For the week of March 25th, Paramount Home Entertainment will bring The Wolf of Wall Street to Blu-ray. Director Martin Scorsese's bold, controversial drama plays like Wall Street on Ecstasy. Though nominally a dramatization of the massive corporate malfeasances that stockbroker Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) perpetuated during the 1990s, The Wolf of Wall Street is less concerned with documentary accuracy than with the febrile, depraved excesses that Belfort consumed. Human decency and sanity fall prey to decadent, often graphically sexual indulgences that Scorsese and screenwriter Terence Winter (Boardwalk Empire's showrunner) depict in Swiftian flourishes; I can't think of an "important" picture that is as satirically, ruthlessly hilarious as this one, which goes off on mad tangents like Belfort's catastrophically bad decision to sail his yacht through a Perfect Storm-esque deluge, his business negotiations about what makes the best flying midgets, and – in the film's lunatic pièce de résistance – a Quaalude trip that briefly turns The Wolf of Wall Street into an inspired physical comedy. Scorsese hasn't seemed this manically inspired since 1999's Bringing Out the Dead, using every flourish he knows (perfect needle-drops, subjective camerawork, and DiCaprio's cajoling, neverending narration) to convey Belfort's unsustainable lifestyle, and his passion gets the best from a large cast of grotesques (including Jonah Hill, Margot Robbie, P.J. Byrne, Ethan Suplee, Kenneth Choi, Jon Bernthal, Spike Jonze, Rob Reiner, Jean Dujardin, and the great Matthew McConaughey, who sets the template for the film's style of mad improvisation in his first big scene) that's unafraid to play way past the limits of good taste.
But it's Leonardo DiCaprio and Kyle Chandler who deserve the highest merits. As Belfort, DiCaprio continues the hot streak he's run through both The Great Gatsby and Django Unchained - in these three, he's having fun for the first time in a long time, and the joy he takes in performing only serves to make Belfort that much more of a charming/despicable rake. And Chandler matches him beat-for-beat as the FBI agent set on taking Belfort down. He only has a couple of scenes by comparison (DiCaprio is in almost every frame of the film), but his dignity and genuine contempt for Belfort help cement Scorsese's own moral agenda. Unlike his attitude towards the protagonists of, say, GoodFellas or The Aviator, Scorsese has no affection whatsoever for Belfort and his cronies: anyone who says this movie glorifies Belfort's lifestyle clearly hasn't watched it, as Scorsese presents Belfort and Co. as a bunch of submental, physically revolting cretins (never have unappealing facial prosthetics and bad comb-overs/toupees been used to such great effect) who gobble up drugs and women without any concern for the well-beings of those individuals they scam to fund their debauchery. That said, Scorsese aims his harshest moral indignation away from the already-morally compromised Belfort – he uses the closing shot to indict us for buying into the false bill of goods that Belfort is hawking. For those who can stomach its gonzo, unrelentingly bleak wavelength, The Wolf of Wall Street is maybe the best film of 2013.
In his Blu-ray review, Martin Liebman noted that "like so many of the great films, The Wolf of Wall Street delves deeply into doubled-edged territory. It's a superficially rambunctious procedural, a fairly standard portrayal of the classic rise and fall of a man who has allowed money and power to outwardly corrupt him, a corruption that seeps within and flows down to his very soul. There's the obligatory law enforcement pursuit and the cat-and-mouse game between Jordan and [Chandler's] Denham, with pleasantries that proceed the profanity and all manner of manipulation coming from both ends, the temptation of money from one and the focus on the straight-and-narrow on the other. The film's darkly humorous portrayal of all the excess in Jordan's life - the drugs, the women, the office shenanigans, the parties that cost a lifetime's salary, and the inevitable mental and physical collapses that only seem to reinvigorate the addict's drive to make more money so he may party harder - is of course its key outward element and certainly the driving force behind all of the dramatic undercurrents both seen and unseen. Where Scorsese wins over his audience isn't just in pointing the camera at three hours' worth of mayhem but rather subtly reinforcing the story's themes on excess, personal failure, inner corruption, and outer collapse through the prism of easy living turned taxing existence. The story's highs are deliberately displayed to oftentimes dizzying superfluousness and only serve to drive the lows deeper and push them harder until Jordan's bubble bursts, not with a spectacular bang but rather a fizzling disappointment, leaving behind only the shadow of the hubris, greed, debauchery, and unhealthy lifestyle that had become a way of life that transformed into, for a time, no life at all."
