Martin Scorsese has made some great films. His 2006 Best Director Academy Award for The Departed was long overdue. Unfairly for moviegoers and fellow moviemakers alike, though, each new film attached to Scorsese’s name seems to be automatically entered into the Best Picture conversation. His latest, The Wolf of Wall Street, should have no place in that discussion.

The film is a big-budget exhibition of the excesses and pitfalls of unrestrained capitalism. Leonardo DiCaprio leads the cast in the role of Jordan Belfort, a brash stock trader who remorselessly swindled clients out of millions of dollars throughout the better part of the 1990s. Belfort immersed himself in greed, drugs, prostitutes, and ego before attracting the attention of the FBI for the illegality of his dealings.

The Wolf of Wall Street is a story told in two acts: the rise and the fall. The depiction of the rise has drawn the attention of any number of commenters for its strong language and graphic representation of drug use and womanizing. Some fret that these portrayals are a glorification of the lifestyle, and I must admit that I found myself using the word “cocksucker” much more frequently than usual in the hours after I finished watching the movie. But it will become clear to anyone who can endure all three hours of this film that these exorbitances are played out on-screen to illustrate the disconnect between Belfort’s outward enjoyment of life and the private turmoil he endures.

Sound trite? It is, as is every theme of the movie.

Greed is bad. Drugs are bad. Orgies with hookers ruin marriages. None of this is earth-shattering, and all of it has been portrayed on film before — and, in many cases, it has been done better. (DiCaprio’s Belfort even references Gordon Gekko, explicitly closing the circuit between the two preeminent Wall Street films.) Wolf is flashy and adrenaline-fueled, but that should not be enough to warrant consideration by the Academy.

Even Belfort’s fall is unsatisfying. It will not take away from the viewer’s enjoyment of the movie to reveal that the feds eventually catch up with the scheme; this is an obvious part of the basic storytelling arc. Unfortunately, what could be an intriguing cat-and-mouse game plays out in an uninspired series of events that takes us on a superficial tour of the European banking system. Sure, we get to see Jean Dujardin and a few more naked women, but these elements add no depth to the story or characters.

If there is one refreshing fact about The Wolf of Wall Street, it is that it has no contrived “reformation,” feel-good ending. Belfort, who himself appears in the penultimate scene of the movie, is still a prick; he has moved on to a life of “motivational” speaking, which is an inevitability that DiCaprio, to his credit, teased out of Belfort’s personality from his first speech to the assembled employees of Stratton Oakmont.

Unfortunately, this reality means that if you paid to see this movie, not only did you waste your money, but you also financed Belfort’s ongoing predatory deception. The man has made nearly $1.8 million from the publication of his book and the sale of its movie rights. Half of that income is required to be paid in restitution for Belfort’s crimes, but federal prosecutors claim he has paid out only $243,000 in the past four years.

I am surely in the minority here, but I have never been a fan of DiCaprio’s acting. The first hour of Wolf does nothing to change my opinion that DiCaprio’s range is usually limited to portraying Leonardo DiCaprio. By hour two, though, he does disappear into the character of Belfort, and his Quaalude trip to the country club is an entertaining bit. Still, DiCaprio, with his Best Actor nomination, seems to get the same nod and wink from the Academy bouncers as Scorsese does.

Jonah Hill is entertaining as Belfort’s sidekick, Donnie Azoff, and relative newcomer Margot Robbie has no trouble sharing the screen with the veteran DiCaprio, her on-screen husband. The most enjoyable performance, however, is the all-too-brief appearance of a gaunt Matthew McConaughey, obviously pulling double duty between this and the role for which he will win Best Actor.

My treatment of The Wolf of Wall Street has been harsh, which is not to say the film is a bad one. Were it an hour shorter, it might well be a fun, escapist distraction, along the lines of American Hustle (a fine film, but another that does not deserve a Best Picture nod). But in comparing the movie to masterful works of art like 12 Years a Slave, Dallas Buyers Club, and Her — and we must, because the Academy has deemed them peers — Wolf falls woefully short.

All too often, Academy Award-nominated films suffer from an air of superiority, or worse, pretension. I always look back on movies like The English Patient or, worse, Crash as the pinnacle of self-righteous awfulness the Academy heralds from time to time.

That’s why it is so refreshing to be able to say that, above all else, American Hustle, the fast-paced and visually striking look at con artistry in the 1970s, is a genuinely fun movie. You may not walk out of the theater shaken to the very depths of your soul, but you will be smiling.

