'The Wolf of Wall Street'

Martin Scorsese’s The Wolf of Wall Street is the latest contradiction to his earlier statement that he would never make another gangster film again. Scorsese then makes the oh-so-witty observation that the real crooks can be found on Wall Street in the form of stockbrokers.

Cue Jordan Belfort, main character and overall prick, and his half-wit, incestuous (alright, that was funny) beta-wingman Donnie Azorff. We follow Belfort through the excruciating first year of employment only for him to get fired on the very day of his first real job. Disgruntled, Belfort ends up in New Jersey where he quickly becomes savvy in the pump-and-dump scamming system in which naïve postmen, always postmen, are relived of their life savings by having them invest in so-called penny stocks of companies that, more often than not, do not exist. Of course, he makes money, subsequently switches his first wife for a glitzier version, buys a mansion, a yacht, some monkeys, cars, while having a rather extreme appetite for hookers, cocaine, Quaaludes: you name it, he takes it. Of course, the FBI soon starts paying closer attention and things slowly but surely unravel. Sound familiar? That’s because it is! We have seen this film in one form or another a thousand times. It is a self-indulgent, occasionally witty, highly over-the-top melodrama about … erm … I dunno … money?

The only difference to the admittedly rather conventional Wall street drama is that Scorsese does not abandon his fascination with the small-time criminal and don’t get me wrong, apart from their excessive wealth, these are essentially crooks. The Stratton-Oakmont office doesn’t look any better than the garage out of which they operate at first, only better lit. These characters never evolve, the hookers are getting more expensive, the food is eaten on a yacht, the drugs get more exclusive, but, in the end, these are excessively masturbating, vulgar, immature adolescents, living each day as if Mummy and Daddy are trying to relive their honeymoon on Barbados for the weekend, leaving the boys in charge of the family home. In its fascination with the small-timers of the demimonde, The Wolf of Wall Street shows clear parallels to Goodfellas or even Casino. It does lack the anxiety and underlying concept of danger of the former Scorsesean masterpieces. It mostly resembles the attempts of third-year film students having seen Goodfellas way too many times. The resemblance to Scorsese’s earlier work remains thus mostly structural in his use of voice-over, sleek visuals and in the all-male relationships as only bases of validation and authenticity.

The actors are really let off the leash in terms of performative freedom. DiCaprio gives a performance that is riveting in its very physicality. After a couple of hours, however, the burly extravagance becomes not so much powerful as annoying. Belfort as a character has no room for subtlety and DiCaprio’s performance is almost equal to his latest rendition of Jay Gatsby. He seems to be drawn to playing wealthy, all-powerful alpha males who get what they want through sheer persistence and charisma. Jonah Hill can be seen as the new Joe Pesci, though without the latters rage and violence. He does provide comic relief, though, in his downright silliness. His performance, to me, felt somehow more complete and honest in that he manages to convey the very pleasure of playing an immature, loud and crass scumbag. The only performance that really stands out is Kyle Chandler’s portrayal of Agent Patrick Dunham. Thus, the play-off between Belfort and Dunham relays the only real illustration of power relations between similar characters on different sides and all the connotative subtleties in dialogue that we have come to expect in a Scorsese film. I had some hope for the character of Aunt Emma, played by Joanna Lumley, but she is never given the screen time to fully develop her potential. Same goes for Matthew McConaughey, who nevertheless delivers one of the funniest monologues of the film.

Rather than Belfort, money is the real protagonist of this three-hour joyride: Money as temptation, money as abstraction, money as aphrodisiac, money as self-validation, money as doctrine. But, first and foremost: money in all its omni-presence as the base of our society in its very essence and the underlying power structures it fuels. Scorsese has never lain off the mantle of Catholicism and here; the new religion is called capitalism. Again, nothing new. The film not so much works through deconstruction in that underlying societal structures are embedded in the narrative for the spectator to decipher as by blatant superficiality. Here, money is not ideological; ideology has itself been replaced with money. Money is not a means to an end; it is the means and the end. Money is its own goal, where goods purchased are less important than abstract possession of capital.

