Barbie

Director: Greta Gerwig
Starring: Margot Robbie, Ryan Gosling, America Ferrera, Kate McKinnon, Issa Rae, Rhea Perlman, Will Ferrell, Simu Liu, Ariana Greenblatt, Michael Cera, Helen Mirren, Alexandra Shipp, Emma Mackey
Running Time: 114 min.
Rating: PG-13 

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★)

The toughest challenge facing a film based on Barbie is convincing viewers to set aside their worst preconceived notions, some of which may seem justified. As a concept, there's little reason to believe anyone other than Mattel and Warner Bros. benefits from bringing the most famous doll in contemporary culture to the big screen. And there are countless ways for this to go wrong, making all that trepidation understandable. But co-writer/director Greta Gerwig gets this, incorporating those potential criticisms into the plot and boldly addressing them head on.

The script stays about four or five steps ahead, disarming reluctant audiences by deconstructing the entire Barbie myth and using it to convey bigger ideas about gender, conformity, aging, masculinity, femininity, capitalism, consumerism and social change. And if that reads more like a syllabus than an easily accessible mainstream blockbuster based on a toy line, it's not. This still manages to be ridiculously fun, with a subversive, self-deprecating sense of humor to go along with the surprising performances and ambitiously elaborate comedic sequences. 

Closer to The Truman Show than The Lego Movie, it's obvious from its opening 2001: a Space Odyssey spoof and accompanying Helen Mirren narration that this will be something. We haven't a clue exactly what, though that becomes part of the charm. Immersing us in a universe that visually astounds and serves as the backdrop around which its entire meta fantasy revolves, Gerwig not only conceives a populist film, but a smart one that's worth revisiting to fully appreciate all it has to offer. 

"Stereotypical" Barbie (Margot Robbie) lives in Barbieland, a brightly colored community inhabited by various versions of Barbies and Kens, some current and others discontinued. While Kens spend most of their days at the beach hanging out, Barbies hold prestigious occupations like doctors, scientists, lawyers and politicians, garnering greater respect within society. One particular Ken (Ryan Gosling) exists solely to gain the attention and affections of Barbie, who appears uninterested in taking their relationship to another level. But when Barbie awakens in her Dreamhouse like every other morning, she realizes that something's gone horribly wrong. 

After coming down with inexplicable symptoms such as a sudden fear of death, flat feet and cellulite, Barbie seeks out disfigured outcast Weird Barbie (Kate McKinnon), who reveals the only way to cure this is by traveling to the real world to find the child playing with her. So with Ken in tow, Barbie travels to Venice Beach, California to locate tween girl Sasha (Ariana Greenblatt), whose mom Gloria (America Ferrera) is a Mattel executive. But as Barbie suffers from serious culture shock and the company's bumbling CEO (Will Ferrell) plots to send her back to Barbieland, Ken picks up some damaging real world philosophies that threaten their happy community.

From the start you can tell things aren't what they appear in this seemingly utopian environment, and by the time Barbie hops in her convertible and boat for answers, the gamut of possibilities Gerwig and Noah Baumbach bring to the table start playing out. Accompanying the outrageous scenes of Barbie and Ken's attempts to assimilate into real life are crippling emotional blows to her entire sense of identity and purpose. But at least she has one, which is more than you can say for Ken, who tires of being an appendage and yearns to reinvent himself.   

Barbie realizing she doesn't have legions of female fans lined up to greet and thank her is a harsh wake-up call, but even harsher are the very valid reasons why. Spanning decades as a corporate product that's reflected both Mattel's whims and the values of those who purchased her over generations, she has a complicated history. The landscape's evolved since 1959, with the company often playing catch up, as many legitimate critiques of the toy line end up forming the script's foundation. So does the strained mother-daughter relationship Barbie lands right in the middle of, connecting like the best Toy Story installments do by bottling up nostalgic themes of outgrowing childhood. 

It's fittingly ironic this is what's garnered Margot Robbie her strongest notices and biggest box office when she's made a career cleverly evading inferior parts that could have resembled superficially written versions of Barbie. But this only makes it easier to respect everything she does to humanize a character who's also a knowing commentary on the actress playing it, as Mirren's narrator memorably acknowledges. Such a physical match for Barbie that they actually place the word "stereotypical" in front of her name, Robbie makes this a referendum on the doll's entire existence, shaken out of her complacency and contentment to see the world through real eyes rather than those of a billion dollar corporation.

If Barbie must now account for unfamiliar feelings of embarrassment and humiliation, Ken makes a different kind of discovery about himself that goes beyond pining after her. This epiphany results in the film's funniest montage, as images of horses, American flags and Sly Stallone flash before his eyes, planting the narcissistic seeds for a newfound patriarchal obsession. From there, Gosling's turn only grows more wildly unhinged, reaching its pinnacle with his show stopping "It's Ken" musical number. As a power struggle develops between the sexes, the onus is on Barbie to prevent the only home she knows from backsliding into Don't Worry Darling's retro prison. But it comes with the recognition that their former situation wasn't exactly the picture of equality either.

Nearly everyone else also get their opportunities to shine, managing to convey uniquely distinctive personalities amidst an entertaining assembly line of Kens and Barbies. America Ferrara and Ariana Greenblatt really deliver as the mother/daughter duo with a relatably strained relationship, even as the former is called upon to carry a lot of the script's trickiest material toward the end with a hugely important monologue. 

More recognizable names like Ferrell and McKinnon have rarely been used as purposefully, including a hilariously deadpan Michael Cera who steals every scene he's in as the ostracized and ignored Allan. A great Rhea Perlman plays what's best described as an essential mystery part that cuts to the story's core. It's brief, but she makes the most of every minute, radiating a warmth and sarcastic authenticity that helps sell the film's pivotal moment.

An elaborate musical beach battle squashes any lingering doubts Gerwig can't hold this all together, doing it in just under two hours to boot. And in constructing a Mattel playset come to life, production designer Sarah Greenwood's Barbieland creation is as fun to take in as the characters themselves, ensuring that the purely frivolous fluff everyone assumed this would be can still co-exist alongside biting satire.  

Even when slightly losing its grip as subtext becomes glaringly literal messaging, there's an almost immediate recovery, leading to a final act that skillfully ties all the preceding themes and ideas together. It comes as a relief in a year we've been pummeled by films about popular products, showing just how hard it is to walk that tightrope of not desecrating the brand while placating audiences weary of a feature length commercial. But what's still most mind boggling about the entire phenomenon is that when Gerwig was hired to make Barbie movie, this somehow ended up being her response. 

Asteroid City

Director: Wes Anderson
Starring: Jason Schwartzman, Scarlett Johansson, Tom Hanks, Jeffrey Wright, Tilda Swinton, Bryan Cranston, Edward Norton, Adrien Brody, Liev Schreiber, Hope Davis, Stephen Park, Rupert Friend, Maya Hawke, Steve Carell, Matt Dillon, Hong Chau, Willem Dafoe, Margot Robbie, Tony Revolori, Jake Ryan, Grace Edwards, Aristou Meehan, Sophia Lillis, Ethan Josh Lee, Jeff Goldblum
Running Time: 105 min.
Rating: PG-13

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★) 

The style vs. substance debate that's followed Wes Anderson throughout his career again rears its head with Asteroid City, an ambitious effort from a very distinctive filmmaker sure to split critics and audiences down the middle. He must be used to it by now, considering how each new release is accompanied by conversations about how Andersonian it really is. For rabid devotees, there's no such thing as too much, whereas just a couple of minutes is more than enough for the harshest detractors. But even as his singular aesthetic still prompts accusations of superficial repetitiveness, few contemporary directors have amassed a body of work so instantly recognizable. No matter what you think of it.  