Despite all the controversy it generated, The Wolf of Wall Street was a bonafide hit for Martin Scorsese; the director was far less lucky with his pitch-black comedy The King of Comedy from 1983. At the time, it appeared that Scorsese was deviating from all the qualities that made Scorsese Scorsese: gone were the graphic violence of Raging Bull and Taxi Driver, the pitch-perfect music choices of Mean Streets, or the stylistic virtuosity of…well, of everything he'd ever made up to that point. No, The King of Comedy remains his most restrained feature, a PG-rated satire willing to examine its subjects from the stability of a locked-down camera. And that's what makes the film so effective – the placid, unremarkable filmmaking allows Scorsese to channel his energies into one of the most frustrating, uncomfortable, and unreliable protagonists he's ever crafted: Robert De Niro's Rupert Pupkin, a painfully unfunny comic with severe delusions of grandeur. It isn't just that Pupkin is untalented and awkward – though the movie certainly justifies its own existence with long scenes of Pupkin's imaginary "banter" between himself and the celebrities he admires – but that his main ambition is becoming the best sycophant to the Johnny Carson-like megastar Jerry Langford (played by Jerry Lewis, in an inspired bit of casting) he idolizes. Pupkin's attempts to get close to Jerry form the cringe-worthy spine for the film's narrative. It's a showcase for De Niro, who's never played anyone this fearlessly inept before, so convinced is Rupert of his own unearned confidence (De Niro has commented that he thinks Pupkin is the best work he's ever done for Scorsese, a tall charge for a director-actor partnership that's yielded performances like Jake LaMotta, Travis Bickle, Ace Rothstein, Max Cady, and Jimmy Conway). And credit, too, to Scorsese, for recognizing the value of De Niro's work and mostly staying out of its way, save for some closing scenes that play with the nature of reality and fantasy in as unsettling a manner as the end of Taxi Driver. The film has slowly but surely built a reputation for itself over the years, with many critics and fans (rightly) regarding as one of Scorsese's best, especially given its general prediction of the reality TV craze and the paparazzi culture that values celebrity over all else.
Jeffrey Kauffman called the film fascinated with "some of the same themes that would be explored a decade or so later in another largely misunderstood (and even reviled) film, Oliver Stone's bombastic Natural Born Killers. Both films depict our society's fascination with fame, a fascination which is often divorced from any real accomplishment to bolster such renown. In 1983 this concept probably seemed outlandish; in 1994 (when Natural Born Killers arrived), probably less so, though Stone's in your face presentation may have ultimately harmed the potent subject matter as much as it helped. In today's "fame by lottery" world (as I've previously called such sweepstakes as American Idol), this idea seems positively obvious, and therefore The King of Comedy's central thesis of fame for fame's sake, no matter what the means or in fact the end, probably resonates more deeply than ever before. Of course the concomitant plot device of celebrity stalking probably seemed downright absurd in 1983, though the intervening years have shown what a problem it can be…The King of Comedy is not an out and out gut busting laugh-fest. Instead, it's an unsettlingly real feeling character study that has some extremely wry humor sprinkled rather liberally throughout its increasingly odd story. The film is highlighted by some disarming work by De Niro, who makes Pupkin actually weirdly lovable in his own demented way and also by Lewis (who was touted as a likely Best Supporting Actor nominee that year, a prediction that sadly failed to materialize), who underplays Langford very well, bringing some unexpected gravitas to the role. Sandra Bernhard is completely hyperbolic and annoying [as one of Pupkin's acquaintances who is also obsessed with Langford], seemingly her stock in trade, though at least in this case it seems intrinsically tied to Masha's obnoxious character."
From Grindhouse Releasing comes one of the most unusual films of the 1960s: the drama The Swimmer, which takes inspiration from John Cheever's classic 1964 short story of the same name. In a lot of ways, Cheever's story might seem to be unfilmable – it tracks the life-long dissolution of successful ad executive Neddy Merrill (played in the film by Burt Lancaster) exclusively through a series of pit stops he makes at his neighbors' pools – yet the film works precisely because it embraces the surreal, challenging aspects of Cheever's work. What is allegorical on the page remains allegorical on screen, with each of Neddy's encounters symbolizing resonant moments from his ruined life. It's an incredibly unique picture, blending naturalism (Neddy's confrontations with Janet Landgard and Janice Rule's characters, both of whom are electric as former objects of Neddy's desire) and surrealism (the film's staggering final scene, which unveils the "secret" of Neddy Merrill to devastating effect) into something equal parts mysterious, frustrating, and alluring. If The Swimmer doesn't quite rank with other great screen explorations of the era like Petulia or Last Year at Marienbad (the film went through some horrific post-production woes, with Lancaster firing original director Frank Perry and hiring Sydney Pollack to reshoot much of Perry's footage, and the clash between the two creative visions shows), that hasn't stopped it from seeming more important with each passing year. In its unsparing critique of "the good life" amidst the turmoil of '60s counterculture, The Swimmer feels like a test run for the kinds of ennui and alienation that airs weekly during AMC's Mad Men. Best of all, it offers Burt Lancaster the finest role of his career. As great a star as Lancaster was, he also never shied away from seeming broken or weak, and Neddy Merrill allows him to fold those characteristics into one another: Lancaster's athletic good looks and easy charm are little more than a distraction to hide Neddy's deep spiritual void.