We are sucked into this dizzying spiral of images in which any notion of contemplation becomes impossible. Here, the film clearly mirrors the hysteric tendencies of our own post-capitalist society in which success is equaled with wealth and sexuality becomes an economic principle in that it can be bought or is treated as the remnant of an inherent power relation that again draws on money and who has it, quote: “You have my money taped to your boobs. I think you work for me”. Time in this equation is compressed and accelerated; we are taken on a ride in the fast lane to insanity. The characters are driven to a schizophrenic frenzy in which subjectivity is forever propelled forwards to an ever greater accumulation of wealth as only self-validation. Here, the notion of hysteria, for once, applies to masculinity. Even though women also fall prey to the power relation of money, they do so either as wives and trophies, consumable objects, or have to adopt a typically ‘male’ behaviour in order to succeed and survive in this environment.

The mise-en-scène mirrors this sense of dizzying void and glitzy surface. The many slow motions and freeze frames convey a sense of staggering artificiality that perfectly suits the contextual abstraction that is this lifestyle. Terence Winter once again demonstrates his penchant for the glitzy nothingness of a world that exists as pure surface, as he has already proven in Boardwalk Empire. From the very start, the film is driven by excess and gluttony as a direct consequence of extreme capitalism. This excess is also conveyed through the sheer abundance of the word fuck in the dialogues (apparently over 500 fucks), the use of hyperbolic language and superlatives again highlights the lack of meaning, content and depth of this world, our times and, ultimately, the film.

The imagery is clearly carnivalesque in that the bodies that people the screen become grotesque to the extreme. DiCaprio, in the throes of a drug-related full-body paralysis, becomes almost animalistic in gestures that befit a contortionist. In this sense, the film regurgitates the stylistic conventions of a turn of the century vaudeville roadshow as we witness little people, women that are compared to witches with half-shaven heads, marching bands, monkeys and, of course, the female body as the eternal spectacle. The visuals, as the events and lives depicted, are but a hallucination: any notion of identity or subjectivity is displaced to a diffusive circumvolution of spectacular masks, misapprehensions, delusions, performances and uncanny mimetic misrepresentations. Remember the Popeye-scene? –There you go!

The protagonists as such become vessels for the destitute, wacky hollowness that pervades all aspects of the film. Spectatorial immersion proves impossible, as the viewer’s gaze slides off the glitzy surface of the visuals. I did not care for Belfort or any of the other characters for that matter. The characters are but elements in this side show of freakishness and the carousel of madness that is the narrative. Here, however, lies the film’s strongest element in that the narrative and mise-en-scène is fueled by a crazy energy that does not fail to captivate, even if limited to mere visual thrills and spectacle.

The film uncannily reminds us that in watching, we, too, become consumers of a product, but instead of feeding us hidden depths, Scorsese presents us with a grotesque imitation of our own desire to consume. The voice-over is by now a constant tool in Scorsese’s cinematic workbench. Nevertheless, it does not serve the furthering or framing of an individual narrative as it provokes an uneasy feeling of direct implication on the spectator’s side whom Belfort addresses directly on numerous occasions. At the same time, we are the dunces, the small-time consumers and when Belfort sneers that we wouldn’t understand the intricacies of his scams and we wouldn’t be interested in them anyways, we are reminded that, indeed, we are sitting here and, indeed, have paid for the spectacle of it all. And pure spectacle is what we get. The little man, here taken literally at times, is always the one to get fucked and why should someone like Belfort assume responsibility for a flawed system incorporating ideals to which we all aspire? The notion of responsibility becomes a parody as the lads discuss the health and safety risks of their scheme to play human darts with a little man (even though the real-life Belfort claims this never has, but could just as easily have, happened). One has to applaud Scorsese for the non-resolution and thematic constancy of his ending that negates any moral redemption or punishment. The immediacy of this late modern experience, the representation of desire as instant gratification and the absolute non-essence of existence in the universe of Wall Street (and the cinema of attraction for that matter) render any concept of personal or human responsibility futile.