We’re first introduced to our protagonist, a pudgy, balding con man named Irving Rosenfeld, as he stands in front of a hotel mirror meticulously combing, styling, and gluing on an epic toupee. It’s an opening scene for the ages, staged by director David O. Russell, and is an instant tutorial on the character we’re about to follow for the next two hours. Irving, played with usual greatness by Christian Bale, is a man who puts appearances before all else: he doesn’t necessarily care that he has a beer belly or a bald dome, but he sure as hell isn’t going to let that stop him from walking into a room and owning it instantly.

The opening scene sets us up stylistically and thematically for what is to follow: a zany, kinda-sorta-ripped-from-the-headlines tale of double- and triple-crossing, government embezzlement, and good, old-fashioned, white-knuckle suspense. Irving and his partner, Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams), get pinched in a loan shark scam. In order to save their tails, they must work under the direction of hotshot FBI agent Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper) to entrap politicians in money laundering schemes.

Russell’s direction, equally fluid and unobtrusive, keeps the action moving forward while knowing when to slow down just long enough in some scenes to bring a small sense of gravity to the situation. The triangular relationship between Irving, Sydney, and Richie is far from a traditional “love triangle,” but under Russell’s steady hand, the interplay among these three does carry enough weight to make the viewer actually care about what happens.

For the second year in a row, Russell has orchestrated one of the most impressive feats I’ve seen in movies: his film’s actors have scored Academy Award nods in all four major acting categories (following last year’s slightly-overrated Silver Linings Playbook). Bale and Adams shine brightest in Hustle, while Cooper more than holds his own.

The final key to the acting piece is Jennifer Lawrence, who plays Irving’s long-suffering (and suffering-causing) wife. Lawrence’s work over her career has always been spectacular, so her nomination this year is not surprising, but in contrast to the work of her three co-stars, Lawrence seems to be phoning in this performance. It doesn’t take away much from the film, but it does leave the viewer wishing her role had more substance.

There is much purposely left unsaid here about how American Hustle unfolds. The joy of the film comes from allowing yourself to go with the flow, to let Russell and his cast take you on a madcap adventure that leaves you breathless and craving each new twist and turn. Ultimately, the gravitas and emotional weight of 12 Years a Slave or Gravity may sway Academy voters on March 2, but by overlooking American Hustle, the Academy would be scamming us all.

Alexander Payne, director of Best Picture award nominee Nebraska, allegedly refused to make the movie for several years until the studio relented to his request that the film be shot entirely in black and white.

But now that Nebraska has been released and is earning nearly unanimous positive reviews, one is left to wonder how it could have been filmed any other way. Not in recent time — sorry, The Artist — has the decision to shoot in black and white so effortlessly and powerfully reinforced the main themes of a film.

For the uninitiated, Nebraska tells the story of Woody Grant, a worn-down man who may be suffering from the effects of Alzheimer’s, convinced that he needs to get from his home in Billings, Mont., to Lincoln, Neb., to claim the winnings of a mail sweepstakes. His son, David, unsuccessfully tries to get the old man to see that the winnings are bogus, but when reasoning fails, he decides he will drive his dad to claim his prize.

Let’s be honest: there’s no easier plot convenience than a buddy road trip setup. Yet to call Woody and David buddies would be a stretch. It’s clear throughout the film that Woody preferred alcohol to parenting, and the relationship now seems frayed to say the least.

As Woody, Bruce Dern gives one of those performances that blogs, magazines, and Hollywood Foreign Presses can’t stop raving about. In this case, they’re all absolutely right. Dern’s performance is a jaw-dropper; layered, believable, and heart-wrenching. Every year of Woody’s long, difficult life seems to be implanted in the cracks of Dern’s face and slow-deliberate nature of his vocal delivery.

Aside from Dern’s powerful performance, June Squibb shines as Woody’s vulgar and put-upon wife, Kate, and Will Forte, as David, gives a nuanced performance that stands as one of the most underrated of this movie season.

And yet, for as good as all of the actors are, what really allows them to shine is Bob Nelson’s stunning script: a delicate, interwoven peek into Midwestern United States life. The dialogue is genuine and authentic of the townsfolk who populate the film’s landscape. When Woody and David make a stop in Woody’s hometown on their way to Lincoln, his old friends and neighbors take the rare opportunity to chat with their friend in a way that somehow manages to condense 30 years of real life into one scripted exchange.

Nelson’s script is a tour-de-force, and when he walks away with the Best Original Screenplay award in a few weeks, you’ll understand why. It’s rare that a film’s script actually has the guts to treat all of its characters with the care they deserve, and this may be Nebraska’s greatest attribute.