Brian Orndorf wrote that the film "is an allegorical take on the ice-melt disorientation of a nervous breakdown, captured through the initially innocent serenity of Ned's pool-hopping mission. It's a deceptively easy odyssey, as Ned find a perfect line-up of backyards and friendly faces to visit, approaching the task as one of warm reflection on personal relationships that have stagnated in recent years and as an extended physical challenge, with the purity of exercise igniting the character's passions. The production sets a jovial but askew tone early for The Swimmer, with Ned's ingratiating, cocktail hour behavior charming at first, welcomed warmly into the daily businesses of acquaintances, though curiosity about his very appearance in random pools, clad in nothing but swim trunks, raises the first red flag. The material is counting on viewers to notice such oddity, commencing the movie's slow descent into reality, offering glimpses of Ned's rattled headspace that demand closer inspection. Through it all, there's a substantial performance from Lancaster that holds "The Swimmer" together. Bravely exposed for the entirety of the movie (including some flashes of nudity), Lancaster communicates intense contemplation that's comfortably theatrical and honestly pained, articulating Ned's programmed skills of affability as the reality of the tour begins to grind on his senses, culminating with an extended scene where the traveler meets with ex-lover Shirley (Janice Rule), confronted with evidence of his own cruelty. Lancaster gives his all to the work, traversing difficult stages of recognition while slipping comfortably into Ned's golden god exterior. The supporting cast is filled with a few recognizable faces (including Joan Rivers as the lone woman unaware of Ned's history in town), but attention always returns to the star, who's deeply felt, gut-rot performance eases the interpretational aspects of The Swimmer and communicates every emotional beat with perfection."
Finally, the Criterion Collection is bringing The Great Beauty to Blu-ray. The most recent winner of the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, The Great Beauty is director Paolo Sorrentino's kinetic excoriation of fame and wealth. Toni Servillo stars as Jep Gambardella, an entertainment journalist whose shallow lifestyle begins to crumble when he receives news that an old love has died; the shock forces Jep to reconsider his own mortality, as well as the fear that he might have peaked creativity long ago. In some ways, The Great Beauty is very much of a piece with Sorrentino's last two features, This Must Be the Place and Il Divo: all are consumed with history, and how the sins of the past motivate the present, and all share a yen for abstract, often surreal stylization. In that last regard, The Great Beauty seems like some crazed master statement, since the Italy that Jep covers is governed almost wholly by hedonistic caprices (the film would make a nice double-feature with The Wolf of Wall Street, actually). The spirit of Fellini is strong with this one – Sorrentino could be updating La Dolce Vita or 8½. However, the deep streak of malaise that runs through The Great Beauty also feels strongly reminiscent of another great European filmmaker; the way that Jep's past overwhelms him, makes him doubt his entire existence, has a direct correlation to Ingmar Bergman and his great Wild Strawberries. The Great Beauty's mix of florid excess and sincere introspection sometimes gets a little too jarring, but on the whole, this is an accomplished, exciting work from a major talent.
In his Blu-ray review, Svet Atanasov wrote that "Sorrentino...undoubtedly understands how to create magic. This isn't an exaggeration. The Great Beauty rediscovers the Eternal City in a way that literally forces the viewer to forget about time and believe that its colorful characters are real people. All of these characters symbolize a philosophy of life that has reshaped the Eternal City – and not into a better place. Amongst them are cynical and disillusioned aristocrats who frequently meet to remind each other that they are still alive, an aging stripper with a secret (Sabrina Ferilli, 3 Women), an ambitious Cardinal who is also an expert in occult secrets (Roberto Herlitzka, Good Morning, Night), a lonely exhibitionist (Isabella Ferrari, Amatemi), a former club owner with a shady past (Massimo De Francovich, Who Killed Pasolini?), freeloaders who need their daily cocaine fix, and a 104-yea-old saint (Giusi Merli) who has traveled to Rome possibly to heal the wounds left by Berlusconi's government. The visuals are extraordinary. The beauty and the kitsch are filmed with a sense of elegance that makes the overwhelming majority of the film look like a modern fairy tale. But it is all real. This is contemporary Italy, a declining and polarized economic power where everyone still loves to party."