It’s the early 1920s in Fairfax (Oklahoma), home to native Americans of the Osage nation, where suspicion and death seem to be in the air.

Discovering huge reserves of oil on the land allotted to them by the federal government, the Osage tribe became some of the richest in the country. However, early on in Martin Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon, they’re described as ‘sickly’, a handful of them dying under mysterious circumstances.

Most of them know something is not quite right in Fairfax, but there’s no way to be certain. In a scene, an elder of the tribe bemoans how a decade ago when Osages were being hunted, he could at least see the enemy.

Adapted from David Grann’s excellent 2014 novel of the same name, Scorsese goes beyond Grann’s exhaustive reportage to delve deeper into exploring this horrifying, forgotten saga of American greed.

Opening the film with the late Robbie Robertson's nifty guitar score playing in the background, Scorsese carefully sets the scene for his audience. Telling them about the sudden riches of the Osages, he introduces them to his protagonist: Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio). It’s a fascinating, counter-intuitive choice, telling the story of a great ‘American betrayal’ from the side of the perpetrator, instead of the victims. Grann’s novel rarely delves beyond the most perfunctory characterisations, but Scorsese stamps his own authorship by imbuing life into the film’s three primary characters: Ernest Burkhart, Mollie Kyle and Bill Hale.

As Burkhart, DiCaprio goes for what could only be described as a wildly anti-Gatsby look. His teeth are stained, the blue eyes seem to tell the story of a colourful youngster who has culminated into a diseased middle-age. He sports an awkward crew cut with messy hair, rightly for someone returning from the World War, even though he only worked in the pantry, serving those who were serving on the frontlines. There’s a humanity to him, where we see his slobbering greed, remorselessness, charm and sincerity all at once. Being coached by his uncle Bill Hale (Robert De Niro) to marry Mollie Kyle (Lily Gladstone), who has a partial headright (claim to the lands producing oil) along with her mother Lizzie, and sisters Anna, Reta and Minnie.

Grann’s book stresses upon the whole magnitude of the incident, so he approaches it through the police investigation of the murders, the birth of the FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation) led by J. Edgar Hoover, and the courtroom drama aided by the systemic rot. But here’s where the beauty of the screenplay by Eric Roth and Scorsese reveals itself. The film looks at the whole story through the marriage of Ernest and Mollie. Hale convinces his nephew that there’s wealth to be had, and the Osages are merely obstacles in the way.

“They need to go,” Hale tells other characters, more than once in the film. De Niro is masterfully unsentimental as he looks people in the eye, telling them how much he cares for them, and then pronounces their death warrants to his minions.

One of the most stunning attributes about Scorsese’s film here is how he makes the mass killings of the Osages feel like an order of business. There’s a chilling mundanity to the murders. In the hands of a lesser filmmaker, this deliberate genocide would’ve been milked for tears and screams. But in Killers of the Flower Moon, death comes with a certain serenity and silence. The Osages have visions of an owl visiting them – which translates to ‘death is at your door.’

The soul of the film is Ernest Burkhart’s imperfect evil. As much as he lusts after material wealth, he’s also genuinely in love with his wife, loyal to his uncle, unable to look away from the stack of corpses left behind in his pursuit fuelled by greed. Ernest would like to believe that he is like his uncle, but he doesn’t have the stomach for it. And that makes the betrayal that much more personal. How does one claim to love someone, and slowly poison them on a daily basis? Does their repentance count for anything?

Lily Gladstone is impeccable as Mollie, a headstrong Osage woman who knows something is not quite right, but she just doesn’t know who to believe. As Mollie, Gladstone’s performance is like that of a placid lake to DiCaprio’s Ernest, a tempestuous ocean. DiCaprio’s stunning performance reminded me of two earlier films Revolutionary Road (2008) and Shutter Island (2010), where he also played a husband drowning in his own guilt. I can think of at least two scenes where DiCaprio showcases why he’s one of the highest-rated actors of his generation. It’s a sublime turn as someone grappling with opposite ends of his personality.

At 206 minutes, Killers of the Flower Moon is a long film, but rarely drags. Scorsese knows exactly when to hit the brakes on his brisk narrative, allowing the viewers to soak in the tension. There’s an unsettling exchange between Ernest and Tom White (Jesse Plemons) – sent by the FBI to investigate the Osage murders – which has all the hints of the eventual unravelling. Seeing White at his door, Ernest knows immediately that the beginning of the end is near.

In the end, Killers of the Flower Moon is a testament to one of the greatest living filmmakers in the world – Martin Scorsese. The 80-year-old director takes one of the most dense books, and manages to locate the people at its core. He humanises these evil masterminds without necessarily showing mercy for their devious ways. This is a masterful adaptation that distils the larger injustice to a community, by boiling it down to a marriage between an Osage woman and her greedy, conflicted white husband.

Even the way he conveys the consequences of the trial, which most movies might’ve done using title cards on the screen, Scorsese employs a live radio show with foley artists, replete with a special appearance. However, the special appearance seems to be more out of humility than a gimmick. Here’s a veteran grappling with his choice of medium, using it to look within and the society around him. It’s about sincerely feeling the injustice in the story you’re telling, and conveying it in a way that makes people leave the theatre in stunned silence. Now, that’s craft.

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