New & now: Killers of the Flower Moon
Martin Scorsese's breathtaking Western exposes the dark heart of genteel racism.
A few years ago, I went through a brief genealogy phase. I knew little about either side of my family beyond great-grandparents, and, my maternal grandmother, the only person other than me who seemed interested in that kind of thing, wasn’t around anymore to ask about it.
So I did a DNA profile, which proved what I already knew: that I was exceedingly (perhaps even excessively) white. Tracing my various family trees, however, was a more interesting experience: I learned that, save for my maternal grandfather’s family, who immigrated to the U.S. from France in the early 20th century, virtually all of my ancestors had been here before there even was the United States, arriving in the colonies that would later become Virginia and Kentucky, then gradually moving north to what would eventually be Pennsylvania and New York. I have more of a claim to being a “real American” than many of the most toxically jingoistic Republicans, except that I take no particular pride or meaning in it.
I’m not sure why I convinced myself at some point, without a shred of proof, that the story of downtrodden immigrants fleeing oppression to make a better life for themselves was also my family’s story. I think that’s a thing a lot of liberal white people do, as part of the need to prove that we’re the “good” kind of white people. Surely our ancestors were too poor, and too noble to stand by and quietly participate in the oppression of non-whites. It’s a nice lie we tell ourselves, ignoring the fact that the most insidious racism is the kind most of us have been even inadvertently guilty of, the kind that comes with a smile and a comforting pat on the shoulder.
That genteel racism is the dark heart that beats in Martin Scorsese’s epic Western Killers of the Flower Moon, an adaptation of David Grann’s book about a series of murders in the Osage Nation of Oklahoma during the 1920s. Just as many of us didn’t learn about the destruction of Tulsa’s “Black Wall Street” until it was depicted in HBO’s Lovecraft Country, so too will this be new information, another shameful moment in the long history of white people taking or destroying things simply because they feel entitled to it.
For a brief time, the Osage people were in a unique situation: due to oil-rich land, they were quite wealthy. In fact, per capita, they were the wealthiest individuals in the United States, although full access to that wealth was limited due to a rule that required it to be placed into trusts, and withdrawals approved by white conservators. Even the smallest withdrawals could be turned down, but it was always with a patronizing smile that suggested that this was all done with their best interests in mind.
Nobody claims to have the best interests of the Osage in mind like William King Hale (Robert De Niro), affectionately (or not) known as “King,” a cattle rancher who speaks their language and is an honored guest at their marriage and naming ceremonies. While King often counsels the Osage on the best way to handle their finances, presenting himself as a kind, paternal figure, he’s quietly working behind the scenes to siphon the money away from them, not through endless paperwork and red tape, but by simply killing them off.
Not that he would get his hands dirty doing it himself. No, King has amassed a collection of drunks, idiots, and sad sacks to do it for him. His nephew, Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio), is a combination of all three. Newly arrived in Oklahoma after working overseas as an Army cook during World War I, he’s a dumb, naïve lug who’s desperate for King’s love and approval. In other words, he’s the perfect lackey to help King carry out his malevolent plan, save for one unexpected development: Ernest falls for Mollie (Lily Gladstone), an Osage woman he meets while working as her personal driver.
Mollie seems to know from the start that Ernest can’t entirely be trusted. She refers to him playfully as a “coyote” and all but rolls her eyes at his clumsy attempts to flirt with her. But she’s attracted to him anyway, perhaps believing (or at least hoping) that beyond that rough façade lies a good heart. Her three sisters are all either married to or involved with white men, so they don’t dissuade her from eventually marrying and starting a family with him. The only one who expresses trepidation is Mollie’s mother Lizzie Q (Tantoo Cardinal), who in her waning days is heartbroken to see the gradual elimination of her people and their traditions happen right in front of her.
Upon Lizzie Q’s death, Mollie and her sisters stand to inherit a considerable estate. Should Mollie’s sisters all die, the estate would go entirely to her. Should Mollie herself die after that, Ernest would inherit her wealth, where, as King and everyone involved in his plan believe, it rightfully belongs. The death of Mollie’s sister Minnie from “wasting disease” starts the ball rolling in a series of events the Osage people are told are merely tragic coincidences, as Mollie quickly grows paranoid about who she can trust, and Ernest compartmentalizes his love for her as separate from the crimes he commits at King’s command.