For all the SNL skits or viral video spoofs, making a Wes Anderson picture is a market he'll always have cornered because there's an underlying sincerity to what he does that no one's been able to duplicate. Even when the execution seems like a parody of itself, there's more there. It's especially true of his best efforts like Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums, where style and substance overlap in character-driven stories that go to deeper, rawer places many feel he hasn't returned to since. The jury's still out on where this one lands, but it's definitely a departure of sorts. Or at least as much of a departure as we've gotten from the divisive director in a long time. 

The film's retro futuristic desert setting is a hugely impressive visual achievement brought to surreal life by Robert Yeoman's cinematography and Adam Stockhausen's production design. But there's also a meta layer that distinguishes it, as a stacked cast pulls double duty in both a black-and-white TV documentary special of a play and the play's events, presented in vibrant color. It's also a pastiche of postwar Americana, UFO paranoia and old Hollywood moviemaking that further explores the themes of grief and ostracization constantly present in Anderson's output. In other words, there's a lot to unpack.

The film opens in black-and-white as a TV host (Bryan Cranston) introduces renowned playwright Conrad Earp's (Edward Norton) production of "Asteroid City," a play that takes place in a fictional 1955 desert town of the same name. In it, war photographer Augie Steenbeck (Jason Schwartzman) arrives with his intellectual teen son Woodrow (Jake Ryan) and three daughters at the Junior Stargazer convention where Woodrow is being honored. But Augie's inability to tell the kids of their mother's recent death complicates his already fragile relationship with curmudgeonly father-in-law Stanley (Tom Hanks). 

Also in town is Midge Campbell (Scarlett Johansson), a famous, melancholy actress whose teen daughter Dinah (Grace Edwards) is also being recognized at the convention. Among the other attendees are elementary school teacher June Douglas (Maya Hawke) and her class, a cowboy band led by a singer named Montana (Rupert Friend), the brilliant but eccentric astronomer Dr. Hickenlooper (Tilda Swinton) and five star General Grif Gibson (Jeffrey Wright). 

When a major extraterrestrial event inexplicably occurs during the awards presentation, the U.S. government frantically intervenes to contain the site and quarantine witnesses in town. We're also shown glimpses of the TV special detailing the play's evolution, as the actors struggle to make sense of their roles, most notably Schwartzman's Jones Hall, who helplessly turns to director Schubert Green (Adrien Brody) for creative guidance.

It isn't clear where the story's going for much of the first forty minutes, or even if it's headed in a direction that would set it apart from what we've already seen from Anderson. And despite his penchant for attracting huge names, the involvement of Hanks and Johansson doesn't necessarily signify we're in for something especially unique, as sometimes even the biggest stars have taken back seats to the framing and visual presentation of his pictures. And this one is mind-blowing, shot by Yeoman with a bright, oversaturated artificiality that recalls 50's Westerns like Bad Day at Black Rock. 

As usual with Anderson, the actors dryly deliver their lines with a kind of detached bemusement that almost implies they're playing imitations or mockeries of themselves. Only the real kicker this time is that they actually are. The "play within a play" conceit allow the actors to carry aspects of their performer's uncertainty toward the material into the actual roles, adding an important contextual layer. This works especially well with Schwartzman and Johansson, who delicately depict Augie and Midge's ambivalence toward each another, dancing around their feelings before eventually connecting on a deeper level. Schwartzman's nuanced turn has you wondering why he isn't cast more often as a lead while Johansson perfectly captures this moody, morose Hollywood starlet with an edge. 

Once the UFO event unfolds with the appearance of a wacky looking alien, the script's characters really start to wrestle with various forms of loneliness and uncertainty. And like many Anderson films, it celebrates the quirky outsider, as the Junior Stargazers are far more tuned in and observant than any of their parents, scientists and especially government officials. Those Moonrise Kingdom vibes are definitely present in Woodrow and Dinah's relationship, while the film still manages to incorporate an endless parade of well known faces without it coming across as a stunt.

Hanks, Hawke and Swinton make the most impact with what they're handed and even the smaller parts occupied by Hope Davis, Liev Schreiber and Willem Dafoe humorously fill out the corners of this bizarre world. If there's a true highlight, it's Margot Robbie's sensational single scene opposite Schwartzman, which ties the movie's metaverse in knots to gain invaluably greater insight into Augie and the actor who plays him. Most assumed Hanks' cranky part was originally intended for Bill Murray, but the latter was actually cast as Steve Carell's motel manager before having to pull out. Regardless, Hanks puts his own spin on Stanley and Carell's tiny role would likely be a waste of Murray anyway. 

From the moment an entertainingly deadpan Cranston appears on screen channeling Rod Serling in a Playhouse 90-style special, it's apparent we're in for a rarer breed of nostalgic escape than Anderson usually delivers. A single viewing of Asteroid City won't determine its ranking in his filmography or win over doubters, but much of what the trailer hinted at pans out with Anderson flair, again making it difficult to separate the filmmaker from his creation. But like these characters, we'll just have to accept that understanding everything isn't the goal, or really even necessary at all.

Babylon

Director: Damien Chazelle
Starring: Brad Pitt, Margot Robbie, Diego Calva, Jean Smart, Jovan Adepo, Li Jun Li, P.J. Byrne, Lukas Haas, Olivia Hamilton, Max Minghella, Rory Scovel, Katherine Waterston, Tobey Maguire, Flea, Jeff Garlin, Eric Roberts
Running Time: 189 min.
Rating: R

**The Following Review Contains Major Plot Spoilers For 'Babylon'**

★★★★ (out of ★★★★)

Say what you will about Damien Chazelle's hyper ambitious Hollywood epic Babylon, but it'll be remembered. A sprawling spectacle that takes huge, ambitious swings, it's the very definition of an experience, even if its mileage will vary for some. Speculation as to why a film from an Oscar-winning director about cinema's golden age didn't wrack up truckloads of awards and critical praise is immediately put to rest in the opening section. Amidst the debauchery, Chazelle makes it clear right away he's more interested in telling a darkly humorous, ironically tragic tale of excess and failure that's more The Day of The Locust than La La Land. And you just can't take your eyes off it, as its filled to the brim with uproarious scenes and characters. Sorting out how much of this is entirely fabricated, loosely based on real anecdotes or actual people probably requires a separate documentary. But that would spoil the fun of not knowing. 

Watching, it's easy to envision Paramount assuming Margot Robbie was their slam dunk for Best Actress, nailing a role that seemingly falls right into the Academy's wheelhouse. And even taking into account its disappointing box office, you can still see why they'd think that, and be shocked at the lack of a nomination. It's an exhilarating, tour de force performance that constantly hovers between disturbing victimization, brilliant physical comedy and insecure exhibitionism. It's no wonder everyone hates it, especially older viewers understandably intrigued at the prospect of Robbie playing a silent film star, though underestimating her willingness to go to ugly, uncomfortable places with the character few other actresses would willingly sign up for.

