Movie Review: Killers Of The Flower Moon (2023)

Based on David Grann’s non-fiction book about series of mysterious deaths among the Osage Native American tribe in 1920s Oklahoma, Martin Scorsese’s new three-and-a-half hour movie is currently in the middle of a brief cinema run before showing on Paramount + (who also co-financed alongside Apple TV).

A new Scorsese movie is always an event. Co-starring Leonard DiCaprio, Robert De Niro and Lily Gladstone, ‘Killers Of The Flower Moon’ is another epic ‘creation of modern America’ movie, the flipside of ‘Goodfellas’, ‘Casino’, ‘The Irishman’, ‘Once Upon A Time In America’ and ‘The Godfather’, whilst also nodding to the oil boom of the 1920s and development of the FBI (‘Killers’ was reportedly reformatted during the Covid era to focus less on the FBI and more on the Osage).

The first thing to address is the giant running time. It’s quite extraordinary – and sometimes quite a challenge – watching a three-and-a-half-hour movie in 2023. And if, at times, it feels very much like an elongated TV show, its huge budget is all up there on the screen, with peerless attention to detail, meticulous mise en scene and truly hefty star performances.

You’re in the hands of a master, though Scorsese fans wanting elaborate camera movements and zippy set pieces will be disappointed – this is a sober, slow film, gaining its power from an accumulation of moods and images.

But ‘Killers’ is a true story of such simple, unremitting horror that you may also question why you are sitting so passively watching an exceptionally unpleasant, shameful episode in American history – all very apt in a long, non-fiction book or article, less so in a feature film of such extreme length.

One generally wants to look away from the casual, regular violence, unpleasantly forensic detail and focus on sometimes passive, unwell women. There’s exposure of intense anxiety and physical threat to child actors. There are also many longeurs, often undercut by Robbie Robertson’s pretty much wall-to-wall music (influenced by Kubrick’s ‘Barry Lyndon’ and ‘The Shining’?) with occasional Daniel Lanois-esque ‘funky’ breakdowns and slightly disconcerting inserts of blues and bluegrass.

But it’s the performances that linger longest in the mind after viewing. It’s thrilling watching intimate ‘behaviour’, as per Scorsese’s assessment of Marlon Brando in ‘On The Waterfront’, played out in the midst of such an epic, sprawling movie.

There are two key De Niro/DiCaprio stand-offs – it’s an absolute treat to see these two actors sparring on the big screen at such close quarters (and remember De Niro gave Leo his first big break in ‘This Boy’s Life’).

For his part, DiCaprio channels Brando, jutting out his bottom jaw, desperate to dial down the joie de vivre, excellently portraying a weak man who just wants to be left alone to enjoy money and gambling but is drawn into evil deeds. De Niro, in the meantime, seems to channel Trump. Gladstone burns very brightly during the first hour of the picture but fades fast, through no fault of her own, despite regrouping for a powerful final scene with DiCaprio.

There are shades of ‘Goodfellas’ and ‘The King Of Comedy’ in the film’s finale which summarises the hideous plot via a trite, ‘comic’ supper-theatre show, enjoyed by a middle-class audience and featuring a weird, uncharacteristically emotional cameo from the director.

So ‘Killers’ is not exactly Marty’s ‘Heaven’s Gate’ but a disappointment after ‘The Irishman’. Movingtheriver would put it alongside ‘Gangs Of New York’, ‘The Aviator’ and a few others in the ‘heroic failures’ camp. But is it worth seeing on the big screen? Of course. And Scorsese turns 81 on 17 November.

The Crap Movie Club: Homeboy (1988)

One of the pleasures of reading Bob Dylan’s ‘Chronicles’ is following his trains of thought wherever they go, however obtuse.

Possibly the most random is a mention of Mickey Rourke’s performance in the actor’s self-penned, almost totally forgotten 1988 film ‘Homeboy’, seen by Bob during the difficult Oh Mercy sessions:

‘He could break your heart with a look. The movie traveled to the moon every time he came onto the screen. Nobody could hold a candle to him. He was just there, didn’t have to say hello or goodbye.’

I’m a huge Mickey apologist, but I think Bob was way off the beam here. ‘Homeboy’ is irredeemable. It also signalled the beginning of Rourke’s 20-year slump.

Clearly a ‘vanity project’ for our star (he started writing it during the ‘Heaven’s Gate’ shoot in 1980), it’s the film where Mickey started to believe his own hype and play the sort of parts which echoed how badly he obviously felt about the movie business.

‘Homeboy’ is a weirdly masochistic (at times reminiscent of Brando’s similar explorations in that area), relentlessly downbeat, funereally-paced, vaguely camp melodrama.

The ‘plot’, such as it is, is almost identical to that of ‘The Wrestler’, the 2008 comeback that won Mickey his first Oscar.

He plays Johnny Walker, a punch-drunk, third-division-south pugilist reduced to hawking his wares around Asbury Park for a few bucks with his portly coach in tow.

Possibly Mickey’s character is supposed to have endured some kind of stroke, because he spends the whole film squeaking out of the side of his mouth, rendering his sparse dialogue almost inaudible.

Christopher Walken appears intermittently as the dodgy agent who wants Johnny’s assistance with a jewellery heist. Modelling a succession of deafening suits, he chews up the scenery a couple of times, dances a bit, sings a bit, clearly knowing this film is a heap of sh*t.

At times amusing but not enough to rescue the movie, it’s a dry run for his superior turns in ‘King Of New York’ and ‘Wild Side’.

Poor Debra Feuer – Mickey’s wife at the time – underwhelms in the almost non-existent role of Johnny’s love interest. Eric Clapton phones in an always-too-loud soundtrack, obviously tossed off during yet another Albert Hall run, adding a few tired licks but mainly employing bassist Nathan East to improvise some fairly half-baked solo cues.

Director Michael Seresin, previously the cinematographer on ‘Angel Heart’ (and recently one of the Harry Potter films), can’t seem to rustle up any convincing or memorable scenes. The final effect is sub-Golan-Globus.

Rourke has one great moment towards the end of the film though, possibly the one Dylan picked up on, where he peers up at his coach and tearfully asks (with shades of Brando again), ‘You think I coulda been good?’ But it’s too little too late. ‘Homeboy’ should probably have stayed in Development Hell.