in his acting, but mostly he seems to have based his performance on a frowny-face emoji (😠). His face freezes into the same petulant scowl, no matter the circumstances, whether he's unhappy, concerned, frustrated, murderous or cornered. And, the deeper you get into the movie, the lower the corners of his mouth drop until you wonder if his jaw will just drop off once they carve far enough. It's a disappointing performance, considering how integral DiCaprio made himself to the film.

 

It may be time to kick him off the raft, Marty.

As his character is in the film, DiCaprio is the film's weakest link.

Still, Killers of the Flower Moon resonates, as one more early example of a nation's systemic racism hiding in the shadows and swept under the rug, something that, although denied in all corners of the continuing national reckoning, continues to raise its ugly head.

Ernest Burkhart, Mollie Kyle Burkhart (on the right), and William Hale,