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The Eulogic Ends of KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON
🕑 Added 2023-10-24 20:37:58 +0000 UTCWarning: Spoilers for the film and its ending therein.
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Killers of the Flower Moon feels like a last gasp for a certain kind of movie.
For one, it comes from a lauded member of a past generation of filmmakers who, in no uncertain terms, truly gives a shit. I realize that could sound dismissive of the many cinematic wonders that come from our modern artists, who very much keep “giving a shit” a shit quite alive. But without painting a nostalgic shine over a certain era, there was something genuine to the halcyon days of the 70’s cinematic explosion. Because they were films that not only celebrated the grand importance of what had come before, but stoked the spirit of the artistic potential of the medium itself. And more than any of the other filmmakers of that generation, it is Martin Scorsese who seems to care the most about that Capital C Cinema. Who seemingly never wavered from that cause in choice of films they made, not even for a dalliance. Who now, even at age 80, passionately fights for the ability for filmmakers to make work that is first and foremost, dedicated to the art of the damn thing. Which sometimes means 3 and half hour historical dramas about adult topics, with big movie stars and, like, real sets and stuff - and in turn make the audience feel alive with purpose. Maybe it’s just the privileges of being venerable that are grandfathered in, but the point is that we live in a day where there are very few people who get the pass to do that. And perhaps for this alone it is worth honoring.
To me, it makes it all the more funny that Scorsese is often mischaracterized in the modern age. There’s a plethora of reasons to dismiss the leanings of the old guard, but it always strikes weird when it’s like “wait, you’re coming after this guy?” Especially when, time and time again, he has proven the kind of artist he really is. I’m not just talking about his decades of championing international cinema or up and coming filmmakers with distinctive voices, nor his endless commitment to film preservation. I’m talking about the view of him as some out of touch old fogey who was mean to Marvel movies or something (and hey I’ve liked a lot of Marvel movies, but having that opinion betrays a delicate and defensive sensibility that got comics into trouble in the first place). There’s also the popular viewpoint that he’s just channeling white male rage as some kind of glorifying action, which more just feels like an odd lack of familiarity. Because sure, when it comes to the realms of gangsterdom and the “mean streets” he grew up on, Scorsese is very good at depicting the realities of those worlds, including the allures and charms. But he always crucially zoomed in on the cost, banality, and ugliness of them in a way that few others ever bothered. Moreover, he’s equally good at the more intimate and mannered work of human beings in films like Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, The Age of Innocence, or Hugo, along with the deeper questions of spirituality in films like Kundun , Silence, or The Last Temptation of Christ. In short, his work always shows that range of humility, and most importantly, displays the insight of what he’s trying to bring to these vivid subjects and characters. Nothing is accidental. Everything is pointed. And it’s starting from that starting place that you can ask why he wanted to tell this particular story.
I say all this knowing Killers of the Flower Moon is also (maybe) one of the last gasps of a certain kind of movie because it also runs contrary to the changing tide of the appetite when it comes to the kinds of movies that audiences are interested in. Because, finally, the general public is more interested in Native peoples telling their own damn stories, thank you very much. Not the endless movies of history that have only centered on their pain, while equally centering the story itself on whiteness. Instead, the future of this kind of work is more aligned toward Reservation Dogs than more teary-eyed depictions of historical tragedy. In that spirit I understand why *anyone* would bounce off this general approach on principle. But if Scorsese *is* going to go down this path, it comes down to the question of motivation. What is this film really after? What is it looking to back up or exonerate? But luckily, when it comes to Scorsese, the equally important thing is always what it’s not.
Because the history of American film is littered with white savior stories. Or stories that share the spotlight with the good ally, while also favoring the depiction of model minority figures who preached non-violence or whatnot. In short, it’s all built as a way NOT to confront the past, but to make the white audience feel like they are the good ones who have overcome said past. A way of showing “thank god we’re good now!” Which is always exactly why filmmakers like Spike Lee draw straight lines from the historical narrative to the present day. So what does Scorsese do with white centeredness in this particular narrative? Well, of course, he at least has the dignity to make the white anti-savior movie. True, it’s not expressly for the Native peoples who know these truths all too well. But instead made to confront the white audiences who often like their safe bubble of historical protection. The generation that grew up on Westerns that painted Native Americans as the villainous obstacle of the front (while still living out the horrific remnants of the forced assimilation of Native boarding schools). But this movie has no qualms about the villainy at the heart of this particular story.
Granted, the first hour is perhaps a bit of what you might expect from a Scorsese film about this subject. Using silent cinema techniques mixed with modern verve, he starts taking us into the unique world of Osage in this time and place. That would be a native people who struck oil and suddenly became the richest per capita in the world. From the white perspective, this is “an inversion,” with them suddenly serving chauffeurs and the like to the wealthy. And of course, it makes it equally rife for the wolves to descend in an effort to take things over. What’s important is that we understand all this from the start. These are thieves and vultures. Even as a protagonist, Ernest Burkhart is dumb, greedy, and eager to follow the lead of those who guide him, all to basic hypocrisy. He’s happy robbing random natives and marrying one in the next breath - as if both acts could equal the same result. As a white viewer, you might instinctively spend some time waiting for his big “learning moment” of Ernest recognizing the terror of actions, perhaps once his uncle pushes too far or something. But no, things simply get worse.
