Killers of the Flower Moon: Movie Review

This is the 19th Martin Scorsese movie I’ve seen. It settles firmly into the upper quartile of this remarkable director’s work.

His range is immense and this sits closer to some of his American History documentaries than it does to, say, Gangs of New York or Wolf of Wall Street.

But it actually has its roots in Casino/Goodfellas territory, because it’s a kind of mafia film, in that it explores a very one-sided gang attitude to clansmanship (and in a small part Klansmanship).

It’s actually a story of genocide/ethnic cleansing, as Robert Di Niro’s (rarely better, certainly not in the last 40 years) rich, ranch-owning, Oklahoman one-man dynasty sets out to wrestle away the oilfield rights of the Osage tribe of Native Americans by hook or by crook – mainly by crook.

The Osage are mightily rich because oil has been found slap bang in the middle of their land and Di Niro’s William Hale is jealous and determined to get his greedy mitts on the money.

He does this in a pincer movement. Firstly by marrying his returning WWI war hero, a dim-witted nephew Ernest Burkhart (phenomenally played by Leonardo DiCaprio) into the Osage. His willing wife Mollie (a star turn by Lily Gladstone) is unaware of Hale and Burkhart’s long term ambitions and simply falls in love with him. Truth is, it’s mutual.

Hale’s second strategy in this pincer is the straightforward murders of Mollie’s family and many more Osage besides. There are numerous cold blooded killings that pepper the movie and yet it never feels gratuitous (cold blooded and shocking, yes, but not especially repellent – like it might have been in Tarantino’s hands.)

It’s a study in racism and of greed but that doesn’t mean Di Niro, DiCaprio and Gladstone don’t win you over with their overwhelmingly great performances – expect all three to feature at next year’s Oscars (I expect Di Niro to pick up his 9th nomination, DiCaprio his 8th and Gladstone her first – maybe a first ever Oscar for a woman of Native American descent?)

Gladstone is a silent but steely presence. Much of the film documents her suffering at the hands of Hale and Burkhart, and it’s truly shocking how DiCaprio treats her, despite his undoubted love for her.

It’s widely documented that the film is extraordinarily long (3h26mins without a break is a bladder challenging sit through) but although it features murders galore, it’s no action picture. Do not go looking for any Marvel escapades in this one folks. But it’s manageable, riveting and entirely justified in its length.

One other thing to point out. The soundtrack is an almost imperceptible blues bass thrum by Robbie Robertson that builds tension at an almost inaudible level but is like a heartbeat throughout. Sinister and compelling it quietly drives the story along. Bravo Robbie.

The movie is a savage insight into a part of American history that was not familiar to me and it deserves to be seen by a wide audience. Judging from the low availability of seats in Edinburgh’s cinemas this weekend that ambition at least appears to be coming to fruition.

Go see.

Romantic Comedy by Curtis Sittenfeld: Book Review

In which Curtis writes a truly romantic novel that is laugh out loud funny. but it’s not a romantic comedy. Oh no. that would be vulgar.

Instead she writes a heartwarming love story about a mousy looking mid-thirties TV sketch show writer for Saturday Night Live who finds herself in a relationship with the hottest pop singer in the United States whilst writing a sketch for SNL about an unattractive man pulling a hot woman. (This is a common occurrence, usually linked to money. She appropriates it and calls it The Danny Horst Rule , which states that men from SNL can date way out of their league, but the same isn’t true for the women working on the show.)

Except, of course, they can, and she does.

Kinda meta.

Also it’s a favourite of writers to write about writing/writers but it’s the first time she’s done it and I think will land her her first movie. Just don’t call it a romantic comedy.

So that’s the premise. Hot musician pulls dowdy spinster.

It’s told in three acts. The first is a wonderful exposition of what goes on behind the scenes in a week at SNL (OK it’s called The Night Owls) and involves a guest host, Noah Brewster, of multi million selling Making Love in July fame who hosts the show and briefly falls for one of its best writers, Sally Milz.

Then Covid hits and their relationship is renewed via email in Act 2 before fully consummating itself IRL in Act 3.

The whole book wrestles with The Danny Horst Rule and explores the unlikeliness of this megastar falling for this ordinary woman. Except she’s not ordinary, she’s whip smart, experienced and very, very funny.

The whole basis of what grounds relationships, spoiler, it’s not looks, is explored over 300 page turning leaves.

I loved it. My seventh and now complete back catalogue of Sittenfeld’s (although the first signed one I have). It’s not her best, although it’s not far off, but it could be her most succesful when the movie goes stratospheric.

Great work Curtis.

Keep ’em comin’ please.

Battery Park at The Traverse: Theatre review

I seriously hope that Andy McGregor’s sublime Battery Park gets a longer life than its 12 or so show tour of Scotland, because it’s fantastic.

Andy wrote, composed and directed this gig theatre show about a fictional band from Greenock that might have made it in the BritPop era if circumstances had conspired.

In two 45 minute acts, the first hilarious, the second melancholy, we follow the rise and fall of this extremely talented bunch of misfits through a grudgingly acceptant reminiscence of the older Tommy (in his 40’s) looking back on his complicated heyday in conversation with Chloe-Ann Tyler’s Lucy. He’s buried a past that she wants to unearth and it spells trouble.

Everything about this excellent show delights; from a pitch perfect soundtrack performed magisterially by a pitch perfect ensemble cast (Charlie West, Chris Alexander, Kim Allan, Stuart Edgar and Tommy McGowan, alongside the aforementioned Chloe-Ann Tyler) to a pitch perfect script that had me in stitches with its accurate Brit pop references and just plain funny dialogue.

Charlie West gets the laughs as the moronic drummer Biffy (get the name ref?) but Chris Alexander as the older Tommy holds the show together with his profound reminiscences. The girls in the cast have the job of bringing reason and sobriety to the mix. Kim Allan’s Robyn is clearly modelled on Shirley Manson and carries it off beautifully.

A brother in law of Cora Bissett’s glorious “What Girls are Made of” this show deserves to echo that one’s undoubted and deserved success.

Look out for its revival. Hopefully at The Traverse at The Fringe next year.

I’ll be there.

The Man Of My Dreams by Curtis Sittenfeld: Book Review

In which Curtis follows up her dream debut, Prep with a bid of a dud. It follows the relatively uninteresting fantasy, and then real, love life of Hannah, starting when she’s fourteen and never been kissed.

It’s like Curtis took a breather after Prep which, as fairly obvious auto-fiction, was a book bursting to get out of her. But this, the difficult second novel, was something to keep her publisher happy. It’s unoriginal, uninspiring and fairly insipid. So bad is it, in fact, that I’m even struggling to remember the plot a month after reading it.

The boys and men are all cads of course and the only good one gets away. All a bit fucking Mills and Boon. (Certainly not Penguin standards although my copy was Picador published).

One to resist. I mean, the title kind of sends out big red distress flares, doesn’t it.

Go instead for her fabulous later canon which has established her at the top of living American women writers.

I’ll bore for Scotland about Curtis Sittrenfeld, just not this one.

Not all AI is bad.

Look at these magnificent creations for example. Obviously some are better than other but I love the way AI can make shadows meaningful. This could probably be achieved by human retouching of course, but it would be tricky.