Written by Oscar Simmons
Readers, I write to you sat in Levels, across from another junior columnist toiling over a piece on the history of the Middle East. Hours ago, she tried to convince me that Genghis Khan’s real surname was ‘Smith’. Despite the detailed and extensive nature of her research (which has produced, evidently, false fruit) I feel no more compelled to complete my own research into the story of the Osage nation, not out of sheer indolence, but out of a sense of understanding almost exactly what went on. I know what happened in the Osage Nation in 1920s Oklahoma because Martin Scorsese sat me down for 3 hours and 26 minutes last night and told me, sugar-coating nothing. This review is not a comment on the movie, but an outlet to express the psychological shift I experienced during that time.
Let’s get the basics out the way. It’s a Scorsese piece, a man who at eighty years old is still producing pieces of art that will outlive him and many of his successors. It features actors who owe their careers largely to him, DiCaprio and De Niro, with the tremendous work of Lily Gladstone, an actress who, being from an Indigenous background, continues her run of being involved in projects surrounding the history of Indigenous communities of the US. If I were a liar, I’d write now about how I’m a big fan of her work and have followed her for years, but I am not. I had not heard of her before this, but I must admit, Gladstone has gained a new fan. Some claim this is DiCaprio’s greatest performance, but I can’t concur. If, during one of your many monologues, I become acutely aware that your range as an actor is somewhat limited, I fear this performance may not be your career zenith. I found myself comparing him to the moldability of Gary Oldman and Daniel Day-Lewis, who do not act, but instead become a whole new person. If you, a die-hard DiCaprio fan, dispute this view, please write to the Retrospect editor, who I have asked not to pass on any correspondence to me.
The story itself spares no details. The brutality of the murders is unmasked, often in broad daylight and frequently with a hint of Tarantino in the depths of their displayed gore. However, the heinous imagery of such barbarity is beautifully contrasted with the use of tremendous colour grading and natural light showing off the beauty of indigenous lands, cultures and traditions. DiCaprio is far from the most aesthetically pleasing thing in this film.
Those of you whom are victims of the TikTok decimation of attention spans might resent this picture solely on the runtime. I admit, reader, that at points I found myself staring a little too intensely at my popcorn (which cost, along with an identical small box of popcorn and a singular drink, an eye-watering £17). I occasionally drifted in and out of the storyline, never quite divorcing myself from it entirely, which would have been emulating my mother who can’t follow a plot for love nor money. However, this drifting did not hamper my experience. Scorsese rounds off the storyline with an ostensibly arbitrary performance of the story of the Osage nation, presumably taken from the book this film was based off, which provides the same service that the small captions at the end of a crime documentary do; detailing who went to prison, what became of the victims and how life is inevitably better now for all involved. Except, life isn’t better now. In fact, despite prison terms for DiCaprio and De Niro’s characters, the legacy of the murders exists now only in primitive FBI files, presumably stashed away at the bottom of a vault somewhere. See, indigenous history is horribly underrepresented. Although this blockbuster film and the book it’s based on go some way into shedding light onto this period of history, it’s difficult to leave the cinema not feeling robbed of justice, not only because you spent a small fortune on popcorn you only half ate, but also because the Osage Nation experienced such horrors at the hands of the avaricious white man. Gladstone’s character experienced unimaginable loss in her lifetime, and yet the written testimonies of her legacy make no mention of the murders she was a secondary victim of. Her story remained largely untold; so, I implore you, reader, to watch this film, and understand, as I now do, just how whitewashed history really is.
I am running out of words with which to encapsulate this film. Writing that sentence alone was a waste, an issue the script fails to encounter. Every line seems important. There are no extensive, darkly shot, uneventful but intendedly emotional moments. Each interaction furthers the story, albeit some more so than others which provides a memorable storytelling experience. Apart from brief Google searches of facts, this review has no bibliography because Scorsese’s work, coloured by the terrific cast, cinematography and pacing has left an imprint on my brain, unlikely to be smoothed over anytime soon.
Featured Image Credit: Canal22, English: Killer of the Flower Moon Press Conference at 2023 Cannes Film Festival, May 22, 2023, May 22, 2023, Festival de Cine de Cannes 2023 con Jean-Christophe Berjon | Capítulo 6, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Killers_of_the_Flower_Moon_Cannes_Film_Festival.jpg.
Retrospect Journal 