Nebraska is one of those films that doesn’t allow for passive viewing. Some may find themselves overwhelmed by nostalgia while watching, and I would be hard-pressed to blame them. The black-and-white pictures on the screen seem to enhance the longing that many characters feel: longing for things lost, for family separated, for hometowns long left. Even amid the film’s bits of brevity and occasional hilarity (thanks, Ms. Squibb!), there is unmistakable sadness at its center that was hard to shake days and even weeks afterward.

If you were suddenly face-to-face with an individual who had caused you great pain for over 50 years, would you be able to forgive him or her? Philomena challenges viewers with that question by taking them on a touching journey for answers and closure.

The movie Philomena is based on the book The Lost Child of Philomena Lee by Martin Sixsmith, a journalist and former adviser in the British government. The film follows Martin and Philomena Lee, an elderly, devout Irish Catholic woman, on their journey to find her son, Anthony, whom she birthed at the age of 15. Unable to deal with a pregnant teen, Philomena’s father had sent her to the Sean Ross Abbey to deliver her baby and pay off her debt to the nuns for the subsequent four years.

One day, Philomena learns that Anthony has been adopted and has been taken away without her consent or knowledge. Eventually, Philomena leaves the convent, keeps her past a secret, and builds a family. Finally, after 50 years, Philomena breaks her silence and tells her daughter about Anthony and her time at the convent. Philomena’s daughter pitches the story to Martin, who is looking for a way to bounce back from the nadir of his career, at a cocktail party.

What follows is an excellent portrayal of a truly fascinating human interest story. The duo travels around the world, following leads and piecing together Anthony’s life. In the end, Philomena’s search comes full circle and she finds herself back at the Abbey for a few final questions.

While the story on its own is interesting and heartfelt, what gave the plot even more depth was the juxtaposition of the characters Martin and Philomena. For all intents and purposes, Philomena and Martin are complete opposites.

Martin, played by Steve Coogan (who also co-wrote the screenplay and produced the film), is an academic with a penchant for sarcasm who doesn’t have a simple answer for if God exists. He is generally distrusting of most people and is often angry with everyone surrounding him.

Philomena, portrayed by Dame Judi Dench, is a simple woman with amazing faith in God. While not a member of the intellectual elite, she is still wise in her own way and manner, having worked as a nurse for most of her adult life. She wants to treat everyone kindly and seems to have a knack for making friends wherever she goes. Rather than be angry and dissatisfied with the world, she chooses to be happy and make the best of any situation.

Putting these two unlikely mates in a car and on a transcontinental flight makes for some unexpectedly funny moments in light of the seriousness of their mission. The moment that made me laugh out loud was seeing Philomena describe the plot of Big Momma’s House: “It’s about a little black man pretending to be a big black lady. It looked hilarious, Martin!”

I’m not sure it needs to be mentioned, but Dench’s portrayal of Philomena was extremely heartfelt and moving. While I personally connected more to the character of Martin, Dench’s Philomena was everything a protagonist should be: relatable, friendly, compassionate, and an all-around good person. She impresses on the viewer that she finds no comfort in indignation and would rather move on with her life than wallow in the sorrows of the past. Instead of choosing to be angry, she chooses to forgive.

Near the end of the film, Philomena and Martin confront one of the surviving nuns who had contributed so much pain to the woman over half a century. In this scene, I would have certainly taken the path of Martin. When Martin presses the nun for an explanation, she states that losing her son was Philomena’s punishment to bear for her sins of the flesh. She then snaps at Martin about how Jesus is the only one who can judge her for her actions.

If I were in Philomena’s shoes, I would have then chastised the nun for her self-anointed role as God, judge, and jury. Upon reflection, Philomena’s reaction of forgiveness probably puts the nun in her place more so than any passionate lecture I would have given. Sometimes it is the simplest words and phrases that have the deepest impact. Those three little words, “I forgive you,” can take the wind out of sails of the righteous and bring peace and calm to those who desperately need it.

While Philomena was a solid choice for a Best Picture nominee, I highly doubt the Academy will be awarding it the highest honor. Even though the film had it all in terms of emotion, it lacked a certain punch that the Best Picture films have had over the past few years. I’m not sure the Catholic Church’s sins in this movie will resonate with voters as resoundingly as those of the Texas bull riders in Dallas Buyers Club or the American slave owners in 12 Years a Slave. However, missing out on this nominee would be a mistake for any fan of cinema.