selling a pen
by Douglas Messerli
Terence Winter (screenplay, based on
the book by Jordan Belfort), Martin Scorsese (director) The Wolf of Wall Street / 2013
But Scorsese’s film is, alas, not simply about excess, it is a film of
excess. Playing for three hours, Scorsese not only captures the frenetic
pace of Belfort and his colleagues’ wild drug-leaden celebrations but is itself
swept up with them. Time and again, Scorsese tells his story only to repeat it,
sometimes in order to adjust the reality of his narrators’ drug-confused
stories, but at other times just to cinematically show us what we have already
been told—as if, we too, like his characters, could not comprehend the oral
component of human speech.
Indeed, Scorsese’s work does not believe in what people say. How could
it, when every word from its character’s mouths represents a fabrication of the
truth? We never see the poor folks who are being lied to, but evidently they
are the most gullible people on earth, ready to spend their life’s savings on
penny stocks for companies that barely exist? The presumption is that these
folk, like us, are just as “hooked” on fantasy as are the super-salesmen of
Belfort’s self-created firm Stratton Oakmont. And behind that, it appears, the
director supposes that we will all be similarly “hooked” on the magic of his
filmmaking, buying (like Belfort’s dupes) his story simply for the rush of its
American Dream-like sensuality.
The problem is, as always, that after just a few orgies, a few too many nights of forgetfulness, several arrestments, and the endlessly plodding FBI investigations, that—for all of the ridiculous excitements—the wild life Belfort proposes is absolutely uninteresting, even boring. It may be addictive, but that does necessarily mean it’s truly pleasurable. And, unfortunately, after an hour or so of watching these obsessive shenanigans, so too does Scorsese’s well-made contraption of a movie seem to sputter and lose any energy it meant to convey. Violence, attempted kidnapping, and divorce can only follow.
The director and DiCaprio, given their
newspaper commentaries, would argue that that’s just the point, that the wildly
obnoxious and destructive lifestyle of Belfort was truly empty, as opposed to
the simple honesty of FBI agent Patrick Denham (Kyle Chandler), who rides the
subway home instead of taking a stretch limousine. Unfortunately, in its own
excessiveness, the movie really doesn’t show us that. In real life, Belfort was
sentenced to only 22 months before he was back on the street, teaching other
would-be hustlers how to sell a pen. His acolytes presume that in order to
attract their customers to the pen they must find some special quality in the
object itself. But it is the function of the thing that truly matters. Most
people don’t realize that they need a pen to sign away their lives—or an
unthinking afternoon at the movies to abandon their own consciences.
Los Angeles, January 3, 2014
Reprinted from Nth Position [England] (February 2014).
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