This also contains one of the more intriguing Brad Pitt turns, likely to draw comparisons to his aging stuntman Cliff Booth in Tarantino's Once Upon A Time in Hollywood. But while both were once famously successful performers now struggling to stay relevant in an industry done with them, the same could apply to everyone in this film, some more tragically than others. The story zigs and zags, tracking different characters and situations as it approaches the polarizing finale. Many have jumped to declare it "messy," but there's a through line that cleverly intersects, with Chazelle rarely losing sight of the destination. He knows what he's doing, with the three hours moving at a breakneck pace, with even its harshest critics forced to admit it's never dry or dull. Ripe for a major reassessment down the line, it'll be fun seeing how this ages while continuing to peel back its many layers.

It's 1926 Los Angeles when Manuel "Manny" Torres (Diego Calva) transports an elephant to a wild, drug and alcohol fueled party at the Kinoscope Studios mansion. While there, he meets brash and outgoing New Jersey native Nellie LaRoy (Robbie), who not only hopes to be discovered, but already considers herself a movie star in waiting. Joined at the party by the likes of matinee idol Jack Conrad (Pitt), lesbian cabaret singer Lady Fay Zhu (Li Jun Li) and African American jazz trumpeter Sidney Palmer (Jovan Adepo), Manny and Nellie bond over their shared desire to do "something bigger."

Manny and Nellie's big breaks come when Jack secures him work with Kinoscope while she lands a studio picture role, upstaging its aggravated lead. With Manny ascending the studio ladder and Nellie emerging as a world famous screen star, Hollywood undergoes a massive change when films transition from silent to talkies in the late '20's. And with it comes a seismic industry shift that ensures nothing in their lives will ever be the same again.

After a disgustingly hilarious start that previews of the insanity to come, we're introduced to three major characters a this party who are tracked for nearly the film's entire running length. The introductory sequence is a full-on feast for the senses, beautifully shot by cinematographer Linus Sandgren with a propulsive, catchy score from Justin Hurwitz that enhances the whole energy and vibe of the proceedings. As the camera sweeps through the mansion and following this explicit mayhem, the stage is set for all the insanity that follows. 

Structurally, the film could almost be viewed as a series of interconnected vignettes focusing on these events effecting various players. Among them are a dangerously chaotic Jack Conrad movie shoot that Manny saves and a delirious montage of Nellie's big screen debut for director Ruth Adler (Olivia Hamilton), who's shocked by the ingenue's seemingly effortless ability to cry on demand. Throughout, Nellie's established as suffering from an imposter syndrome, exacerbated by a traumatic family life defined by her mentally ill mother and sleazy, dim-witted business manager father played by Eric Roberts. Her attempted revenge on him results in one of the film's craziest scenes involving a snake challenge that goes spectacularly wrong.

Some handle the arrival of sound in motion pictures better than others, but that it's basically a death knell for them all speaks to humans' inability to change or evolve. Manny fares the best, but it comes at a steep price, by the end no longer resembling the wide-eyed errand boy who dreamed of making it big. What does set him apart is his willingness and skill to work within the boundaries of a new system that's already putting stars like Nellie and Jack out to pasture. 

As Manny, Diego Calva gives one of the best recent lead performances from an unknown on a project of this size and scope. Resembling a younger Javier Bardem, he conveys this nervous desperation and eagerness, and whether Manny's trying to work his way onto a movie set or pining after Nellie, Calva retains a certain likability as the character's Tinseltown career takes off.  And yet his fall is the most precipitous, having essentially erased his entire identity to ingratiate himself into this capitalistic Hollywood system. 

By the time Manny urges African American trumpeter Sidney to don blackface for lighting purposes,  even he can't believe what he's asking. Adepo's performance as Sidney meets the moment, steeped in humiliating contemplation that lasts what feels like an eternity before he acquiesces. After that, he's had enough. But so has Manny, even if he doesn't know it yet. Ironically, it's Nellie's recklessness that causes his undoing, exposing him to the seediest, most dangerous element of Hollywood's underbelly in gangster James McKay, creepily by played by Tobey Maguire in a brief, effective excursion into Lynchian territory.

Spiraling deep into drugs and gambling, Nellie's career flatlines as quickly as the silent pictures in which she starred, her voice likened to the squealing of a dying animal by studio executives. While real life parallels can be drawn from most of these fictional characters, her upbringing and reputation is an obvious nod to silent screen legend and anointed "It Girl," Clara Bow, but with Robbie fleshing her out as far more than just an homage.

We see how much of a struggle it is for Nellie to adapt in two of the film's funniest scenes, the first showcasing the difficulty of filming with sound, and another when she attends a high society party with Manny that ends in disaster for William Randolph Hearst (Pat Kipper) and Marion Davies (Chloe Fineman). Recalling the best moments and scenes, it's hardly a coincidence Robbie's at the center of all of them, her comic timing consistently wringing laughs from the most outrageous and tragic situations. 

In a film filled with characters denying their own mortality, Pitt's Jack best reflects the fickle nature of fame and success. Gossip columnist Elinor St. John (Jean Smart) gets that, holding court to deliver a brilliantly conceived speech about how everyone's irrelevance within this twisted ecosystem serves a higher purpose than themselves. It's sad but weirdly reassuring, the power of her painfully honest assessment resonating throughout the film's final minutes when we realize just how right she was. In light of his many divorces and hard drinking, Jack's a vain, but decent guy who's also unfailingly loyal. We see it with Manny, his troubled longtime manager George (Lukas Haas) and just about anyone else he comes into contact with. But he's also the biggest silent film star of this period, making him the one with the most to lose.

Jack doesn't poorly adjust so much as the change pushes up his expiration date, expediting an inevitable decline. And for someone who's having the time of his life, anonymity and failure are too much to bare. While it's odd to say any Pitt performance would go overlooked, this has, which may have to do with the usual eye-rolling that accompanies movie stars playing movie stars. Pitt's portrayal differs by how unflattering it is, with all his character's insecurities laid bare. In both epitomizing and sending up the public's perception of Pitt as an actor, it feels like a defining role, substantially deeper and more challenging than expected.

By incorporating some of the experiences of icons like Louis Armstrong and Anna May Wong to create Sidney and Fay, Chazelle expertly crafts a fictional story that's history adjacent. The actors take care of the rest, their characters initially hovering on the periphery before breaking through. Jovan Adepo and a seductively scene stealing Li Jun Li are consistently compelling, playing performers who know the necessity of striking while the iron's hot, despite never really getting proper respect due to their minority status. An eclectic parade of names including Olivia Wilde, Jeff Garlin, Flea, Max Minghella (as legendary producer Irving Thalberg), Samara Weaving, Spike Jonze, Patrick Fugit and Albert Hammond Jr. show up in smaller roles. Some play real figures, but all are seamlessly incorporated, disappearing behind Mary Zophres' unforgettable period costuming  

Chazelle's film commences with a euphoric, bittersweet payoff worthy of all that's preceded it. Returning years later to the town that crushed him, Manny's hopelessness is palpable as he sits in the cinema watching Singin' in the Rain, before things take a sudden turn. In a trippy, euphoric, montage through film history that visually invokes 2001: A Space Odyssey's closing stargate sequence, he's overwhelmed with emotion. Now grasping what Elinor St. John talked about and Jack and Nellie couldn't comprehend, he fully recognizes his role in helping to shape something far bigger than himself, or any of us. 

