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Anatomy of a Hustler: Capitalist Madness in Uncut Gems and American Psycho

“You wanna win by one point or fuckin’ 30 points, KG?” asks Adam Sandler as Howard, jeweler and gambling addict. The line cues in a feverish marimba on top of an ominous synth.

KG is Celtics star Kevin Garnett, playing himself. This moment comes after KG pays Howard $165,000 in cash for an uncut opal. With this cash, Howard is finally in a position to pay off his extensive debts — but there’s still 30 minutes left in the two-hour film.

Josh and Benny Safdie’s 2019 crime thriller Uncut Gems is a grueling experience for its characters and viewers alike. The film barrels forward, accumulating tension without stopping to catch its breath — akin to a roller coaster with a perpetual, rapid incline. The disorienting tone and pacing help immerse us in Howard’s world, and his singular obsession with money, as it drives him to ruin.

Howard, like many tragic figures, has his fair share of hubris. Rather than a prophecy deciding his fate, however, Uncut Gems demonstrates how American capitalism creates the ideal conditions for Howard’s particular brand of go-getter. A similar societal critique is advanced in Mary Harron’s turn-of-the-century cult classic American Psycho, though in the context of corporate finance. Taking distinct stylistic and tonal approaches, the two films portray capitalist logic as a narrative force of compulsive escalation.

Both Uncut Gems and American Psycho omit the starting and turning points of their protagonists’ unraveling, resulting in an unsettling narrative inertia. This choice allows the films to level their critiques beyond their protagonists at the environments that shape them.

Uncut Gems is set into motion with the delivery of an Ethiopian opal that Howard, deep in debt, plans to sell. KG, however, insists on borrowing the opal for good luck at his NBA game. From there, the film follows Howard, growing increasingly desperate, as he scrambles to get the opal back while evading loan sharks.

After Howard finally does sell the opal, our relief quickly evaporates when he decides to gamble the money. “This is how I win,” he explains, delivering a kind of manifesto as the marimba track intensifies. Both lucidity and madness might be read into his gaze, which is partly shielded behind black shades.

Howard does win, in a sense: His bet wins him over $1 million. And then a loan shark shoots him in the head. The final shot zooms into his serene, lifeless face; Howard is finally at rest. His death curbs the inertia of his gambling addiction, which incidentally ends on a high.

So ends a nuanced depiction of gambling addiction — not as a failure of personal responsibility, but as a powerful capitalist impetus. The incentive to “win” cannot be chalked up to pure greed: Howard’s obsession with chasing wealth far surpasses any desire for its rewards, and the camera takes no aesthetic pleasure in material glamor. As misguided as Howard may be, his glorification of wealth for wealth’s sake is a condemnation of the system that incentivizes it.

American Psycho’s serial murdering protagonist, meanwhile, is indisputably evil, but this characterization similarly serves a critique of his milieu. It owes its success to a stark tonal difference from Uncut Gems’ grittiness; eschewing subtlety, American Psycho hyperbolizes the archetypal Wall Street investor with the self-serious, image-conscious Patrick Bateman, who finds an outlet for his neuroses in brutal homicide.

In the iconic opening scene, Bateman briefly introduces himself before diving into a catalog of his morning routine. This voiceover accompanies a visual representation of his systematic inventory-taking, featuring close-ups on sculpted body parts and luxurious toiletries and long shots of his apartment in the vein of an interior design magazine. Bateman presents himself as a commodity, a sum of desirable objects. This eerie scene establishes Bateman’s storefront-esque sense of self, deliberately constructed so he may relate to coworkers at a reasonable distance.

Much as we meet Howard already in debt, American Psycho foregrounds Bateman’s psychopathy, later revealing that he’s killed before. In contrast with Howard’s nosedive into mania, however, is Bateman’s increasing detachment from the world around him. Diametrically opposed to Uncut Gems’ frenzy, the corporate environment serves as a backdrop for mundane conversations between coworkers. Petty status competitions have higher stakes than the work itself, which is essentially absent from the narrative. Physical violence is at least generative for Bateman, a reprieve from the stifling nothingness of corporate existence.

The escalating tension between Bateman’s personal and professional selves drives the film toward an uncertain climax; as his body count grows, so does the challenge of compartmentalizing his two lives. After a very public murder spree, Bateman calls his lawyer with a tearful confession, presumably ending his double life — but when Bateman confronts the lawyer at a company event, he’s met with a blank stare.

The lawyer’s unresponsiveness marks a striking role reversal for Bateman, whose uncharacteristically sincere expression fills the frame. Faced with this dead end, Bateman joins a table with the same coworkers as usual, though he sits tentatively. Their conversation is aimless; they talk at each other without really listening.

