As in Goodfellas or Casino (each of which this recalls), Scorsese is chiefly fascinated by process—and specifically, the means by which money is first extracted from suckers, then moved through various stages to smarter, more ruthless hands; he lingers over shots of bundled C-notes, walks us through every stage of the transaction.
While the film may at first instance recall the likes of Casino and Goodfellas, it’s actually the much-maligned musical New York, New York that springs to mind as its most logical cousin.
Some may recall that he followed up Casino with Kundun, that he entered Merchant-Ivory territory with The Age of Innocence , or that he predated the Coen Brothers in surreal comedy with After Hours.
It is a sustained shock that a seventy-one-year-old filmmaker, even Martin-fucking-Scorsese (and dedicated editor Thelma Schoonmaker), can heighten the hyper character of a “Casino” or “Goodfellas” on a wholly other topic and surpass himself in vitality and insurgent hallucinogenic energy, and at a 179-minute duration that does not flag, laden with what feels like huge passages of inspired improvisation.
Watching “The Wolf of Wall Street,” I was instantly reminded of “Casino,” in which similar antics were on display, and sometimes in equal measure.
And they, instead, speak directly to us, Henry recalling the joy of being one of the "Goodfellas," Ace guiltlessly explaining the scams that made him millions off a "Casino," Frank lovingly describing the old neighborhood he runs in "The Departed."