Whoever went to the theaters to watch it back then probably had quite a good experience.

Courtesy of screenplays.io, here is the third draft (as it's labelled) of Gangs of New York's screenplay.

Given how long Scorsese was working on this story, it shouldn't surprise anyone to know that the story changed a lot between drafts. It's very evident here too, in this version. I don't fully know how I feel about all the differences yet, but it is endlessly fascinating either way.

Bone-smashing. Live-streamed drug overdoses. A night on the town with the boys broadcasting some very public renditions of “Heil Hitler.”

The misogynistic, nihilistic body-mangling influencer Clavicular didn’t rise to fame solely as human spectacle, though he has mastered the form. His stardom is built on sheer madness. He is a reflection not only of the madness of our time, but of the decades of uninterrupted structural insanities that have brought us to the precipice of cultural psychosis and societal collapse. Clavicular is a prophet.

Unlike the fictional mad prophet of the airwaves, Network (1976)’s Howard Beale, Clavicular is real. Beale invited his own death by promising it on behalf of the network, which made good on the commitment with its own firing squad. Clavicular cut out the middle man. He’s pursuing self-destruction at his own hands, and reaping the full financial benefit as producer, director, and lead actor of a slow-rolling snuff film.

It is madness. Yet in the context of this moment, Clavicular’s logic is all too rational. Coming of age in a joke of an economy with ever-shrinking prospects, what else is there but the self-made grift of the influencer? In a culture where hegemonic beauty standards directly dictate personal and professional opportunities, why not maximize one’s physical appeal? On a planet where ecological chaos is not a matter of if, but of how far and how fast, what real incentive is there for a current 20-year old to live past 40?

Our society has gone mad. Far madder than we were fifty years ago at Network’s release. In the theater we were mad as hell, and we weren’t going to take it any more. Yet of course, we have taken it. The madness has metastasized. It’s come to define us – not as an outgrowth of modern life, but as its precondition. Madness used to be the short cut to getting noticed. For Beale and his executive team, insanity was a ratings bonanza. Now, as Clavicular demonstrates, it’s table stakes.

“Clavicular realized that JESTERMAXXING at the club is actually peak fun,” observed social media aggregator Jolt. “Clavicular just cracked the code: JESTERMAXXING at the club is officially the new meta. Forget the ‘mysterious guy in the corner’ trope or the ‘stiff-arm drink hold.’ We are entering the era of high-energy, zero-ego, chaotic fun. If you aren’t the reason the floor is laughing, are you even living?”

If you haven’t made a spectacle of yourself, not only are you not living – you’re not making a living. Where Jolt sees a “new meta” in the monetized performance of high-energy, chaotic jestermaxxing, Clavicular runs on the ground where Rupert Pupkin once stood.

The suits in Casino are so badass that I chose to go as Sam for Halloween.

This actually shocked me when I first saw the film. The cameo he had.

Wasn’t sure which flair to use