They’re part of what I like to call The Wolf of Wall Street continuum, a penchant for bawdy dramas that have an aching nostalgia for Martin Scorsese that the 2013 hit set off, that lust for the 70s seen in the drenching of soundtracks with The Rolling Stones hooks. It’s a trend for films where unattractive, uncharismatic men thrive, where filmmakers exhibit an odd affinity for them despite their repulsiveness, the fact the stench of sweat and absorbed cigarette smoke wafts off the screen. Is it their mystifying charm, the harmless fun of watching dirty deeds from a safe distance? The 70s are sweaty, sexy, sloppily and smoothly charming where appearances don’t matter in those polyester suits. I can’t help but shake the feeling that this affinity for the leering and messy has made it’s way off screen. Here, not only greed, but also gluttony is good.