Martin Scorsese’s “The Wolf of Wall Street” opened this week to much critical acclaim. I haven’t seen it yet, but I wanted to post a review from someone who could verify the film’s authenticity. With that in mind, I’ll now turn it over to today’s guest blogger, a wolf who works in the stock market:
The Wolf of Wall Street is an inaccurate mess. If you like glamorized Hollywood schlock masquerading as compelling drama, this may be for you. But I can say with absolute certainty that this film literally does nothing to recreate the experience of being an actual wolf on Wall Street.
Let me backtrack a bit. For the past 15 years, I’ve been the most successful wolf stockbroker in New York City. Growing up as a young pup in the wilderness of northern Canada, I wanted nothing more than to move to the Big Apple and enter the world of high finance. While my friends hunted rabbits in the forest I was going into town searching garbage cans for copies of the Wall Street Journal. I would even steal hair gel from CVS so I could slick my hair back like Gordon Gekko.
My friends said I was crazy. I can still hear them: “No landlord will lease a New York City apartment to a wolf.” “No respectable men’s clothier will tailor a suit for a wolf.” “No stockbroker will trade with a wolf, they’ll just cower in fear because you are a terrifying apex predator.” Well, I proved them all wrong, and now I have a Manhattan penthouse full of wolf whores and blow to prove it.
Let’s start with Scorsese’s most obvious blunder: despite the name, the title character isn’t even a wolf. Talk about false advertising. The protagonist is literally just a human being with nary a lupine quality. Ever hear of Chekov’s gun, Scorsese? At least make him a werewolf or something. I mean, maybe they were going for some metaphor comparing DiCaprio’s character to a wolf, but how the hell would I know? I can’t comprehend metaphors. I am a wolf.
There are so many unique aspects of being a wolf navigating NASDAQ – adapting from the laid-back forest lifestyle to the fast paced city life, pissing on computers in a misguided attempt to mark your territory, mange – and the film depicts none of them. I mean, a movie about a wolf stockbroker practically writes itself. Shit, a movie about my experience renting a UHaul to move into my first shithole apartment in Queens would be more watchable than this dreck. The guy at the UHaul office was so terrified he gave me like, 8 free boxes.
Wolves are rarely portrayed positively on film – we’re still trying to recover from the PR nightmare caused by that Liam Neeson piece of shit The Grey – so this one had me hopeful. So hopeful, in fact, that I invited a bunch of my wolf buddies to Manhattan to see this in an actual New York movie theater. The film would serve as both a validation of my lifestyle as well as an affirmation for wolves everywhere who aspire to do more than just live in the woods and scare the shit out of deer. So you can imagine my embarrassment when it didn’t contain one fucking wolf. My friends were so mad they immediately left the theater and ate some guy running a falafel cart.
The thing is, I know this shouldn’t bother me. I’m the quintessential alpha wolf. I drive a BMW. Last week I played squash with Bloomberg. I wear blue dress shirts with white cufflinks. I have a beautiful wolf wife, a litter of pups, and an even hotter wolf mistress who I take out to my place in the Hamptons. Well, I don’t really own it, but whenever we show up the people who do get so scared they flee in horror so we have our run of the place. The point is I have a great life and I should be happy with that. But I feel like I had one chance to have my story told, and this was it.
Shame on you, Martin Scorsese. Suck all seven of my nipples. If I see you on the street, I’m viciously attacking you. Mainly because I’m pissed about the movie, but also because given the opportunity a wolf is a wild animal who will eat a person 10 times out of 10.