As one makes a passing comment — some guys are just born cool, I guess — a wide shot captures the table’s response: While the others stare off into various distances, Bateman looks at him and snorts, then points and laughs. It’s a bizarre shot with a slightly high angle, a stylistic break that goes out of its way to show the coworkers as an egalitarian group. The interaction also departs from the norm: Bateman, attentive to his surroundings, disrupts their aloof dynamic with a genuine reaction.

For the first time, Bateman seems to comprehend the people around him and his position among them. Their usual pretentiousness, something he’s always participated in, now strikes him as ridiculous. The others point this out; when they finally recognize something “off” about Bateman, it’s when he’s at his most human. In the end, nothing fundamentally changes, save for Bateman having a realization: He and his coworkers are unknowable to each other.

Bateman’s “true self” is made irrelevant, supplanted by his corporate self. Like Howard, Bateman “wins” in that he constructs a persuasive corporate identity, but he finds himself trapped in it.

Uncut Gems and American Psycho ask us to consider the nature of such wins. Both protagonists remain unsatisfied despite capitalist success; the thrilling momentum of these narratives, as it turns out, precludes real change and growth. We might start to wonder if madness, given its economic incentives, should come as any surprise.

Very Important Persons: Period Satire in The Death of Stalin and The Favourite

In the typical fashion of political satire, monarchies and oligarchies serve as wells of comedy in Yorgos Lanthimos’ The Favourite (2018) and Armando Iannucci’s The Death of Stalin (2017). Its subjects, however, are out of power; The Favourite depicts the court of Queen Anne of Great Britain in the early 18th century, and The Death of Stalin, while recent history, depicts the ruling committee of a now-dissolved nation. From score to costuming to set design, these films embrace period drama conventions and root themselves in history. This genre-melding provides a viewpoint of the human condition that neither contemporary satire nor straightforward historical accounts can access on their own.

Set in the Soviet Union in 1953, The Death of Stalin portrays the central committee’s response to their leader’s demise and their ensuing power struggle, which ends in one member’s execution and Nikita Khrushchev’s rise to power. The committee members are simultaneously old friends and bitter rivals, at times timid and other times ruthless. Comic actors play many of its essential roles, most notably Steve Buscemi as Khrushchev and Jeffrey Tambor as Malenkov, Stalin’s gullible successor. This casting reflects the film’s irreverent approach to depicting historical figures, as it imagines comedic situations and banter within the context of high-stakes political turmoil.

As the audience witnesses mythic figures portrayed as fallible humans, the characters themselves experience the same with Stalin’s passing. The committee finds their leader’s dead body on the floor of his office, collapsed in a puddle of urine. They perform grief, and it’s not clear who the exaggeration is meant to convince — it could be Stalin, the other ministers, even themselves. The film finds humor in this grief; Malenkov proclaims that Stalin is irreplaceable, for example, before pointing out that he’s the successor. “Calamity, calamity,” Khrushchev laments as he casually takes off his coat. As the characters state their distress, the camera remains impersonally distant rather than capturing their faces in close-up as one might expect.

There’s also the running joke of the urine puddle: After his proclamation of grief, Malenkov steps on the wet spot and asks, “Is this?” as the camera tilts down to the puddle. The others make the same mistake and then warn the others, who shuffle around the spot. Each time, the grief is quickly interrupted and abandoned. These trivial asides often occur in long shots where Stalin’s horizontal body remains in frame, rendering him an afterthought, which further minimizes the gravity of death as an individual — what his death means commands much attention. The men then hoist the body off the ground together, shuffling and giving each other commands as though they were transporting furniture.

The levity of this scene seems dissonant with the historical significance of Stalin’s death; the committee’s reactions ask us to consider the difference between what Stalin represented versus Stalin as an individual. His physical body becomes an inconvenience in this scene, and as the ministers deal with the material reality of his death rather than its abstract meaning, the film convinces us of their status as human beings rather than historical concepts.

The Favourite takes a similarly candid approach in representing Queen Anne, its highest-ranking character. I say highest ranking because Anne, while the most powerful character in name, is vulnerable to other characters’ emotional power over her. The film sees Anne most often in a passive role, reacting to her surrounding circumstances. The central conflict occurs between Anne’s trusted confidant and lover Sarah Churchill and her cousin Abigail, whose arrival changes the court’s status quo. While Sarah’s influence over Anne allows her to influence her decision-making, Abigail develops a friendship with Anne that challenges Sarah’s political and emotional power over her.

The value of winning Anne’s favor means that the smallest actions, like a certain intonation or glance, can have significant consequences for the characters’ relationships. Anne’s power — or rather, her title — actually makes her more susceptible to manipulation. She expects to be catered to and cared for, surrendering agency as an exercise of privilege.