This also highlights the crucial importance of Lily Gladstone’s performance as Mollie Burkhart, which is simply remarkable. On one level, she’s playing a woman who has already lived a life and learned some lessons, so she’s got her walls up. But through that thousand yard stare, she has this ability to uncork this perfect Mona Lisa smile, one where you see these bits of amusement she keeps in check. Yes, she’ll entertain the possibility of the handsome idiot getting her business. Nor is she above drinking whisky and having fun (gotta be good whisky though) . But it’s crucial that she knows so much of the score right from the beginning. “You’re not scared of your uncle?” she asks Ernest, who doesn’t understand what she’s really asking.
It might make one curious, if she can read the duplicitous nature of those around her, then why go along with any of it? Why even entertain it? And the answer is because it IS all around her. This world, this life, these intersections, it’s all already in full swing. Perhaps there’s something fatalistic in much of her choices, but the whole point is that even she might not imagine how deep it can go. Because this is not the savior story. This is a story of slow poison. And it’s in this middle hour where Scorsese keeps diving in on the banality of Ernest and his uncle’s misdeeds and the murderous, dull, biting hypocrisy that goes with them. As a viewer, it’s incredibly difficult to watch. And as it dives into every little crime and every corner, at a certain level you’re left to ask, what is the point? Why the repetition? Why all of it? Which of course brings to the endings.
Much of the last act deals with Jesse Plemons and the newly formed Bureau of Investigation coming to town and closing in on Hale’s murderous empire. It is also here that the film suddenly becomes hilarious (in an odd, tension relieving way) because all these weak-willed sacks start turning on each other like it's nothing. But in all the back and forth, Ernest still somehow believes he is worthy of some exoneration, clinging to some misguided notion of a first meeting making it all about love. But then Mollie’s confrontation about the poisoning plot drops, thus finally leaving him alone. And instantly from there, Scorsese brings us to the REAL ending.
The film suddenly cuts forward. It’s now some time later, but it’s still in our own past within the confines of an old radio show. This not only allows the film to tell us the coda to everyone’s story (and the endings they deserved), but fully embodies the idea that we’ve been sold an “entertainment.” A thrilling tale, told with comic noises, pomp, and circumstance, which only highlights the jarring, atonal juxtaposition to the reality of these sad events. But leave it to Scorsese to not end on such an irony, but double down on the crux of what matters most. For it is Scorsese himself who appears in a cameo, delivering the final, mournful reading of Mollie’s obituary. Put the two tacts together and it all becomes clear. Scorsese is telling us: I know what this is. I know what it's doing. I take responsibility for it. And I will stand in front to convey the most important part of this story with a full heart. You well up with tears as he speaks of Mollie’s last days and purported legacy, but it is that final line that rings in our ears, “there was no mention of the killings.”
When we consider that omission, there are two equally important ways to understand it. The first is that it paints the sad, but thankful portrait of a woman who had at last got to move on, as if free from this Burkhart name, dying at a later age in well-deserved fashion. There is some kindness in this, true. But the absence of the killings speaks loudly, too. Fully painting a picture of a world that was so desperate to hide the crimes of “pioneers” and industry, who did all of this in the name of so-called manifest destiny (and highlights the ugly irony of “The Pioneer Lady” more than anything else can likely show). And thus, what Scorsese is ultimately doing in response is simple, for it is something in line with the entirety of his career. He is saying we will document and account for all of this. Every indignity. Every violence. Every murder. We will stare blankly into the heart of the American crimes that have been perpetrated. For in no uncertain terms, we know who killed the flower moon.
And he’s making a film that will not let you forget.
<3HULK
Comments
Incredibly well said.
Lots has already been written/tweeted about the comparisons between KILLERS and IRISHMAN, but I love how Scorsese has changed his approach to "the true story coda" which he does traditionally in GOODFELLAS with the standard "where are they now" text. In IRISHMAN it's about making the audience experience the "where are they now" portion while in KILLERS, as you've said, it's about the idea of the coda itself, pointing out how these stories are framed, who's mentioned, who's omitted. It's been interesting to see filmmakers like Scorsese and even Paul Schrader with his latest trilogy revisit the types of stories and characters that made their careers, seeing how their approach to character and story and filmmaking has matured in the decades since.
This is less in response to your comment! Just me realizing I can talk about the subject because I really like pushing against "being taken out of" as a general criticism. Because while I get that people equate it to investment, to me they are different things. To me, anything can take us out of a movie. And knowing film construction it could be a weird lighting choice, an actor playing with their food, even an annoying patron in a theater. If we worship "being in it" then we're just a constant victim to the need of naturalism. Instead, I just see the film as a constant piece of communication. And asking "what is this trying to say to me?" And in that spirit, Scorsese's long time approach to his cameos has served the same purpose. "What does it say when I, the director of this story, say or do X?" The TWO cameos in film like Taxi Driver is probably the most stalwart example of how he'd play with it in a total "reality breaking" way, but what it does to the text is fascinating. And I'm going to always embrace that, especially if its in the spirit of how the movie is being made... I mean, I even think about Shakespeare finally playing Prospero in the The Tempest so he can deliver that last speech.
Kevin Darling
I agree with your take. My only issue – and it probably supports your point – is that seeing Scorsese deliver those lines took me out of the film as most cameos tend to do.
