Jordan Belfort is a man of bottomless appetites. As the founder and de facto emperor of penny stock boiler room Stratton Oakmont, he has vacuumed up millions of dollars from wealthy clients through “pump-and-dump” schemes and other fraudulent practices. This ill-gotten profit supports Belfort’s lifestyle of nauseating excess, encompassing opulent homes, designer clothes, sports cars, a yacht, and a personal helicopter. His true passions, however, are sex, booze, and drugs—especially drugs, most notably cocaine and Quaaludes.
In director Martin Scorsese’s latest feature, The Wolf of Wall Street, Leonardo DiCaprio portrays Belfort as a frenzied and utterly amoral hedonist. He perpetually seems one minute from a stroke brought on by pure apoplectic need. His most unquenchable desire is to be a Winner, a lust that is evident in the all-staff meetings where he paces and rages like the spawn of a revival preacher and college basketball coach. Any vicarious enjoyment that a viewer might glean from Belfort’s decadent pursuits is quashed by his utterly unreflective nature. When the FBI and SEC come calling, Belfort isn’t so much unrepentant as incensed that anyone would try to stop him.
Wolf, therefore, is not the story of a sinner who sees the error of his ways. The film’s pleasures lie in witnessing a contemptible swindler rise to the stratosphere and then then fall, long and hard. Whether or not this qualifies as entertaining might be a matter of personal taste, but Scorsese and scripter Terence Winter do an admirable job of making it perversely and jaw-dropping funny. They allow Belfort’s viewpoint to seize control of the film, and then allow him to hang himself with his own words and deeds. It’s a sickening roller coaster, but one whose pitch-black absurdity renders it enjoyable for an especially dauntless breed of rider.
