REVIEW - THE WOLF OF WALL STREET

If you can do it, well, why shouldn't you do it then? We're each of us not on this planet for long, and who's to say what's right and what's wrong in what we do for ourselves, and to others? The Wolf of Wall Street is not a film about the suffering of the 99% at the actions of the 1%. It's about the actions of the 1%, and in choosing whether to laugh or to cry, the filmmakers have decided to take the path of least responsibility. It's what Jordan Belfort would have wanted. It's a crass, tasteless movie, largely devoid of any discernible style or atmosphere, played to the rafters, to the drunk, high, idiotic masses, to the straight, white, young, successful men in the audience. It's a gigantic "FUCK YOU" to decency and to restraint, three hours of pummelling profanity and sickening salacity. It takes a certain calibre of artist to truly, completely embrace such depravity, such low art. Well, Martin Scorsese is what most would classify as 'a certain calibre of artist', though he does have to deal with his innate preoccupation here: simply making a good film. The good film is at odds with the bad film The Wolf of Wall Street cries out to be, so despite all the misogyny, thievery and drug abuse, there's a tame, reserved streak that runs through this film. It's one of those cases where people in decades to come will wonder what all the furore was about. Artistic abandonment is the name of the game for these three hours, so all involved go full pelt at the material. Too much is never enough for the characters, and the cast responds with a stream of rowdy, funny performances, including the spirited Margot Robbie as Belfort's second wife Naomi, and a hilarious Rob Reiner as his rambunctious father. Scorsese employs his signature vivacity to excellent use, resulting in a long film that feels brisk and snappy, and in which there's never a lull.