Killers of the Flower Moon Will Surely Be an Awards Season Juggernaut

After an unparalleled, more-than-six-decade-long career, there are certain things we’ve come to expect from the films of Martin Scorsese: a nerve-jangling story told on a thrillingly epic scale; shady dealings which culminate in bursts of outrageous violence and usually see our protagonist wind up in a blistering court scene; and said protagonist often being played by either Leonardo DiCaprio or Robert De Niro. In that sense, the auteur’s latest crime thriller, *Killers of the Flower Moon—*a three-and-a-half-hour-long adaptation of David Grann’s non-fiction bestseller of the same name—is quintessential Scorsese, combining all of the above while also turning its gaze away from Irish American strivers on the East Coast and towards a very different community in a starkly different part of the country: the resilient Native American women of the Osage Nation in northeastern Oklahoma.

The action opens in the 1920s, at a time when the Osage people were—startlingly—some of the wealthiest in the world per capita. Oil was discovered beneath their lands and they reaped the benefits, dressing in opulent furs, buying extravagant jewelry, and riding around in Rolls-Royces, many of them driven by flat-capped, white chauffeurs. Among the latter is Ernest Burkhart (DiCaprio), a war veteran who has recently returned to the area to live with his uncle, Bill Hale (De Niro), a cattle farmer who masquerades as an ally to the Osage, but is hellbent on acquiring a substantial piece of their vast fortune.

He points his nephew in the direction of Mollie Kyle (Lily Gladstone), an enigmatic member of the Native American community who immediately takes a shine to Ernest. Soon, they’re married, but disaster befalls Mollie at every turn: a string of rich Osage tribe members, including her own sisters, are murdered under mysterious circumstances; no leads are found; and Mollie herself begins to grow pale and sickly from diabetes, with her regular insulin shots—administered by Ernest, of course—only making her worse.

In the final third of the film, Tom White (Jesse Plemons), a Texas Ranger-turned-FBI agent, arrives in Osage County to investigate the crimes, but he remains a peripheral figure. The heart of the story is not the mystery itself—we have our suspicions early on, and they’re quickly confirmed—but rather the thorny relationship between Ernest and Mollie, who appear to both love and fear each other. As he begins speaking the Osage language, dressing like them, and becomes embedded in their community, you see glimmers of his inner torment intertwined with his greed and sense of injustice. She, in turn, identifies him as a gold digger straight off the bat, but is charmed by him nonetheless. Then, when she weakens under his care, she clings to him, and it’s unclear whether she’s in denial, somehow trying to guilt him into changing his behavior, or entirely oblivious to the fact that he’s harming her.

DiCaprio plays with these ambiguities masterfully, capturing Ernest’s conniving nature as well as his haplessness. De Niro, too, is fascinating as a cultural interloper who seems to see no contradiction between his appreciation for the Osage community and its traditions, and his desire to eliminate them. Both veterans are, however, overshadowed by Lily Gladstone. The Native American actor, perhaps best known for her captivating turn in Kelly Reichardt’s Certain Women, is a revelation, bringing a powerful, commanding stillness, serenity and, later, profound anguish to Mollie. She is quiet and watchful, her eyes and the almost imperceptible furrow of her brow speaking volumes even during her prolonged silences. When she does speak, everyone and everything else fades into the background. Come 2024, an Oscar nomination—if not a win—is surely guaranteed.

And it’s unlikely to be the only statuette the film walks away with: it looks poised to be a best-picture frontrunner, and should also be rewarded for its sweeping cinematography, lavish production design, and meticulous costuming, all of which helps to create a world that feels textured and real; a world that you want to spend time in. And that’s the thing: Despite its weighty subject matter, Killers of the Flower Moon can also be great fun. When we first meet the Osage, montages of their privileged lifestyle flash across the screen, accompanied by a rollicking soundtrack. We see some having their portraits taken, looking somber and regal; others shooing away the white photographers who are out to make a buck; and later, a group of Osage women gossiping happily about their lovers. Most of all, it’s a sheer joy to see so many Native American actors, many of them Osage themselves, living out full lives on screen before tragedy engulfs them. (Cara Jade Myers as a renegade, gun-toting flapper is a particular highlight.)

It’s worth adding, of course, that the film isn’t perfect: its lengthy run time drags somewhat in the third act; there’s a little too much gratuitous gore, some at the expense of Native American women; a brief appearance by Brendan Fraser as attorney W. S. Hamilton feels like it belongs in a different project entirely; and there’s a scene involving DiCaprio being spanked that is sure to get viewers talking, but seems oddly misplaced. Still, the final product is impressive enough to make you overlook its flaws.

Some of this is down to the ending, too: instead of a written epilogue laying out what ultimately happened to all of its characters, we’re shown one being performed as part of a true-crime radio play which features—wait for it—a Scorsese cameo. The director has a habit of popping up in his own work, but this appearance is less winking, more earnest and heartfelt, and all the better for it. If this is a sign of things to come from the legendary filmmaker—namely, a deliberate and sensitive expansion of his purview—we can’t wait to see what’s next.

Killers of the Flower Moon will be in theaters from October 6, before streaming globally on Apple TV+.