A New York stockbroker refuses to cooperate in a large securities fraud case involving corruption on Wall Street, corporate banking world and mob infiltration. Based on Jordan Belfort's autobiography.
The Wolf of Wall Street opulently howls for the insipid apotheosis of money laundering. Well, might as well deliver my soul to the slaughter for my apparent blasphemous opinion of this acclaimed "masterpiece". Ready? I don't like The Wolf of Wall Street. I don't. I just can't. I've endured this three hour mental exhaustion twice now, and each time it crawls further under my skin. The blatant irritation Scorsese causes me to suffer with, is enough to make me question the validity of this adaptation's existence (more on that later...). For now though, just let my unmistakable opinion settle and ready yourself for battle. Recounting the memoirs of stock-market manipulator (and general asshole...) Jordan Belfort, we witness the rise and fall of his Wall Street career as his susceptibility to corruption destroys everything and everyone around him.
Well, apparently that is what the film is heavily implying. Yet, for three bloody hours (six if you count the initial watch), I tolerated explicit sexual nature, drugs being sniffed off of breasts and abnormally juicy buttock cheeks and an extreme amount profanity that unsurprisingly set a Guinness World Record. For what? No, seriously. What's Scorsese's purpose here? There's no insight into corruption. No moral implications for Belfort's actions. No substantial development for Belfort's arc. Nothing. Scorsese literally consumed a hundred million dollars for the glorification of a criminal who is now considered a role model for many businessmen.
The absolute reason why this is so beloved, is because of how "hilarious" his shenanigans were. Launching midgets onto a scoreboard. Summoning strippers and a marching band to plague his office. Shaving a full head of hair off for cash. Sure, Scorsese's frantic antics accompanied by Schoonmaker's rapid editing kept the buoyancy afloat during these hellish moments. But what's the purpose here? To depict the maddening behaviour of stock brokers obsessed and driven by money? Negatory. Scorsese was too nonchalant about the depiction of fraudulent activity, that it consequently held no groundwork. The foundations were built entirely around excessive dark humour, and essentially collapsed in on itself.
Where I take issue though, is with the development of Belfort himself. A man who slides into the decadent lifestyle of drugs and prostitutes. A wannabe prick becoming an actual prick. His character arc, although predictable given any film regarding Wall Street, should've concluded on a note of reflection. The natural realisation of the erroneous behaviour he had demonstrated. Alas, he was forced to change. If he hadn't pleaded guilty, he would still be slapping asses and performing drug angels in mountains of cocaine. That's not development. At all.
What doesn't assist is Winter's inconsistent screenplay. Shifting frequently between actual plot and explicit shenanigans, whilst embedding an array of supporting characters that are deemed useless in the grand scheme of the film. Granted, it was DiCaprio's spotlight, and Scorsese was mindful of that. But the likes of Chandler, Favreau, Lumley and Dujardin were under-utilised. DiCaprio gives a tour de force performance as Belfort. He really does become the man by obnoxiously screaming, erratically laughing and fake tanning his way to awards season. It's an absurd performance that must've destroyed his vocal chords, and really is the only reason why I would endure this again. Hill on the other hand, I despised. Bland as per usual, and DiCaprio chewed him up real good. Robbie was used to spice up the sexuality, not for her acting ability. And McConaughey, who garnered the most memorable scenes, was in and out quicker that saying the words "alright, alright, alright...".
I shan't go on anymore. You now know where I stand with this endurance test. Whilst technically a proficient film from an inspiration director and commanded by a captivating central performance, it's entire purpose reeks of self-indulgence and ill-fated devotion. If Belfort asked me to "sell this pen", I know exactly where I would stick it...
