“Killers of the Flower Moon,” directed by Martin Scorsese, is a sprawling, methodical examination of greed, betrayal, and systemic injustice set in early 20th-century America. Based on the non-fiction book by David Grann, the film immerses the audience in the dark chapter of U.S. history known as the Osage murders, a series of brutal killings targeting wealthy members of the Osage Nation in Oklahoma after oil was discovered beneath their land. The narrative is steeped in tragedy, revealing a complex web of exploitation, racism, and violence against the Osage people at a time when they should have been enjoying their newfound wealth.
From the outset, Scorsese’s filmmaking mastery is apparent in how the film’s atmosphere draws the viewer into the world of the Osage. The film opens with a quiet reverence for the culture of the Osage people, showcasing their traditions, music, and lifestyle, which stand in stark contrast to the looming presence of American settlers, who, with growing greed, have come to exploit the land. The discovery of oil under Osage land, a fortune beyond imagination, thrusts this Native American community into sudden wealth—yet it is wealth that marks them for destruction.
Leonardo DiCaprio plays Ernest Burkhart, a character who is not a traditional hero but a man caught between loyalty to his family and his own conscience. DiCaprio’s portrayal of Ernest is nuanced, revealing a man both simple and morally conflicted, manipulated by those around him, particularly his uncle, William Hale. Played with chilling charm and ruthlessness by Robert De Niro, Hale is the film’s principal antagonist, orchestrating a scheme to steal the Osage wealth through a calculated campaign of murder and fraud. De Niro’s performance is outstanding, channeling Hale’s mixture of paternalistic affection for his nephew and cold-blooded ruthlessness towards the Osage people with disturbing ease.
At the heart of the story is Ernest’s relationship with Mollie Burkhart, an Osage woman played by Lily Gladstone, whose wealth and familial connections make her a target. Mollie is the emotional core of the film, and Gladstone’s portrayal is haunting and powerful. Her performance is restrained yet deeply expressive, embodying the quiet strength and dignity of a woman who watches helplessly as her family is picked off one by one by the very people who claim to love and protect her. The love story between Ernest and Mollie is both tragic and central to the film’s moral inquiry, raising questions about complicity, manipulation, and betrayal in intimate relationships.
Scorsese, in telling this story, makes it clear that the film is less about the mechanics of a traditional crime story and more about the structures of power that allowed these crimes to happen in the first place. The narrative moves with a deliberate pace, slowly unraveling the conspiracy behind the murders, allowing the audience to feel the suffocating tension and impending doom that surrounds the Osage. This is not a mystery where the audience is left wondering who the perpetrators are—Scorsese makes it clear from early on that the system itself is the villain. The white settlers, the legal system, and the federal government all play a part in either directly orchestrating or enabling the theft and killings. The film lays bare how white supremacy, greed, and systemic corruption have long worked hand in hand to exploit Indigenous communities.
Cinematographically, “Killers of the Flower Moon” is stunning. The sweeping landscapes of Oklahoma, juxtaposed with the intimate, claustrophobic interiors of the Osage homes and the darkly lit meetings of conspirators, create a visual tension that mirrors the film’s thematic core. The contrast between the vast open plains, a symbol of freedom and possibility, and the closed, suffocating spaces where the characters’ fates are sealed, enhances the emotional weight of the story. Scorsese and his long-time collaborator, cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto, craft a visual language that emphasizes the loneliness and isolation of the Osage, despite their wealth and the literal flood of outsiders who have come to exploit it.
The film’s pacing is deliberately slow, but this is not a flaw; rather, it allows the weight of the tragedy to sink in with every scene. Some viewers might find the length—nearly three and a half hours—challenging, but it is essential to the epic scope of the story. This is a tale of systemic oppression and calculated genocide, not a quick crime thriller. Scorsese takes his time to explore the characters’ motivations and the insidious ways in which they justify their actions. The methodical pacing serves to heighten the emotional impact when the true extent of the betrayal is finally revealed.
“Killers of the Flower Moon” also benefits from an outstanding supporting cast. Jesse Plemons plays Tom White, an FBI agent sent to investigate the murders, with understated gravitas. White represents a rare beacon of integrity in a world otherwise riddled with corruption, though his character is not the central focus of the story. Instead of making White the traditional hero who uncovers the mystery and saves the day, Scorsese wisely keeps the attention on the Osage and their suffering, refusing to frame the narrative through a white savior lens. Brendan Fraser and John Lithgow make brief but memorable appearances, adding weight to the legal and institutional frameworks surrounding the murders.
The film’s score, composed by Robbie Robertson, is another significant element, blending traditional Native American music with modern, tension-filled orchestration. The music underscores the emotional tone of the film, evoking both the sorrow of the Osage and the sinister, creeping dread that permeates the story. Robertson’s work here is sensitive and respectful, avoiding the bombastic cues that might detract from the film’s quiet power.
At its core, “Killers of the Flower Moon” is a story about the erasure of Native American identity and autonomy, about how the Osage, despite their wealth and legal rights to the land, were powerless in the face of white America’s unrelenting greed. Scorsese’s approach is unsparing—he does not shy away from the brutality of the murders or the emotional toll it takes on Mollie and her community. Yet, for all its darkness, there are moments of tenderness and humanity, particularly in the scenes between Ernest and Mollie. These moments are tinged with a tragic irony, as the audience knows that Ernest’s complicity in the crimes will ultimately destroy their relationship and any hope for redemption.
The film’s portrayal of the Osage is respectful and nuanced, giving voice to their grief and resilience. Scorsese, working closely with Osage historians and consultants, avoids the pitfalls of many Hollywood portrayals of Native Americans, which often reduce them to one-dimensional victims or noble savages. Instead, the Osage in this film are fully realized characters with agency, whose suffering is the result of a calculated and deliberate system of exploitation, not just random acts of violence.
While the film is set in the 1920s, its themes resonate with contemporary issues of systemic racism, economic exploitation, and the ongoing struggles of Indigenous communities in the United States. The Osage murders may be a specific historical event, but they are emblematic of a larger pattern of dispossession and violence that has been a part of American history since its founding. Scorsese’s film serves as a reminder that the legacies of this violence are still with us, and that the systems of power that allowed it to happen remain largely intact.
In the end, “Killers of the Flower Moon” is not just a film about murder or a historical crime—it is a meditation on the nature of evil, both in its personal and institutional forms. It asks difficult questions about loyalty, complicity, and the moral cost of greed. Ernest Burkhart’s internal conflict is emblematic of a larger American conflict, one in which personal gain often comes at the expense of others’ lives and dignity.
“Killers of the Flower Moon” is a haunting, meticulously crafted film that lingers long after the credits roll. It is a testament to Scorsese’s ability to tackle challenging material with both precision and empathy. The film’s tragic power lies in its refusal to offer easy answers or a cathartic resolution; instead, it forces the audience to confront the uncomfortable truth that the forces of greed and racism that drove the Osage murders are not relics of the past, but enduring elements of our present reality.
