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Keith Uhlich’s “The Wolf of Wall Street” Spares the Rod

In response to Keith Uhlich’s 414‑word review of The Wolf of Wall Street on Time Out New York

By ,

In more than fairness to Keith Uhlich’s The Wolf of Wall Street reflects a rotten ethos than is pandemic in America: every mediocre effort, however devoid of merit, is special, and must have its award ceremony.

And, so, little Tyler Durden, a. k. a. Jordan Belfort, makes money---and soap opera hot tub perks---from a bloated populace just waiting for salvation.  This version of  that fight club wants you to talk about it, especially to gullible garbage men ready for their shot at ‘Poke the Rich Man in the Eye’, by joining him.

Working both ends of the Street, Uhlich’s Wolf howls poetically with, perhaps, its finest climax (off the screen, that is): whatever she-wolf spawned this Romanesque Romulus, he is endowed with such guile, such torrential down-pouring of persuasion that he is not unlike a fully-clothed Johnny Carsonesque entertainer, simultaneously with one hand stopping, the other, encouraging adoring applause, even glee.

Shocking on many levels that leave neither Kinsey nor the seven cardinal sins untouched in the most literal of ways, Uhlich’s Wolf succeeds in salvaging merit where little is to be found, judging the work ‘an invigorating purge. ‘

Sadly, this sounds far too close to euphemizing of a naughty boy upbraided by his motherly conscience; after all, that’s what the old Romans, including Romulus/DiCaprio, called their vomitoria.

Something tells me I’ll bump into Uhlich there, purging.    

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