The United States can feel like a sprawling, imperfect machine, and cinema has long taken on the task of deciphering its edges and flaws. The film in question pushes that exploration to an ambitious extreme, inviting viewers to consider a nation’s hunger for power, money, and control. It would be fitting to present this work alongside key entries in Scorsese’s catalog, such as One of Ours (1990), Gangs of New York (2002), The Wolf of Wall Street (2013), and The Irishman (2019), because, like those films, it surveys a dangerous truth with both menace and grand aspiration. Powerful figures bend economic and social systems to suit their aims, often ignoring the dire consequences of their actions for the broader population.
What follows dives into colonialist, capitalist, and racist impulses that once decimated Indigenous communities and continues to echo through history. The investigation centers on many murders that occurred within the Osage Nation over a century ago, yet the film refuses the traditional crime-cinema blueprint. There is no twisting reveal of the culprits after the bodies begin to fall. Instead, a human drama of love, suspicion, and resilience unfolds, expanding the narrative with influences from classic thrillers like Suspicion (1941) and Luz que agoniza (1944).
The film runs three and a half hours, and its length feels purposeful. The camera frames a broader, ongoing dehumanization, a microcosm that can read as a larger genocide. It also captures a period marked by apathy and neglect, where crimes endured far beyond any single moment of reckoning. The pacing slows to give weight to the consequences of a pervasive system that allows cruelty to persist.
In terms of mood and atmosphere, the movie does not surge with the electric drive that some of Scorsese’s earlier stories carried. Even vigilance and outrage give way to contemplative gravity. The sense of doom pervades each scene, and the tension often rests in the air rather than erupting into loud climaxes. The material presents a haunting seriousness that tests the nerves, a tone that aligns with the stark, disturbing nature of the events and the figures at its center, including performances by Leonardo DiCaprio and Robert De Niro.
DiCaprio and De Niro have collaborated before to depict human misery, and here they share the screen in a way that marks a new kind of collaboration for them. DiCaprio’s portrayal tends to shade his characters with vulnerabilities that blur moral lines, resisting the familiar Hollywood hero mold. De Niro brings a chilling mix of charm and menace, a presence that can feel both seductive and threatening. Yet the standout performance belongs to Lily Gladstone, whose portrayal embodies the Osage’s endurance, confusion, and fear that haunt their community as the story unfolds.
At times, the director seems to step back from a full internal reckoning with his own circle and with the humanity that has long been denied to so many. The film does not deeply dissect the psychology of every antagonist, but it does not pretend otherwise either. Instead, it presents a stark portrait of a system that enables abuse to continue, reframing the narrative as a meditation on power and oppression rather than a tidy closure. The project avoids a simple denouement, highlighting that oppression persists beyond the frame.
In the end, the movie lands with a surprising epilogue that lands like a call to action. It serves as a resonant reflection on a director’s career and a reminder that resistance can be found in endurance and truth-telling. Yet the film also signals that there is still work to be done, suggesting that the questions it raises are ongoing rather than resolved. This is not merely a historical recounting but a persistent invitation to examine how a nation’s past shapes its present and future, and it leaves the viewer with a clear sense that the conversation is far from finished.