The Wolf of Wall Street is clearly in love with its own visuals, witticisms, speed and shallowness and, to a certain extent, it works. We are sucked into the spiraling void that is this film as if helpless to face the dizzying velocity of the mise-en-scène that develops an extreme momentum. The issue of the film’s structure lies in its inconsistency. At full speed from the go, the film never reaches a peak and pure excess, even with such an experienced and skilled filmmaker as Scorsese, eventually results in boredom. After the fiftieth motivational speech given by Belfort to a hooting crowd of hormonal workers, I just did not care anymore. The stupidity of the characters and, occasionally, the script eventually overtakes the vehemence and spectacular pleasure in the skillful artificiality of the mise-en-scène. The notion of pure excess, visually and thematically, which worked so well in other films embracing the concept of pure surface (as for example, Spring Breakers), here proves flat and stale, while the performances could be expected of circus clowns in a village vaudeville. I wanted to like the film, I even loved The Departed which so many people abhorred, but here, Scorsese has lost me. It is not so much that I despise the film; I got some enjoyment from it. Nevertheless, what I can’t forgive is that, in the end, it remains utterly forgettable and this is not something I thought I would ever say of a Scorsese film.

'12 Years a Slave'

12 Years a Slave is based on the 1853 memoirs of freeborn violinist and carpenter Solomon Northup. Northup,who, through a series of deceptions, eventually ends up being drugged and sold into slavery. He is stripped of his name and becomes but another of the many nameless unfortunates who were nothing more than property to be handled and abused at the hands of wealthy Southern landowners. What follows is an Southern Odyssey in which Northup encounters cowardice masked as kindness (Master Shaw), acute humiliation in being treated in a worse manner than the farm animals (Master Epps) and tentative friendship with fellow slaves (Patsey).

12 Years a Slave might be set in the 1800s; however, it is hard not to draw parallels to our own capitalist system of cheap labor and sweatshops in which modern day slavery is conducted under the banner of progressive globalization. McQueen’s depiction of slavery then picks up where the likes of Amistad and Django Unchained have left open this open dirty secret of recent American history, albeit in a much more subtle, while shocking and intelligent manner.

The introduction of the landscape in its very autonomy relate the fascination of a filmmaker clearly enthralled with the Deep South as a piece of almost primordial wildness. The imagery encapsulates the archaic, beautiful and terrifying. I don’t believe McQueen would be so unsubtle as to suggest blunt associations between human nature and the wildness of the landscape, however, the wide and careless abandon of the latter serves as stark contrast to the imprisonment of the main characters. The fact that no physical bars exist in this South only exemplifies the brutality of stripping a human being of its own freedom to control his/her own life.

McQueens’ film functions through contrast. This also applies to the protagonist’s socio-economic background, as he is distinct from other slaves in being a violinist and carpenter with independent means. Northup is thus not only othered by his enslavement, he also finds no place within the slave community. There is a feigned arrogance to Northup that can only be described as a desperate attempt to hold on to a former notion of identity. Stripped of his real name, one of the most intense scenes of the films has Northup join the chorus of slaves singing at a funeral, for the first time giving any notion of coming to terms with a new existence and emplacement. In the South, the protagonist is neither Northup nor Platt, but represents an eternal subjective in-between. The extreme close-ups McQueen employs, keep lingering on Northup’s face, singling him out and thus re-appropriating an individual identity. The use of close-ups here allows no distance. The spectator is only allowed brief relief in the long shots of the incorporated landscape that nevertheless proves a rather hopeless and uncaring surround to the human drama that unfolds in it. The persistent close-ups on Northup thus relay a sense of visual claustrophobia, clearly conveying the impossibility of escape. McQueen literally forces the spectator to become a true seer. There is no means of visual escape short of covering one’s eyes.

On the one hand, McQueens’ choice of his protagonist’s background ties in with a very American notion of self-improvement and the necessity for individual and collective progress. Read in this light, the roles of the other slaves remain problematic as, of course, they never gain their freedom, almost as if Northup deserves his by the right of connection with powerful individuals, rather than by a human right of equality applicable to all.

One can read Northup’s privileged status, however, also in an instrumental fashion, in that in his life, the gulf between his former and present life becomes vividly illustrative of societal negation. Northup’s status thus clearly provides a comment on the barred access to education and career for most other African Americans in the film.

