In The Wolf of Wall Street, Martin Scorsese proceeds his love of manly vigor: vigor for its own particular purpose as a method of completing the self, vigor on the grounds that there's nothing more awful in Scorsese's universe than detachment, which inexorably interprets as feebleness. In any case what happens in a motion picture when that vigor is persistently indistinguishable, conscienceless, indiscreet? It turns into a perseverance test.