Much like all of it, the wild finale needs time and distance to process, as it leaps forward while triggering a strange nostalgia for people and events we saw only two hours earlier. Either way, it isn't hard to notice the irony of this film being chewed up and spit out in much the same way its characters are, seeking adoration from an industry always moving on, looking for the next big thing. For all the talk about Hollywood loving movies about itself, Babylon could be the rare exception, cutting too close to the bone, even for them.

Once Upon a Time In Hollywood

 

Director: Quentin Tarantino
Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio, Brad Pitt, Margot Robbie, Emile Hirsch, Margaret Qualley, Timothy Olyphant, Austin Butler, Dakota Fanning, Bruce Dern, Al Pacino, Kurt Russell, Julia Butters, Mike Moh, Damon Herriman
Running Time: 161 min.
Rating: R

★★★★ (out of ★★★★)

Very rarely has a single question swirled around a movie as prominently as the one hanging over Quentin Tarantino's ninth film, Once Upon a Time In Hollywood. Will he go through with it? The "it" is of course the August, 1969 Manson murders that the director has sworn his picture wouldn't be about. And he's right. It's not. And yet, while not being about that at all, it still simultaneously manages to be completely all about it in ways that are sad, funny and unpredictable. There was great interest in whether he'd take us to one of the last taboo places left in mainstream American movies, and with good reason. The logic is that if anyone would do it, it's Tarantino, who's made a career out of over-the-top revenge fantasies. If there was ever an event ripe for his button-pushing brand of cinematic controversy and primed to offend, it's this. But the reality is that the director has always been at his worst when trying to do that, or rather when he repeatedly continues to, more often than not encouraging inferior imitations from others lacking his vision.

Of all Tarantino's films, this seems like the biggest outlier, almost as if it was made by someone else (maybe older), while carrying enough recognizable trademarks to still unmistakably be his. Yes, there are long dialogue stretches, but this time the material relies much more heavily on mood, atmosphere and performances to tell its story than the writing, which kind of rides in the backseat for a change. Part fairy tale, part bromance, he transports us to this year through the music, production design, and the tiny details you suspect only he would care enough to get right. You know it's accurate simply because it "feels" like it, regardless of its historical truth.

We already know Tarantino's cares about facts only so far as it reflects the period's authenticity, and as far as eras or settings go, this one ranks pretty high on the list of the coolest to hang in for over two and a half hours.While it's one thing to drop fictional characters into actual events, it's another entirely to place them squarely in the center, the axis around which this pivotal year revolves. You leave considering that even their situations were only small part of a much larger picture, the scope and breadth of which Tarantino captures like no one else could have.

It's Los Angeles, 1969, and actor Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio), former star of the 1950's TV series, Bounty Law, is complaining to his best friend and former stunt double, Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), that he's now a washed-up has been relgated to guest starring villain roles. After an ugly personal incident left him blackballed from the industry, Booth spends his days working as Rick's driver and assistant, taking him to and from set while running any errands that need to be done. Having just landed another villainous role in the successful TV series, Lancer, Rick's may have to start seriously considering his agent Marvin Schwarz's (Al Pacino) advice to go make Spaghetti Westerns in Italy.

A glimmer of hope appears for Rick with the arrival of his new neighbor on Cielo Drive, acclaimed  director Roman Polanski, and his new wife, actress Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie), who's riding high on the postive notices she's receiving for her recent big screen comedic turn in The Wrecking Crew opposite Dean Martin. Meanwhile, an aspiring musician named Charles Manson (Damon Herriman) is making waves of his own, establishing a hippie commune of sorts at the now semi-deserted Spahn Ranch, where Rick used to shoot Bounty Law. But when some of his female followers start bleeding over into town, hitchhiking and roaming the L.A. streets, one of them, named Pussycat, (Margaret Qualley) attracts the attention of a curious Cliff. Soon, all of their lives will intersect in ways both surprising and tragic.

The film works as a series of character sketches, alternating between the stories of Rick and Cliff, the Manson girls and Sharon Tate. Sandwiched in between and embedded in those are smaller moments with a wide variety of recognizable celebrity faces of the era portrayed by a myriad of different actors, some more recognizable than others. Most of the fun comes from being a fly on the wall and trying to spot everything and everyone, a game sure to be more rewarding with each new viewing, but holding enough curiosity for the uninitiated wanting to learn more about the real context behind these people. Whether it's dropping in to a party at the Playboy Mansion with Steve McQueen (Damien Lewis), Michelle Phillips (Rebecca Rittenhouse) and Mama Cass (Rachel Redleaf), taking in Sunset Boulevard or getting a look inside the infamous El Coyote Mexican cafe where Tate, Jay Sebring (Emile Hirsch), Abigail Folger (Samantha Robinson) and Wojciech Frykowski (Costa Ronin) dined the night of August 8th.

All of 60's L.A. is vividly and painstakingly recreated by Tarantino and cinematographer Robert Richardson and set to a seemingly non-stop soundtrack of deep, sometimes obscure or overlooked songs unearthed by the director. Music is such an important component in these characters' lives that there's rarely a minute where there isn't a song playing or the sounds of KHJ radio ads blasting in one of the many driving scenes that further establish the characters in moments with minimal to no dialogue. It also marks a period in our culture where everyone was consuming the same output of music and movies simultaneously, lulling the public into a communal sense of security, however true or false that may have been. It's rare we're shown any part of the past in film we've never been fully exposed to before, and while all of those details would make a compelling enough picture on its own, it mostly serves as the compelling backdrop to Tarantino's actual entry point into the story: Rick Dalton and Cliff Booth.

With Dalton, we finally see what happens when Tarantino builds an entire character around one of those cult, veteran actors whose careers he's long specialized in resuscitating. But the catch is that this time in DiCaprio he's cast one of the world's biggest (and last?) contemporary movie stars as a performer whose big break already passed him by. Pigeonholed as a villainous heavy and still living off his one success eight years earlier, a creatively stifled and frustrated Dalton is afforded what could be his last chance at respectibility opposite a James Garner-like TV star in James Stacy (Timothy Olyphant). Of course, Rick doesn't see the potential in this, or really anything else in his life and career. By now, his life is his career and this has become just another job.

The irony is that by any standard other than a notoriously fickle industry, Dalton would be considered a giant success for his run on Bounty Law, and we're frequently told of its devoted following. But the fact he doesn't even feel comfortable talking to his new, substantially more famous neighbors isn't just a reflection of Hollywood's unspoken pecking order, but a testament to his deepening insecurity. The gate in front of the Polanski residence may as well be metaphorical for Rick, who deep down believes he should be the one behind it.