Early in the film, Abigail pours Anne hot chocolate, but Sarah stops her, telling Anne it’s unhealthy. Anne protests; the camera captures Abigail, confused, facing the other two on the couch as they argue. She stands with the cup in a low-angle shot, as though from Anne’s vantage point. Though low-angle shots often assign the subject power, this one seems unique. This angle exemplifies the bizarre power dynamic in Anne’s close relationships, as Anne requires her subordinates to dote on her. Sarah, for instance, regulates Anne’s diet to a comical extent; although she allows Anne to drink the hot chocolate, Anne lets the cup sit untouched, signaling her faith in Sarah’s judgment.

The absurdity of this exchange also results from its contrast with Sarah and Anne’s preceding political discussion. As we watch Abigail pour the hot chocolate, the other two talk offscreen about Anne’s raising property taxes to fund the war against France, at Sarah’s insistence. “Are the people really angry about the land tax?” Anne asks. These far-reaching policy decisions take place in the background, speaking to Anne’s limited regard for her actual governing power. Severely detached from the nation she rules, she treats politics as she does interpersonal relationships. Her fickleness and naivety speak to the isolating effect that power can have on a human being, warping their perspective.

As a result, the competition for Anne’s affection is also a competition for power. Her lopsided priorities fuel much of the film’s humor, producing situational irony as the characters assign grave importance to trivial interactions. In this way, The Favourite achieves a similar tone as The Death of Stalin, balancing humor and darkness, but by depicting exaggerated reverence rather than irreverence.

Essential for both The Death of Stalin and The Favourite and distinguishing them from standard cinematic accounts of history is their focus on interpersonal pettiness, which not only brings abstract historical figures to life but makes their humanity plainly visible. The films derive humor from how their neuroses and social blunders fuel political conflict. These foibles aren’t just entertaining, though; they have major consequences for society at large. The contrast between characters’ earthly concerns and their lofty titles and responsibility allows both films to tread a fine line between comedy and darkness. With their faults amplified by considerable power, the ruling class drags subordinates and the public into their internal conflicts, a dynamic neither film allows us to forget.

Resolutions for the Unresolvable Girl in "Promising Young Woman" and "Little Women"

While the recent PG-rated adaptation of Little Women and the provocative social thriller Promising Young Woman couldn’t differ more in tone and aesthetic, they are products of the same moment in a post-#MeToo Hollywood. The two films reflect a tentative optimism about the state of women in film, as well as an interest in reevaluating past portrayals of women.

Shaped by this climate, Little Women and Promising Young Woman tread familiar ground with fresh perspectives. Though they might hope to celebrate women’s victories, both retain some level of skepticism about the future. For one, they acknowledge that having a voice is not enough; these films not only star women but grapple with the extent they can control their own narratives.

Director Emerald Fennell answered the call for subversive female protagonists with Promising Young Woman, which deals with a familiar narrative — the rape-revenge plot — but only partially delivers on the revenge element.

The film stars Carey Mulligan as Cassie, a med-school dropout who spends her weekends entrapping predatory men. Her main target is Al Monroe, who assaulted her late best friend, Nina. In the final 20 minutes, Cassie tracks down Al at his bachelor party and corners him with a scalpel — but in a prolonged, stomach-turning twist, the groom suffocates Cassie to death with a pillow. For those who hoped for a victory over the patriarchy, this scene is a punch to the gut.

On top of thwarting expectations, this moment is captured with brutal honesty. No visual euphemisms shield us from the horror of Cassie’s death, and the pace slows to a near stop as the camera pulls back to document the event. We witness her struggle in real-time as the camera steadily pushes back in, only to take up Al as its subject. Cassie’s limbs are still twitching as she’s edged out of frame.

Then, the tone shifts drastically: a college buddy discovers the scene the next morning and, moments later, reassures Al of his innocence. Cassie is an afterthought as Al’s buddy pulls him into a hug and kisses his head. The exchange is light, verging on comical. The tonal dissonance reaches a climax as the two men burn her body in the woods, set to “Something Wonderful” from The King and I. Al’s friend comforts him as they stare into the fire. “This is a man who tries,” the song promises us.

The tragedy of this sequence of events isn’t just that Cassie fails; it’s also that Cassie is literally and figuratively silenced, and that the film then moves on. She spends the film trying to get justice for another dead woman, only to meet the same fate. The absent Nina lost control of the narrative a long time ago; following Cassie’s abrupt removal from her own story, the ease with which Al assumes center stage rubs salt in the wound. He progresses toward his own happy ending — his wedding day — and gets yet another second chance.

