Review Detail

Few films are as intoxicating, infuriating, and relentless as The Wolf of Wall Street. It’s a movie that celebrates, mocks, and questions greed. Martin Scorsese takes Jordan Belfort’s memoir, the true story of a Wall Street conman who built an empire on lies, drugs, and charisma, and turns it into a three-hour chaos.

From the first frame, Scorsese makes his intentions clear: this is not subtle cinema. Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) snorts cocaine off every imaginable surface, preaches financial manipulation like gospel, and turns his brokerage firm into a frat house with a fax machine. The film’s energy is manic, shot with the adrenaline of a man who knows he’s burning out but doesn’t care. Rodrigo Prieto’s camera moves like it’s on crack too, swirling, cutting, pushing closer, while Thelma Schoonmaker’s editing keeps the film alive with a rhythm that borders on hysteria.

At the center of this madness is DiCaprio, giving what might be the most fearless performance of his career. He’s charming, despicable, magnetic, and exhausting. He’s a man who can sell you anything. Jonah Hill’s Donnie Azoff matches him with grotesque brilliance, and Margot Robbie, in her breakout role, steals scenes with the kind of poise and precision the men around her completely lack.

The Wolf of Wall Street is both a masterpiece and a moral mess. It’s outrageously entertaining, but that’s the problem. You’re laughing with Belfort long before you realise you probably shouldn’t be. Scorsese captures the rush of corruption so vividly that the consequences feel like an afterthought. By the time the law catches up, we’ve been so high on greed and glamor that we barely care who gets hurt.

Critics have long debated whether the film glorifies the lifestyle it portrays. In a sense, it does. But Scorsese’s genius lies in forcing us to confront our own complicity. We love the cars, the yachts, the champagne, the chaos. We enjoy watching it, and that’s the point. The movie doesn’t judge its characters so much as it holds up a mirror. You either laugh with them or feel disgusted by them; both reactions are valid, and maybe both are necessary?

Still, the film isn’t perfect. Its three-hour runtime drags in places, and the endless party scenes blur together. The emotional consequences of Belfort’s actions, the people whose lives he ruins, and the families destroyed barely get a glance. There’s an emptiness to that, a deliberate one, perhaps, but it keeps the film from ever landing a true moral punch.

And yet, The Wolf of Wall Street remains thrilling precisely because it doesn’t play it safe. It’s chaotic, grotesque, and alive in every frame. That’s the brilliance buried in the excess. This isn’t just a story about a man losing control; it’s about a culture that rewards him for it. The real wolf isn’t Jordan Belfort; it’s the world that let him exist.