Rick's emotional and physical collapse on the set of Lancer comprises maybe the largest of the two or three extended chapters that comprise the story. Here, Tarantino stops just short of recreating an entire episode of the TV Western, with Rick struggling to keep himself together, forgetting his lines, drinking and basically self-sabatoging every scene in which he appears. But it's Rick's encounter with precocious child actor Trudi Fraser (Julia Butters) that snaps him into a different reality, forcing him to come face-to-face with his own faults as he's inspired by a new generation of actor. At first, we're not sure what to make of this wise beyond her years 8-year-old, until the cameras start to roll and we realize their long off screen conversation has carried on screen, where they've both made the other substantially better.

While Trudi and the pilot's director, Sam Wanamaker (Nicholas Hammond) gush over Rick's breakthrough, it's actually DiCaprio who gives one of his most movingly authentic performances as this semi-forgotten TV actor discovering he still has more in the tank. In Tarantino's world, no one's "washed up" and great work can pop up anywhere, even in a guest spot on a seemingly cheesy, forgotten 60's Western series. DiCaprio does so many little, nearly invisible things with the role and his role within the role that it's easy to overlook just how difficult it is. Take the stuttering. He slides this stuttering impediment into Rick's speech whenever he's worked up over something, subtly clueing us in that it's something he's needed to overcome to get to where he is. And it not only shows how much harder he's had to work, but the sacrifices we can envision he made to get there. And it's in Rick's tearful description to Trudi about that book he's reading about a brokedown broncobuster, that the emotional enormity of all those sacrifices and failures finally catch up to him.

If Rick biggest fear is becoming a "has been," then his stunt double and best friend Cliff has always operated on the fringes, partially due to his own sordid history involving an alleged murder and the fact he can't help but run his mouth off at the worst possible times. Relegated to driving Rick to and from sets, he looking for a way back in and one of the best things about Pitt's cooler than cool depiction of Cliff is that he isn't afraid to show just how badly he's screwed things up for himself, or how little he seems to care. Cliff is who he is. So it's somewhat jarring to see him return home to a run down trailer on the outskirts of Hollywood and spend the night watching TV on the couch and preparing a meal for his beloved pit bull, Brandy. Tarantino spends a lot of time on this, as transfixed by this daily ritual as we are. It may be where Cliff's most comfortable, and watching him alone gives us what might be the largest possible window into his personality.

This guy shouldn't be likable with all the baggage he brings, but with Brad Pitt playing him, Cliff can't help but come off as the coolest guy in the room, no matter what he's doing. And a few sequences really push the boundaries on this, providing laughs while also hinting at the World War II vet's capacity for violence simmering just below the surface, ready to emerge when necessary. The most tension-filled comes when he drops hitchhiker Pussycat back home at the Spahn Ranch movie set, where he's primed for a confrontation with the Manson Family. And that doesn't seem to bother him one bit. He's there to see George Spahn (Bruce Dern, taking over for the late Burt Reynolds), the ranch's owner and former Bounty Law co-worker, whom he suspects the brainwashed hippies are taking advantage of. We're not sure what will happen, and the moments leading up to, in front of, and inside the old man's shack are excrutiatingly suspenseful as he comes face-to-face with a scary "Squeaky" Fromme (an unrecognizable Dakota Fanning) and the rest of the infamous Mansonites. Forget about our uncertainty of whether he'll make it out alive, we're not entirely sure they will.

Conspicuous by his absence is Manson himself, who other than a brief, fleeting appearance in the film reeanacting a moment often referenced but rarely seen, hovers around the periphery like a spectre. He's played by Damon Herriman, who pulled double duty as Manson on Netflix's Mindhunter, where he was brilliant. But that was actually about him. This isn't, and if that character showed up here he would take over the proceedings, and the film would be all about Charlie Manson and nothing else. And trading everything else we do get to again put the power back in his hands would only further encourage his celebrity idolization, even in death. It's odd that for all the restraint we've seen in film and TV in terms of showing the actual killings, the myth of Manson (as well as the pull he had over his followers) still seems strangely overexposed and disgustingly glorified. Tarantino shows great instincts in attempting to correct that here, hardly giving him the time of day. And in this particular instance, it's completely called for, as he tightly clings to his vision of the story.

Bruce Lee's inclusion in this said "vision" has drawn controversy, as he's shown in a capacity that's very far removed from the reverential treatment everyone expected. If ever there seemed to be a safe bet for a heroic portrayal, it was him, as Tarantino's worship of the legendary martial artist and Green Hornet star is widely known. While expertly played by Mike Moh in capturing the late actors voice, body language and mannerisms, Tarantino turns his attitude up to eleven, offering an unflattering depiction that would sooner compete with Mohammad Ali in terms of arrogance and bravado than in an actual fight. Yes, it's bad, but the point most seem to be missing is that it's heavily implied to have only happened in Cliff's mind. And as much as we like the guy, he's a blowhard, and the very definition of an unreliable narrator, especially when it comes to details of his own life, which he isn't quick to dwell on. Why Tarantino chose to commit this image of Lee to film, even within a glorified fantasy sequence, we may never know, but the end result says more about the character of Cliff and his troubles than the already secured legacy of a pop culture hero.

For a truly bad cameo, witness Damien Lewis' brief, altogether pointless appearance as Steve McQueen, exposition machine, as "The King of Cool" gets reimagined as the tinsletown gossip, relaying the sordid details of the Polanski-Tate-Sebring triangle at the Playboy Mansion. Poorly conceived as the scene is, it's also a rough few minutes for Lewis, who seems all wrong for the role in every possible way. It's kind of shocking that Tarantino didn't cast Andre Brooks, who inhabited the icon inside and out in last year's underrated indie, Chasing Bullitt. Of all the things we thought we'd witness in this film, among the last had to be McQueen sulking about striking out with women.

Sharon Tate's legacy has been as a murder victim, her name synonamous with Manson's and the horror that unfolded on Cielo Drive. If we got even the tiniest glimpse of who she was as a person outside of that, it would more than what's been forced on us for the past fifty years. Despite somewhat ridiculous complaints that she isn't given enough dialogue, Margot Robbie and Tarantino's script spend the running length chipping away at the victim narrative that at this point has already been ingrained into our culture. That they succeed in getting us to think about her existing in any other way before that night in August is an accomplishment in itself, but that she provides such a stark contrast to the Old Hollywood of Rick and Cliff is what makes the character so intriguing. If there's a true hippie in the movie, it's her. Unlike them, she hasn't been around long enough to become jaded or cynical but, like Trudi on Lancer, she represents a changing of the guard, with a new kind of star is coming in to shake things up and eventually push the older generation aside.

Tate doesn't have much dialogue mainly because it just isn't necessary. Tarantino opts instead to show us who she is through her actions, whether she's befriending a hitchhiker while driving to Westwood Village as Buffy Sainte-Marie's "The Circle Game" plays over the soundtrack, or kicking her feet up in a theater to watch herself in The Wrecking Crew after sheepishly explaining to the staff who she is. In less capable hands, that latter scene could have gone wrong in so many ways, making Tate look like a vain, self-absorbed airhead. But Robbie plays it with total sincerity and wide-eyed amazement, leaving little doubt she's appreciative of the good fortune that's come her way, and basking in a moment she respects as being larger than most could hope to earn or deserve.