McQueen usually chooses one colour scheme for the film and then sticks with it, whether it be the inhumanly green of ‘Hunger’, the cold and detached blue of ‘Shame’ or, in this case, an anachronistic, almost rustic brown. I’m not sure whether the colour scheme in its sepia tones does not introduce a distanced view of events that still qualify as recent history. The rather stilted manner of Northup’s speech also transfers the viewed inhumanity to a space of the ‘far-removed’. I am aware that all these mannerisms serve an idea of historical authenticity and remain rooted in Northup’s own autobiographical account, however, I was left wondering whether the introduction of late modern elements to the mise-en-scène might not have rendered the historical nearness of the events themselves more accessible. Only in scenes of extreme violence does the film lose its detached, read historical view. In this sense, the film works through visceral shock.

As to the performances, McQueen, as usual, has a stock of actors who most of the time can do no wrong. Chiwetel Ejiofor’ performance becomes powerful not so much through grand theatrical gestures or outbursts as by subtle approximation. His performance consists in the minutest facial gestures that nevertheless capture the enormity of his life events. This man clearly is made for close-up and McQueen obliges.

Lupita Nyong’o is an absolute revelation in her role as Patsey, the unfortunate slave girl who has to endure her master’s infatuation with her, while Michael Fassbender here almost pales next to her. Fassbender nevertheless plays Epps with an intensity that relays not only the inherent sadism of the character but also a clear sentiment of self-loathing and torment. Benedict Cumberbatch does a fine job of playing Master Shaw and transmitting the shame implicit in conscious cowardice. The only proverbial bad apple lies in the casting of Brad Pitt as benevolent Canadian anti-slavery advocate, Bass. Surely it’s not for lack of trying, but his all American face does the role no favours, as does the flippancy of his performance.

One character that perhaps has not received the critical acclaim it deserves is the one of Mistress Epps played by Sarah Paulson. Her status is just as limited and unfree as the slaves in this society that is not only racist, but also patriarchal. Her only privilege, of which she takes full advantage, thus lies in the fact the she remains one level above the societal position of a slave. She is equally part of the property held by the master, in this case her husband. Instead of sympathizing, however, she indulges in cruelty, not so much inhuman, as shocking in its very humanity, as she is a product of her times, upbringing and sex. Her character thus illustrates how an individual is very much a construct of societal norms, rather than her character portraying a notion of the inherent human goodness against all odds.

As Fredric Jameson rightly notes: ‘History is what hurts.’ Too long has late modern historicity called for an abandonment of the legible body in favour of a polyvocal expression of embodied micro-existences. It seems as if the artist has taken up the call; here, Steve McQueen’s film excels in its depiction of the effect of history on the material body. The societal norms and cultural values thus lose their status as a discursive moral conceptualization and come to enter a dialectical relation between viewer-body and body-on-screen. Simply put, spectatorial distance is aggressively dismantled, as explicit images of torn flesh and the brutality of a whipping leave no safe space from which to observe. Here, narrative becomes as ineffective as unnecessary as McQueen clearly understand the usefulness of the visceral in terms of spectatorial identification. He cleverly blurs normatively lived lines from the past as no matter whether black or white, torn flesh remains torn flesh and will be related to as such. In the end, everyone’s got a body and we know what it means to feel pain. He thus introduces a notion of responsibility that has less to do with knowing a moral concept as wrong as with sensing and seeing the wrongs of a recent historical reality.

All in all, McQueen walks the filmic tightrope of historical epic and shocking reality of recent historical events with much skill. Even if certain elements of the mise-en-scène prove distancing in their provoked anachronism, the inherent and visceral material reality of abused bodies negate a notion of safe spectatorship and refuse the relinquishing of subjective spectatorial responsibility. The film’s crucial strength and force lies in the ferocity and brutality of a very visible notion of the topic of slavery. This is not a clean view of history; it is a portrayal of the blood, sweat and tears of a very recent historical reality that provokes the parallel re-alignment with our own lived reality and all its injustices. The telling of one individually lived and embodied narrative thus manages to convey the incomprehensive injustice and suffering of an entire people.

Not to be missed.