The Wolf of Wall Street
“The Wolf of Wall Street” is an X-ray of the ubiquitous and the inadmissible. It lends new meaning to the tell-all: there’s no fleeting desire or base thought that can flicker through Belfort’s mind that Scorsese can’t or won’t show—and nothing he shows flickering onto the screen that can’t give outrageous delight. That’s the reason for the critical outcry. It’s tempting to ascribe the complaints to an op-ed mentality—to critics who fall back on politics to justify their involvement with anything so suspect as the entertainment industry or so frivolous as aesthetic pleasures, and the more extreme the aesthetic (as in the case of Scorsese’s movie), the more righteous the response in the name of principle. But there’s something else at stake in their reproaches that gets even closer to the specific greatness of Scorsese’s achievement. Critics railing at the movie aren’t just railing at Belfort, or even at the world; those who are decrying its extremes are maintaining their own innocence, protesting all too much their immunity to its temptations.
Everything about The Wolf of Wall Street is excessive. Its absurdly
long three-hour length is in keeping with the indulgences of its characters.
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