We can read all of this on Robbie's face by just watching her watch herself on screen. Only it isn't Robbie on screen playing the actress but, in a touching moment, actual footage of the real Tate in the movie, where she's really quite good. Anyone going into this thinking the actress or person may be shortchanged are in for the exact opposite, as Tarantino wisely doesn't put words in her mouth to explain who she is, letting Robbie fill in all the blanks and breathe life into someone only ever known for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. So even as the murder still hover uncomfortably over all these scenes, Tarantino is careful enough to know it, and insure it doesn't define her.

Much has been made about the dream team of DiCaprio and Pitt, and while their first on screen pairing exceeds every possible expectation, the biggest surprise is in how. Most of their scenes together could easily double for the kind of great comic interplay Crowe and Gosling shared in The Nice Guys, but Tarantino goes even further, having them tap into their characters' insecurities as aging, not entirely likable movie stars that couldn't be further removed from the images of the two big name actors playing them. And even as good as they are together, moist of their best work comes separately in those two huge aforementioned set pieces where each is given the space to really display what makes their characters tick.

It's easy to forget there's voice-over narration in the film (provided by Kurt Russell, who also appears briefly as a stunt coordinator), mainly because it's barely present early before returning in the third act. When it returns and why is important, preparing us for what we fully expect will be the absolute worst. Reaching a title card that reads "SIX MONTHS LATER," induces the sinking feeling that, yes, Tarantino's really doing this, and all the fun and games people rightly or wrongly perceived the 60's were are coming to an end. We know Tex Watson (Austin Butler), Susan Atkins (Mikey Madison), Linda Kasabian (Maya Hawke) and Patricia Krenwinkel's (Madison Beaty) arrival on Cielo Drive will be brutal in some form or another, regardless of the outcome. This is Tarantino after all. And it's a good bet Dalton and Booth will somehow find themselves in the middle of it.

It's easy to start thinking that maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. Manson's victims were murdered once the night of the crime, another when their personal lives were dragged through the media during the trial, and now a third time for a big screen dramatization?  But we also realize the possibility that Tarantino could have something else up his sleeve, perhaps planning to play historical disturber and rewrite history as he did in the interchangeable Inglourious Basterds and Django Unchained. Deciding on what happens couldn't have been an easy decision, but does he ever commit to it once it's made. And in doing so adjusts our perceptions of how this period and its coinciding events have framed in our culture, both for better and worse. But there's even more going on here than that, all of which becomes clear in a tremendous final scene that in hindsight seems completely right, landing us exactly where it feels like we've been heading all long. It's suprisingly perfect, as if the literal culmination of its fairy tale title, providing the lost chapter we didn't know we needed until now.

I, Tonya

Director: Craig Gillespie
Starring: Margot Robbie, Sebastian Stan, Allison Janney, Julianne Nicholson, Bobby Cannavale, Paul Walter Houser, Caitlyn Carver, Ricky Russert, Mckenna Grace
Running Time: 119 min.
Rating: R

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★) 

There's this moment that comes in Craig Gillespie's biopic, I, Tonya, when disgraced figure skater Tonya Harding, years removed from the infamous event that would define her life and career, turns to the camera to tell us this is part of the story we've been waiting for. It's why we're here. Or the "incident," as it's referred to. More time is spent on it than you've been lead to believe, which includes everything from the planning to the botched execution and even more seriously botched cover-up. But I, Tonya isn't about any of this, while still also managing to be completely about it at the same time.

It becomes nearly impossible to separate the accompanying media narrative pushing Harding as this victimized anti-hero from the film itself. If the full extent of Harding's involvement in the 1994 attack on rival Olympic figure skater Nancy Kerrigan will always be subject for debate, what isn't is the fact that her actions and associations did lead directly to it. And with all that being true, it also needs to be acknowledged that she lead a mostly terrible life defined by physical and psychological abuse.

The toughest aspect of the movie is how it uncomfortably forces all those aforementioned elements to co-exist in a way they haven't before, perhaps in the end landing at the conclusion that Harding, no matter how you feel about her, never stood a chance. That any success she had was indirectly bred from misery and that feeling of never fitting in would persist, regardless of her talent or accomplishments. If you're Team Kerrigan, as I was at the time and still remain, there's relief in knowing that it's okay to empathize with the title character of this film, while not extending that same courtesy to the real person on whom it's based.

While filled to the brim with its fair share of detestable losers, it's also really cleverly conceived, told in a fourth wall-breaking, quasi-documentary style that suits the twisted subject, featuring flashbacks and interviews that carry a satirical tone, assuring the absurdity of the situation and its delusional characters is rarely lost. That combined with the two perfectly calibrated performances make for one of the more intriguing entries into the sports movie genre, as if there's even a correct way to categorize this. But whatever it is, it's definitely not what anyone expected.

It's the 1970's when three-year-old ice skating prodigy Tonya Harding is pushed by her abusive mother LaVona (Allison Janey) to train in her hometown of Portland, Oregon under the guidance of coach Diane Rawlinson (Julianne Nicholson). Seeing her daughter's astounding talent as merely a quick cash-in, Tonya (Margot Robbie) continues to rise up the ranks into her teen years, rapidly becoming one of the best figure skaters in the country. But even as she does this on pure skill alone, she faces resistance from those within the skating committee who take exception to her "poor white trash" reputation, which manifests itself on the ice with her costumes and rock music choices, not to mention the constant swearing at judges over scores.

Off the ice, Tonya does herself even fewer favors, associating with the likes of Jeff Gillooly (Sebastian Stan), whom she began dating at 15, and eventually marrying, much to LaVona's disapproval. It's a relationship that proves to be nearly as destructive and toxic as that with her mom, who continues to verbally cut her down as a failure well into young adulthood, while Gillooly's volcanic temper soon leads to violent beatings. The better Tonya's skating gets, the more hellish her personal life becomes, with all roads leading to the 1994 attack on Olympic rival and teammate Nancy Kerrigan (Caitlyn Carver) by Gillooly stooges Shawn Eckhardt (Paul Walter Hauser) and Shane Stant (Ricky Russert). Unfortunately, the rest is history.

While it's easy to accuse Gillespie and writer Steven Rogers' screenplay of piling on the trauma that followed Harding throughout her life, too much of it actually occurred to effectively hurl that criticism. And all of it came from her mother, who's played here by Janney in her Oscar-winning supporting turn as just about the most detestable parent and human being one could imagine existing, constantly lashing out at her daughter for no good reason other than to mitigate her own failures.

Making Tonya feel as worthless as possible isn't just an everyday occurrence with the vulgar, chain-smoking LaVona, but her life's mission, poorly disguising it under the mask of "tough love" as she brags about the sacrifices she's made for her disappointment of a daughter. As driving force and chief antagonist of this entire story, I'd love to report she's a deeply complex, nuanced character, but the fact is she's just plain awful. This comes as a relief in some ways, completely in line with the film's darkly comic viciousness, as the script makes no apologies or excuses for her monstrous behavior.

Many detractors are right in assessing that Janney is hitting one note and LaVona is a caricature, but anyone who's seen footage of the real woman (who actually does have a pet parakeet on her shoulder) would tell you that's exactly what she is. And given the semi-ironic tone the picture's going for, any attempt to humanize her would probably be a major mistake. It's a telling moment when during one of the many videotaped confessional moments, Harding expresses confusion as to why so many people would care about Nancy Kerrigan getting hit once when she was beaten her entire life. It takes a second to realize the statement is true, before realizing what that says about Tonya for making it. And none of it's flattering.

