A work that transcends biography (that of the self-proclaimed wolf Jordan Belfort, played by Leonardo DiCaprio in a state of demonic grace) to become a Dionysian fresco, a Satyricon of finance shot like an ad on amphetamines. Scorsese's camera, guided by the invisible and rhythmically perfect hand of Thelma Schoonmaker in the editing room, never stops. There is no room for moral reflection, no time for condemnation. The film adopts the point of view of its protagonist, but not to glorify him—as his most short-sighted detractors have tritely argued—but to make us drown in his own empty euphoria. It is farcical hyper-realism. We are forced to run alongside Belfort, to laugh at his obscene jokes, to participate in the dwarf tossing, to covet his money, only to discover, at the end of the race, that there is nothing. There is no tragedy, no catharsis, only a pneumatic void filled with banknotes, cocaine, and bodies.

The genius of the film lies in its seemingly chaotic structure, which is actually a masterpiece of rhythmic control. It is a work of postmodern vaudeville. Each sequence is a “number” in its own right, an escalation of depravity that defies the laws of physics and good taste. The infamous “lemmon 714” Quaalude sequence, with DiCaprio's creeping cerebral palsy, is not just physical comedy; it is Beckett rewritten by Rabelais, a body collapsing under the weight of its own insatiable hunger. Scorsese and screenwriter Terence Winter understand that Stratton Oakmont's finance is not economics; it is spectacle. It's a circus, and Belfort is its ringmaster, a P.T. Barnum who has replaced wonders with “pink sheets” (junk stocks). His associates, particularly the delirious Donnie Azoff (Jonah Hill, who perfectly embodies the perverse innocence of desire), are not colleagues; they are his claque, his foul-mouthed apostles.

DiCaprio's performance is crucial. He is not the wolf of the title, but a hybrid between a televangelist and Caligula. His motivational speeches to the Stratton Oakmont audience are not mere harangues; they are sermons. The film captures a fundamental point about the deregulated capitalism of the 1990s (and, by extension, our present): money has ceased to be a means and has become a teleology, a demanding god. The brief but crucial cameo by Mark Hanna (Matthew McConaughey) at the beginning of the film serves as a baptism: the mantra of “beat the flesh” and “fuck the clients” is not professional advice, it is a mystery initiation. It is the rite of passage that transforms a human being into a “wolf.”

But how exactly does the scam work? It is not a matter of complex algorithms. It is a matter of pure, distilled linguistic persuasion. And here, the film reaches almost philosophical heights of meta-textual analysis. Jordan Belfort is, in a sense, a deviant Wittgensteinian. If the Wittgenstein of Philosophical Investigations deconstructed the idea that language serves primarily to “describe” the world, introducing the concept of “language games” (Sprachspiel) – where words derive their meaning from practical use and the social context in which they are employed – Belfort is its most predatory application.

He is not interested in the truth of the action he is selling. The product is irrelevant. What he sells is the language game of wealth. “Sell me this pen,” his famous challenge, is not a sales test; it is a test of reality creation. The mediocre salesperson describes the object (“This pen has nice ink”). The ‘wolf’ creates a need by manipulating the context (“Write your name on that napkin.” “I don't have a pen.” "Exactly. Supply and demand, my friend.“). Belfort does not use language to map a reality (the thesis of the Tractatus); he uses language to construct an alternative reality, a ”world" (to use Wittgenstein again) in which the customer is already late, is already missing an opportunity, and the only salvation is immediate purchase. The “scripts” he imposes on his brokers are not dialogues; they are the rules of a rigged game in which the customer's only winning move is to say “yes.” Belfort doesn't sell stocks; he sells the performance of certainty. In an increasingly abstract and dematerialized financial world, the only thing left that is “real” is the confidence that the voice on the other end of the phone can project.

The film was produced and released in 2013, and this is no coincidence. It emerged from the smoldering ashes of the 2008 financial crisis. The Wolf of Wall Street is the angry and sarcastic response to a decade in which the world saw “captains of industry” ruin the global economy and then walk away with million-dollar bonuses. Scorsese's film is deeply moral precisely because it rejects conventional morality. While Oliver Stone's Wall Street (1987) ended with Gordon Gekko's punishment, an almost touching act of faith in the justice system, Scorsese shows us the grotesque truth: Belfort receives a ridiculous sentence in a resort-like prison and is reborn, unscathed, as a motivational speaker.

This is where the film delivers its most deadly blow. The last shot is not of Belfort. After seeing him on stage at a seminar in New Zealand, asking his usual question (“Sell me this pen”) to an adoring audience, Scorsese's camera moves. It slowly pans around and shows us the faces of the audience. It's us. A sea of normal, hopeful, hungry faces hanging on the wolf's every word, desperate to learn the trick, to discover the secret to getting rich.

Scorsese is telling us that the problem is not just Jordan Belfort. The problem is the system that worships him, that produces him, and that allows him to thrive even after his fall. The wolf is not an anomaly; he is the perfect product of our collective desire. There is no redemption because, deep down, no one really wants it. We just want to know how to sell the pen. And in this merciless mirror, The Wolf of Wall Street ceases to be a black comedy and becomes the most chilling and accurate document of our time.