At this point, we viewers might feel that the karmic laws that govern storytelling have been violated; though this injustice is realistic, it’s still narratively unsatisfying. The film seems to sense our disappointment in its final moments and says, “Fine, my treat.”

At the outdoor wedding reception, Cassie’s scheduled texts come through, and they seem to address us directly:

You didn’t think this was the end, did you?

It is now.

Enjoy the wedding!

We — along with the texts’ recipient, Cassie’s ex-boyfriend — realize Cassie has planned for this outcome, having dispersed the necessary evidence ahead of her death. Cue upbeat ‘80s ballad “Angel in the Morning.” Sirens announce the arrival of the ultimate Deus ex Machina; the police escort the bad guy out of frame. Then, the final texts:

Love,

Cassie & Nina

;)

Fennell shared in an interview that she planned to end the film with Cassie’s body burning, but financiers pushed her in another direction. Without this final scene, we could say with certainty that Cassie’s revenge is a futile exercise. But as it stands, Promising Young Woman ends on her last text — a winky-face emoticon! Did she win after all? Is this catharsis?

I’d argue no: The film withholds catharsis. No one mourns Cassie; the final scenes don’t allow space for it. Cassie must posthumously force herself back into the spotlight. If this is victory, it’s the Pyrrhic kind. Yet Cassie engineers this scenario with precision. When forced to compromise, she ultimately decides that regaining control of her and Nina’s narrative is worth it.

I recognized a similar kind of compromise in Greta Gerwig’s Little Women. Gerwig’s adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s text reckons with her choice to marry off Jo March; without diverting from this ending, the film plants seeds of doubt that undermine its legitimacy.

After Jo says a final goodbye to Professor Bhaer, she turns around to find her family and friends smiling at her expectantly. “You love him,” Amy tells her — not a question, but a statement. “No, I don’t,” Jo replies. It doesn’t matter; no one believes her. Her sisters plan a carriage ride to intercept Bhaer. The music swells gleefully, and the following scenes in the carriage and at the train station are bathed in warm yellow light, preparing us for romance. If we detect artifice here, we might be able to ignore it.

Then the music abruptly dies as the film cuts to the coolly lit publishing office. Jo and the publisher are discussing the ending of her novel, “Little Women”; Jo’s current ending is unacceptable because the main character does not marry. The prior scenes hint at artifice, but this one confirms it by revealing a divergence between Gerwig’s Jo March and Jo’s fictional counterpart. Jo points out that her protagonist voices her refusal to marry throughout the book — as she does in the film — and defends her choice.

“The right ending is the one that sells,” the publisher says. Jo ultimately concedes, but she wants the copyright.

La Fiancée Hésitante, Auguste Toulmouche

When the soaring music starts up again and Jo and Bhaer kiss passionately in the rain, the image of Gerwig’s Jo begrudgingly accommodating her publisher is still fresh. These two versions of Jo become difficult to reconcile. The excessive romance of this reunion seems less substantial when compared to Jo’s mercenary pragmatism. In this light, Jo’s family’s insistence that she marry Bhaer is less endearing. The film still adapts its source material’s ending, but it understands Jo March’s marriage as a compromise — both on Jo’s part and Alcott’s.

In the final scene, Jo watches the printing and assembling of her book with a nebulous expression. Her smile is slight, fading before returning. A disembodied arm hands her a completed copy. She’s proud, but that emotion is complicated by uncertainty. While the copyright might belong to her, this story is not purely her own.

Despite its effusive joy, Gerwig’s Little Women cannot give its protagonist a true happy ending. Jo’s womanhood precludes her from an uncompromised triumph. Beholden to patriarchy, Jo has limited control over her own narrative, but she can control which sacrifice she makes.

Keeping Jo March in mind helped me disentangle the messiness of Promising Young Woman — like Jo, Cassie struggles against the confines of her circumstances, evading a neat resolution. The reunion with Bhaer evoked a similar sense of unreality to Al’s arrest, which strikes me as too good to be true. The romantic happy ending is so convenient and cinematic that it casts doubt on itself, and I couldn’t help but feel the same way about the last-minute karma of Al leaving his wedding in cuffs.

Cassie’s posthumous texts are certain of this scene’s finality, definitely claiming that the end “is now,” though Al’s fate will be left up to the justice system. It seems that Cassie declares an ending to her own narrative, regardless of Al’s fate.

My first reaction to the film closing on Cassie’s winky-face was disbelief. I felt it was unearned. What is there to wink about? Upon reflection, the wink seems cued into the sick joke of the situation. As minor characters discover the trail of evidence leading back to her corpse to the tune of an 80’s power ballad, Cassie makes herself heard the only way it seems to work. “I told you so,” the wink says. “I told you I would.”