The event is purposely played as an afterthought while it actually occurs, for as little as it could be said to “occur” all the same: a seagull flies into the plane’s engine, your charred body is catapulted into a violent, raging sea, and the rich, possibly drugged-up handsome man - the man who had very directly sent you there - goes back to his more-beautiful-than-any-human-you’ll-ever-meet wife, relaxing on a boat full of Italians who drink wine while dancing to Umberto Tozzi‘s “Gloria.” So it goes. At one relatively indeterminate point in The Wolf of Wall Street‘s lengthy, fuzzy chronology - 150 minutes? six years? - a plane explodes, hurtling the burned corpses of three human beings (or what still exists of them) into a stormy night.
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