In addition to completely transforming her physical appearance, effectively adapting her mannerisms and style of speech and believably inhabiting the figure skater from her early teen years into nearly middle age, the biggest accomplishment of Margot Robbie's outlandishly great lead performance is how it gives you peeks into this tragically troubled athlete's psyche. If her mother has no hint of humanity, Tonya does, putting the work in to reach the top only to have her demons destroy the only thing she ever loved and excelled at: skating.

Despite possessing considerably more raw talent than her rivals and becoming the first woman to nail the triple axel (in one of many believable, masterfully edited competition scenes) it still wasn't good enough because she couldn't "play the game." And that's important in a sport that revolves around class and elegance, something ice princess Kerrigan had in spades but Tonya's upbringing made it impossible for her to fake, even if she was willing to. And she was never willing to, in so many ways setting up this dichotomy that existed between Harding and Kerrigan that went beyond sport and competition, serving instead as media catnip.

The genius of the screenplay is how their feud isn't explicitly explored (Kerrigan hardly appears), but its cultural implications nonetheless permeate through every frame of the film, even reaching back to when Tonya's a little girl. It's crass vs. class. The smoking, swearing rebel vs. the sweet girl next door. And as skilled as Hollywood writers are, none of them could have crafted a better story than the real one that took viewers into Lillehammer in 1994 when for a few short months figure skating became bigger than the Super Bowl. Wisely, Gillespie doesn't attempt to replicate that, instead focusing on its most controversial participant, with even the classic rock soundtrack selections inseparable from Tonya's head space, as well as the lowlifes she surrounded herself with.

Most of the picture's second half revolves around her relationship with Gillooly, played by Sebastian Stan in an underappreciated performance. Initially presenting himself as meek and quiet, he eventually assumes the mantle of the new chronic abuser in Harding's life, as their toxic on-again, off-again relationship is filled with nonstop verbal and physical altercations, including a particularly memorable one involving a firearm. And it's in a pathetically desperate last ditch attempt to prove he "loves" her that Gillooly calls in a favor from his buddy Shawn Eckhardt, perhaps the most pitiable and inept character in this entire saga, with actual assailant Shane Stant running a close second.

What begins as an anonymous threat against Kerrigan careens wildly out of control, and what's most surprising about how Gillespie depicts the infamous incident is how it's hilariously played as total farce. And that's exactly what it was. An episode of "World's Dumbest Criminals" that happened to have very real, deadly serious consequences. Did Tonya know?  Does it even matter? While the script doesn't present any additional information to come to a concrete conclusion one way or another, Tonya Harding is responsible. Or rather irresponsible, just by her association with Gillooly. In other words, by the time the knee clubbing occurred, the crazy train already left the station for Tonya, and the screenplay does an excellent job detailing how her life would inevitably lead to disaster. If it wasn't this, then there's a good chance it just would have been something else.

While it's clearly irrefutable that justice was served in the ruling to ban Harding for life from figure skating and TV ratings can be cited as the only reason she was at the Olympics instead of in jail, there's another defining event in the film that lingers longer in the mind. It comes in the only moment LaVona seems to display something resembling an actual soul, before the curtain is pulled back to reveal more heinous motivations. It's may be easy to argue whether Harding did or didn't deserve her lot in life, but few would claim she had that betrayal coming, especially at the hands of her own mother.

While criticisms will continue to persist that Gillespie is really making fun of these people with the mockumentary approach he takes, it's a story that's probably impossible with a straight face anyway, or at least without occasionally winking at the audience. It's the perfect approach because the situation is just too absurd to do otherwise, especially when the harshest skewering is reserved for the media in the form of Bobby Cannavale's Hard Copy tabloid TV producer. At one point, Harding's contemplative and brutally honest, if not particularly self-reflective, narration acknowledges how shows like that are now the news thanks this event and the O.J. case. But I,Tonya delves even deeper by attempting to explore how much a person's actions are guided and shaped by socio-economic circumstances extending beyond their control, and whether or not that  should matter when life's final score is eventually tallied.
      

The Wolf of Wall Street

Director: Martin Scorsese
Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio, Jonah Hill, Margot Robbie, Matthew McConaughey, Kyle Chandler, Rob Reiner, Jon Bernthal, Jon Favreau, Jean Dujardin, Cristin Milioti, Christine Ebersole, Shea Whigham, Jake Hoffman, Joanna Lumley, Spike Jonze, Ethan Suplee
Running Time: 180 min.
Rating: R

★★★★ (out of ★★★★)
 
You know a film did something right when the discussions, arguments, and controversy surrounding it completely take over, deeming the director's motivations and intent for the project almost irrelevant. But I'll be honest. I didn't think Scorsese had it in him. I didn't think that at age 71 he'd still be able to make a film that's ignited as much controversy and debate as The Wolf of Wall Street already has, or feel as timely and pertinent to the world we live in now. And isn't that what all movies should do? Get us talking. Of course, this could be accomplished and the film still be terrible. It's what many believe of the similarly themed Spring Breakers, with which this would make an interesting, if exhausting, double feature. But the real evidence backing it up is on the screen.

It's not Scorsese's job to "punish" Wall Street crook Jordan Belfort or hold our hands and tell us what he and his cohorts did was wrong. Anyone needing guidance or reassurance in determining their actions are deplorable would likely require help beyond what Scorsese can offer. But that doesn't mean those actions and these characters can't be entertaining as hell when it's presented as a dark, twisted tragicomedy of wretched excess. We're meant to laugh at their idiocy, or not laugh at it, because the ball's in our court. It's a satire, but an unusually savvy one that manages to be both hilarious and horrifying in equal measure.

It's 1987 when young, wet behind the ears Queens native Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) takes a job as a gopher at a prestigious Wall Street brokerage firm before passing the Series 7 and earning his broker's license. When "Black Monday" hits he goes to work for a dumpy Long Island boiler room that specializes in penny stocks, using his master pitching skills to net a fortune and eventually strike out on his own with new friend Donnie Azoff (Jonah Hill) and a ragtag group of local marijuana dealers. Jordan quickly polishes them up, transforming the newly christened Stratton Oakmont into a major industry force, reeling in millions. Then comes cocaine, quaaludes, sex, strippers, and a descent into hedonism that would make it easy to mistake the firm for a 24-7 orgy. He soon leaves his hairdresser wife (Cristin Milioti) for former model Naomi (Margot Robbie) and begins a rocky marriage, but the firm's illegal practices and suspected securities fraud catch the eye of FBI agent Patrick Denham (Kyle Chandler), who makes it his number one priority to bring Jordan down.

Jordan started by screwing over the poor, then moved on to screwing the rich, and then before all was said and done, he eventually screwed himself and got what was coming to him. Well, not really. And that's the big bone of contention and controversy within the film that never really leaves our minds as we're watching, despite it being entirely faithful to the true story detailed in Belfort's memoir.  From the first frame, Scorsese takes us deep into this world and forces us to hang out with these people and attempt to understand their behavior, as impossible as that seems. There's great use of narration and breaking the third wall right away as Belfort addresses the camera and rattles off all the money he's made and the drugs he had to take just to make it through each day. With his confident, charismatic swagger, he'd seem to be the very definition of an unreliable narrator, if not for the fact that everything he's telling is actually true.