Though upon Jesse Plemons’ arrival in the third act it becomes a police procedural, that’s the less interesting aspect of Killers of the Flower Moon. We already know who’s responsible for the string of mysterious deaths in the area, and who’s been keeping Mollie, already stricken with diabetes, sick and bedridden. It’s the man who has the audacity to offer condolences and comfort over those deaths, even to attend their funerals and say kind words about the deceased. To the very end, King Hale remains a sinister cipher. It’s entirely possible that he doesn’t harbor hate in his heart for the Osage people he calls his friends – not what he considers “hate,” at least. He’s driven by the toxic sense of entitlement that seems innate in white people. The United States was built on entitlement: this land? It’s ours now. This property? It belongs to us. Those people? Their ours to do with as we please.
As King sees it, the Osage didn’t work for their wealth. They simply stumbled upon it, by way of living on top of an oil field. The money should go to the hardworking white men in the area, who weren’t so lucky. It’s nothing personal, really. They just deserve it more.
Robert De Niro gives a career-best performance, an icy calm counterpart to a bull-in-the-china-shop Leonardo DiCaprio. King is the obvious brains in the operation, with a collection of co-conspirators and enablers, and Ernest is the muscle, but so pathetic and hopeless in the role that he’s more pitiful than villainous. It’s solely because no one in a position to do anything about it cares that Ernest doesn’t get caught until the F.B.I. gets involved. He’s sloppy, and the more torn he is between his love for and responsibility to King and his love for and responsibility to Mollie, the sloppier he gets.
Though DiCaprio is nearly fifty1, Ernest seems like someone much younger, a shadow-twin to George from Of Mice and Men. King has his number the minute he steps through his doorway. He’s the prototypical useful idiot, and De Niro and DiCaprio play off of each other marvelously, one soothing and reassuring in his manipulation, the other perpetually unsure whether to scratch his watch or wind his butt, and dangerous because of that.
Of course, as many more erudite than me have already said, the dramatic weight of much of Killers of the Flower Moon rests on the shoulders of relative newcomer Lily Gladstone, and she’s more than up to the challenge. Undoubtedly someone on Twitter has already complained about the amount of dialogue she has in comparison to DiCaprio’s showier role2, but, as was the case with Anna Paquin in The Irishman, the viewer’s inability to read facial expressions is no fault of Martin Scorsese’s.
Unlike Ernest, who seems younger than he actually is, even before tragedy befalls her family Mollie has the grave countenance of someone much older. She seems like the kind of person who trucks nonsense from no one, so it’s frankly surprising that she trusts Ernest for as long as she does, even refusing to accept her daily insulin injections from anyone but him. When it becomes apparent that she was terribly wrong about him, she’s something beyond sad. It’s a kind of soul exhaustion, as the entire life she knew is violently stripped away from her, piece by piece.
Martin Scorsese has long spoken about his love for the films of John Ford, and finally he’s gotten a chance to make a Western in honor of him, turning the traditional cliché of heroic cowboys vs. villainous Indians on its head. Shot entirely on location in Oklahoma, the plains are both breathtaking and eerie. Eerier still are the street scenes in the little town, as the relatively peaceful lives of the Osage are disrupted by loud, boisterous white people drinking, fighting, carousing, and coming up with schemes to relieve them of their money.
They’ve heard that the living’s easy there, and they’re taking advantage of it, walking around like, well…like they own the place. Though in design a sweeping epic, Killers of the Flower Moon is really a microcosm of American society: at some point we designated ourselves as the judges of the deserving and undeserving, our rules are vague and inconsistent, and the game is always rigged.
I know, it blows my mind too.
Don’t tell me for sure, I don’t want to know.
Gladstone was incredible, De Niro gives one of his best performances in decades, and also is at his best in middle-age when he plays sweaty and pathetic losers. I loved it.