After roughly half a century of seeing Martin Scorsese movies on screen, we know what to expect. And in the first 30 or so minutes of “Killers of the Flower Moon,” that’s more or less what you get.
Following World War I, Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo Dicaprio) comes to Oklahoma. A tracking shot reminiscent of the famous “Goodfellas” Copacabana sequence follows him through the crowd outside the train station, the late Robbie Robertson’s rollicking, bluesy score announcing his arrival. The camera introduces the audience to the world Ernest has entered. Years earlier, the Osage Nation became wealthy after discovering oil on their land. One of the film’s first scenes dramatizes this discovery, oil spurting joyously out of the ground, inky black against the sky.
The Osage people live comfortably in grand homes, they own fine clothes and jewelry. But something insidious lurks under the sheen of wealth. Most don’t have control over their own finances. Most are taken advantage of constantly. And many are dying.
As “Killers of the Flower Moon” – based on David Grann’s nonfiction novel about a slew of murders committed against the Osage people in the 1920s – goes on, that evil bubbles to the surface. The film’s pace slows considerably, and what emerges is a complex, infuriating, devastating piece of American cinema – and dare I say it, maybe a masterpiece. Scorsese, who co-wrote the screenplay with Eric Roth, uses a different structure and focus than Grann’s book, unraveling what happened to the Osage people through the eyes of their attackers. That approach has its own limitations, but it also asks audiences to reckon with the original sin of this country in a particularly bracing way, striking a terribly true chord about the nature of evil.
As Ernest, DiCaprio wears an almost constant frown, brow preemptively furrowed in the likelihood that someone says something to him that he doesn’t quite understand. He has a penchant for repeating the last thing he said quietly to himself, unsure to a fault. The first time we see him riding the train to Oklahoma, he considers the Native man seated in front of him with a mix of distaste and bewilderment. This place is unfamiliar to him. So, he immediately seeks out the familiar.
Ernest’s next stop is his uncle’s ranch. In this town, William Hale (Robert De Niro) is king. He has a kindly look to him and is a friend to everyone, particularly the Osage. He knows their language, he knows their customs, and he often advocates on their behalf. And yet – as opposed to Grann’s book, where Hale’s role in the Osage murders is revealed more gradually – as soon as Hale starts talking, it’s clear he’s the mastermind behind the wicked lurking here. He’s clever too, deftly leading the witless Earnest exactly where he wants. There’s an Osage woman named Mollie (Lily Gladstone) whose family owns a considerable amount of oil headrights, Hale says. Wouldn’t Ernest like to get to know her?
All of this – Ernest’s entrance, the flashy tracking shot, the table setting conversation with Hale – feels very typical of a Scorsese gangster movie in the best way possible. It’s slick, it moves quickly, and it sets up the early stakes of the film at peak entertainment value. But everything shifts on its axis as soon as Gladstone enters the picture. Despite how clear it is that Hale has pushed Ernest towards Mollie because of the wealth she represents, their initial courtship is awkwardly romantic. At a glance, Mollie has the upper hand, eyes guarded but sparkling with mirth as she takes in Ernest’s embarrassed reactions, his unpolished demeanor. The flirtation between them, which develops into a marriage, is steeped in warmth – from Rodrigo Prieto’s cinematography to the sturdy intimacy of the music that underscores their wedding. That warmth makes everything that follows all the more terrible.
The initial power dynamic in the pair’s interpersonal relationship contrasts sharply with the story playing out around them. As more and more Osage are killed – including members of Mollie’s own family – Hale and Ernest’s involvement becomes clearer. The camera and the editing style aren’t quite as flashy as you might expect, but deployed in such a way to show us where the power lies at any given moment, whether it’s a swivel to catch a reaction from Ernest, or a cut to focus on a character we might not have noticed before. Flash isn’t what Scorsese is after here (although sometimes he can’t help himself), but rather the habitual mechanics of devastation. The murders themselves are often shown in wide shots – brutal, but almost pedestrian. Tom White (Jesse Plemons), the federal agent put in charge of investigating the murders and ostensibly one of the main characters of the novel, doesn’t show up until about two hours into the film. No one cared enough for him to show up earlier.
All of this comes together to ask one question; what does evil look like? Throughout the early portions of the film, Scorsese effectively ratchets up tension by having us question how much Ernest is really involved in his uncle’s scheme – how much is he actively contributing versus how much is he just a patsy? Eventually, that answer becomes definitive, and the audience is left with a more complicated, more harrowing one. Does Ernest love Mollie? Can you have love for someone while simultaneously trying to wipe out their entire family, their entire identity, their entire history?
Osage language consultant Christopher Cote has spoken thoughtfully about this very question, and how the decision to focus so much on Ernest inherently pulls focus from Mollie and the other Osage. “…when somebody conspires to murder your entire family, that’s not love,” he said. “That’s not love, that’s just beyond abuse.”
He is, of course, correct. Whatever the real Ernest felt for the real Mollie, it wasn’t love. But what I feel Scorsese is trying to get at with “Killers of the Flower Moon” – and what Coates gets at later on in that same interview – is the complacency of evil. Most of the evil in the world is far more familiar than we would like to believe. The film offers Hale up as its most pure representation, but we never find ourselves inside of his psyche the way we do Ernest’s. The audience is privy to Ernest’s thoughts as he repeatedly makes the decision to brutalize Mollie and her family. Whatever Ernest feels for Mollie, we can look at it from the outside and know that it’s not love. But that doesn’t change how Ernest views it himself. Scorsese humanizes Ernest without empathizing with him. That humanity is what makes his actions all the more heinous.
DiCaprio is mesmerizing in “Killers of the Flower Moon,” a little more mannered than usual but using those mannerisms to an end rather than reaching for caricature. In any other film, he might have given the best performance. But everytime Gladstone is on screen – and she’s sharing the screen with the likes of DiCaprio and De Niro – it’s clear just how much “Killers of the Flower Moon” belongs to her. Scorsese said he wanted to work with Gladstone after seeing her in Kelly Reichart’s “Certain Women,” in which she gives arguably the best performance of 2016. Gladstone’s character in “Certain Women” is almost nothing like Mollie, but in both she shows a spellbinding ability to pack a punch of emotion into the smallest movement, her face betraying nothing and everything at the same time. Because of the nature of what Mollie experiences in the film, Gladstone ends up sidelined for a good chunk of the middle of the movie. You can really feel the loss of her when she’s not there.
“Killers of the Flower Moon” is an exceedingly patient movie that could be mistaken for a quiet one. Gladstone doesn’t have much dialogue, but every look is loaded with Mollie’s complexity and the growing weight of tragedy. Every cut to Hale, silent as he considers his next move, reeks with greed. Every furrow of Ernest’s brow is filled with the uniquely American fear that someone might be coming to cut him down, so he better cut the other guy down first. Every moment of “Killers of the Flower Moon” is a meaningful reminder that evil is not some supernatural outside force, but something far more close to home. It can be the angry bigot on a barstool, or it can be your smiling next door neighbor. It might even be the person you sleep next to every night.