When a senior broker takes him under his wing on his first day and lays out the rules for success on Wall Street (which involves some magical combination of greed, coke and masturbation) over lunch, the speech is so well written by Terence Winter and delivered pitch perfectly by king charisma himself, Matthew McConaughey (in yet another scene-stealing turn), it's easy to see how Jordan fell for his intoxicating pitch of wealth and power. We totally get it. And when Jordan turns around and uses those same motivational tactics on his employees, we're sucked in again. Scorsese and DiCaprio dare us to cheer and laugh at it because it's ridiculous, scary, and also fun. Everyone who takes the bait won't be happy about it, but aren't supposed to be. That's the point. The notion that Jordan could be any one of us or someone we know is tough to face because it's true. That's why the film's three hour running length works to its advantage in a way rarely experienced. We're completely immersed in this world of debauchery, moving a mile a minute from one uproariously memorable sequence to the next, each seemingly more shocking than the last. It's excessive because it needs to be and the party never feels like it'll never stop, making the length seem just right and setting the stage for their inevitable fall. I didn't feel the time at all, a feat the editing Oscar was seemingly created to honor.

In what might be the performance of his career (if not certainly his most rewarding Scorsese collaboration yet) DiCaprio is given the rare opportunity to display his physical comedy chops with in a role that's as funny as it is dramatic. We know he can handle the heavy stuff, but who ever thought him capable of being this hilarious? There's never a moment that feels false or put on and it's unusual to see to the actor lose himself in a character to this extreme, burning the candle at both ends as Jordan appears to be having the time of his life while simultaneously wrecking it to pieces. That he seems completely like this man we don't know and possess so little knowledge of is a credit to how much DiCaprio pours into a performance that makes for an interesting companion piece to his work as Jay Gatsby earlier in the year. A more modern, outsized version of that character, Belfort has even even less of a soul and conscience. It's absolutely thrilling to watch and, nomination or not, will likely be appreciated and revisited for a while, squashing complaints from those down on all the frequent Scorsese-DiCaprio projects.   

Right alongside DiCaprio's tour de force is Jonah Hill's sociopathic, side-splitting turn as Jordan's boisterous associate and best friend, Donnie. Complete with buck teeth, bulging eyes and a colorfully hideous wardrobe even by 80's standards, he offers up what's less a performance than a grotesquely brilliant comedic creation so painfully funny and pathetically tragic you may not even believe it's him delivering it. Ironically it's in this, Hill's most prestigious role, that his gifts as a comedian seem best utilized as he makes Donnie almost uncomfortably real in his desire to fit in and make something of himself. Before things goes horribly awry.

Every line delivery, joke, or physical stunt Hill executes, he hits out of the park, causing me nearly uncontrollable laughter with each appearance. He's been exceptional in other things like Moneyball, but this is on another plane entirely. He and DiCaprio share what's sure to go down as the iconic sequence involving the delayed effects of quaaludes that defies description. Let's just say you'll never want to snack on cold cuts ever again. Actually, there are a lot of scenes like that, walking the razor's edge between comedy and drama to almost absurd extents while still somehow remaining within the boundaries of reality.

At the crux of Jordan's sort of downfall is his tumultuous marriage with "The Dutchess" Naomi and the instant Margot Robbie shows up, I wrongly braced myself for a terrible performance based on her appearance, assuming Leo requested they cast a supermodel for the role. For all I know that could have been entirely true, if not for the fact this is Scorsese we're talking about and the Australian Robbie absolutely nails it, going toe-to-toe with DiCaprio in every scene, while consistently maintaining a Brooklyn accent that never wavers. She clearly hit the jackpot in snagging this role but no one can claim it's a squandered opportunity.

Scorsese also provides director Rob Reiner with an entertaining supporting part as Jordan's trigger-tempered father and security head, "Mad Max" while other fellow directors Jon Favreau and Spike Jonze impress respectively as the firm's legal counsel and a hapless Oakmont employee. Recent Oscar winner Jean Dujardin is also really fun as a slick, Swiss banker with whom Jordan enters into business. Always hanging around the periphery is Kyle Chandler's FBI agent who makes Jordan aware of his presence in one of the best written, unexpected exchanges, and since he's played by "Coach Taylor," we're instantly on his side and know Belfort doesn't stand a chance outsmarting him.  It's fitting that what eventually trips him up is so randomly absurd and ridiculous considering how idiotic his behavior was up until that point. It was only a matter of time before it all caught up with him, and when it did, he still refused to just cash in his chips, even at the expense of losing his family and the firm he built.

Just as it seems Belfort will finally be punished, Scorsese subtly turns the camera on us, showing how the problem's much bigger than he is, with a culture that not only condoned, but often encouraged these behaviors and practices. We still do. He knows the only way to do that is by actually showing us, not telling us. Giving us a morality tale that punishes the character would have been far easier in every respect, but it wouldn't be truthful, nor would it be as dramatically interesting. There's a point where even Jordan worries that the law will come down hard on him, before coming to the realization that he's rich and the rules are different for him. We'll buy his books and go to the motivational seminars where audiences are entranced with the knowledge he has to share. Chandler's FBI agent has won only a very small battle, if he's won at all. He'll still have to ride the hot subway to work, integrity intact. But it's Belfort who will be remembered. Scorsese was stuck between a rock and a hard place in how strong a stance should be taken. If he condemns Belfort he's accused of being preachy, but if he doesn't then he's somehow glorifying his actions. Despite popular belief, he made the right choice in showing an uncensored account of what happened and leaving the judging to us.  

While baring most of the hallmarks that categorize a modern day Scorsese movie, it's still hard to recognize it is one since it feels edgy enough to have been made by a young, hungry filmmaker with something to prove. I've heard DiCaprio describe the film as being "punk" and it's easy to see how that adjective fits with the action, comedy, breakneck pacing and especially the Robbie Robertson supervised soundtrack, which takes the director's penchant for seamlessly incorporating classic rock and flips it on its head with lesser known covers of famous songs. Truthfully, it's strange to be on the side defending him since I'm usually never as excited about his work as everyone else, often respecting rather than flat-out loving his output. Not this time. I was on board all the way. At this point in his career no one would think any less of him if he just took it easy and cashed some paychecks so it's impossible not to greatly admire what he did here, delivering a work that carries all the urgency and reckless energy of his most respected titles.

By all accounts, the real Jordan Belfort and his associates certainly had fun doing this stuff so the damage needs to be shown, even if the result is as close to an NC-17 as it gets. The drugs. The hookers. The money. The strippers. The drugs. The government didn't punish Belfort so it's unfair to ask the filmmaker to do it. But the larger question might be whether the very act of making this picture is in some way irresponsible or signs off on the behavior. As if he's supposed to be a moral policeman for audiences and critics who can't make decisions for themselves. The film is whatever the viewer brings to it, as the best one usually are. And obviously anyone coming out of this thinking Belfort is some kind of anti-hero is welcome to that. But that's their decision, not Scorsese's. His job was to make a great film. It's ours to live with it.