“I love money!”
It is a sentiment echoed numerous times by one Ernest Burkhart over a period of about seven or eight years, and each time with immeasurable glee at the prospect of wealth at the expense of others. Greed is a powerful motivator, and historically one of the more potent tools of western imperialism. Someone else has something that we must have, and there are a great many unscrupulous ways to get it. The Osage Nation of Oklahoma knows this incredibly well. Though they were initially settled in modern Nebraska and Kansas, they were forced off their lands in the nineteenth century by white westward expansion. Though undisturbed for a time on the prairies of Oklahoma, once they struck oil white greed yet again descended on them, endeavouring in more stealthy ways to enrich themselves off the Osage wealth.
This is the story fervently told by Killers of the Flower Moon, Martin Scorsese’s new western crime epic that illustrates the series of murders that took place on Osage land in the 1920s as part of a conspiracy to gain control of the oil headrights, held and passed down by the women of the tribe. Based on a historical account by David Grann, it has been a passion project of Scorsese’s for several years now, and you can feel what it means for him to be telling this story, if not throughout the film than certainly by the end. Because it is a story in no small part about the complicity we share in white supremacist history when we turn a blind eye or else diminish stories like this.
Of course the main subject the movie targets is the sin of colonialism that allows such a thing to foster. It opens on Osage elders burying a pipe in mourning of the gradual disintegration of their culture and way of life at the dawn of the twentieth century. It is juxtaposed poetically against the discovery of oil on their land, which will make them rich but more visible and susceptible to white exploitation. The aforementioned Ernest, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, is a First World War veteran who comes to the Gray Horse region of northern Oklahoma in 1918 to work for his uncle, the wealthy and seemingly beneficent local magnate William “King” Hale (Robert De Niro) -in which capacity as a cabbie he meets and romances an Osage heiress Mollie (a captivating Lily Gladstone). Through marriage to her he stands to inherit a great deal of wealth in her family’s oil money, but only if her sisters and their families aren’t able to inherit a portion themselves.
It’s curious how Scorsese illustrates the events that unfold next, with in several instances a level of ambiguity that is not at all convincing. Much of the story is presented through Ernest’s point-of-view and yet aspects of his culpability in the murders is deliberately shielded -but we know all throughout his role in them, coupled with the frequent coded language passed between him and Hale that indicates without always outright stating what their intentions and their actions are. And it is a perfect metaphor for the relationship white power has to Indigenous peoples. Ernest’s apparent unknowing attitude and general cluelessness is an indictment of white culture more generally and its wilful ignorance of historical hallmarks of white supremacy. Hale is depicted watching newsreel footage of the Tulsa race massacre, a historic episode that many non-Indigenous people first learned about through Watchmen. Likewise, Killers of the Flower Moon is probably the first exposure for these same people to the story of the Oklahoma murders. Scorsese is extremely conscious of this, subtly threading that criticism through the movie, using the fact that Ernest is our protagonist and point of reference to force his audience (and himself even) to reckon with just how ugly that ambivalence in the face of colonial self-interest is -on both a micro and a macro level. Hale at one point evens notes explicitly how nothing that they may be guilty of will matter after a short time -it’ll be forgotten or shrugged off -"another everyday tragedy"- nothing will be learned, as indeed has been the case. But as Scorsese bleakly affirms this, he emphasizes carefully the lasting gravity of the totality of this for the Osage.
Though this film is primarily a story of white greed aimed at white audiences, Scorsese defers in crucial moments to the pain and frustration of the Osage. Not only this but their efforts to get to the bottom of these murders, all the while with the apparent support and sympathy of their trusted ‘King’ Hale. Mollie’s point-of-view is expressed almost as much as Ernest’s, as severe anger bubbles beneath her sadness and not-unfounded paranoia. Despite her situation, she is very smart and perceptive, Gladstone making a point of a certain level of distrust existing between her and these white men. Hers is the vital stand-out performance of the piece, not unexpected for anyone who saw her in Kelly Reichardt’s Certain Women and have been waiting for her to properly break out ever since. Mollie is put through the ringer in this movie in terms of grief and sickness, and at every turn Gladstone is blisteringly intense, though never once losing her profound self-assuredness and formidable power. It’s there from her first scene, in which she, bemused and confident, retaliates against Ernest’s flirtations. It’s an impeccable take on a character it would have been so easy to make merely pitiful or docile. The passion Gladstone and Scorsese share for this real woman and her family shines through.
That family includes Tantoo Cardinal as the domineering matriarch, terrified at the idea that in all these Osage girls marrying white men it will delineate their ethnic and cultural roots. And she is right in this fear. It is exactly what the settlers’ aim is. This film very sharply pulls back the curtain on systemic cultural genocide, the insidious ways it takes root and is carried out. In spite of the material and property wealth that has come to the Osage, the apparent respect and cordiality of Hale and the white elders, there is still a toxic stain on the land. It’s notable the distinction between the expansive free land of the prologue, and the industry, the European agricultural patterns of everything after. Very little Osage iconography is on display in the offices and social buildings of Fairfax, and of course the people themselves are being subverted. White men who are all of a sudden sexually interested in these Indigenous women, with parents who openly comment on how white the offspring look, pitying those who retain more prominent Native features. Even where there is some level of genuine affection, which ostensibly exists for Ernest, the importance of “controlling the home” is heavily stressed. It still comes back to that notion of “taming” the Native, assimilating them into a “respectable” society and culture. Hale may speak the language, but this too is a mere manipulative tactic, a way to appear endearing and respectful -and Scorsese addresses it with bleak sobriety and judgement.
De Niro is excellent in this role, a meatier, more compelling part than I expected, but unsurprising given his track record with Scorsese (it is their tenth film together). He plays so discreetly the two-faced nature of this modern baron. And DiCaprio (on his sixth film with the maestro) is quite refreshing too as the easily affected dolt who gets quickly in over his head. There is a curious parallel between him (and the story more generally) and De Niro’s character in Scorsese’s previous The Irishman –both pathetic men without much personal agency whose lives become dictated for them and end in miserable indignity. Ernest is ultimately plagued by guilt, but at near every turn he lacks the fortitude to do anything about it. Jesse Plemons and John Lithgow make notable turns as well, there are some great impressions made by Native actors William Belleau, Cara Jade Myers, Tatanka Means, and Talee Redcorn. Brendan Fraser gets a small amount of scenery-chewing as Hale’s lawyer, and the tertiary cast is full of interesting character acting, particularly from one Ty Mitchell as a beleaguered accomplice.
The movie is shot beautifully by Rodrigo Prieto, and despite the fuss around the runtime, is paced and cut impeccably by the legendary Thelma Schoonmaker –both long-time collaborators of Scorsese’s. Another was Robbie Robertson, Indigenous himself, whose last score before his death earlier this year is infused with rich character and solemnity. It fits especially towards the end of the film, where there is some justice, though an overall hollow catharsis. But the way Scorsese concludes the movie is nothing short of genius –a creative subversion of a standard trope of true-story movies that once again emphasizes the legacy of colonialism and cultural exploitation, even to the aftermath of such a violent episode. And yet there’s something deeply profound and moving there as well, particularly with the deployment of one breathtaking cameo and the evocative imagery the film leaves you on.
Killers of the Flower Moon is a disturbing movie, not in terms of its violence or any explicitness to its brutality, but because of what it forces its white audience to confront –about themselves, about history, about their relationship to these actions and institutions of exploitation and white supremacy. It pays homage to the Osage too though, celebrates their tenacity and endurance. A film as daring, as complex, and as arresting as any by cinema’s most passionate advocate. Do you see the wolves in this picture?
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