In the late ’80s, Oliver Stone gave us Wall Street, a film that doesn’t so much critique greed as drape it in a pinstripe suit and let it strut. It’s a morality play with no morals, a glossy sermon where the devil gets the best lines and the choir’s too busy counting cash to sing. At its heart is Bud Fox, a hungry young stockbroker played by Charlie Sheen with the wide-eyed fervor of a kid who’s just discovered the candy store’s unguarded. Bud’s a small-time hustler dreaming of skyscrapers, but his ticket to the top comes in the form of Gordon Gekko—Michael Douglas in a pompadour and suspenders, delivering “Greed is good” like it’s scripture carved in granite. What unfolds is less a cautionary tale than a seduction, a dance between ambition and excess that leaves you wondering if the real sin is getting caught.
Bud starts out pounding the pavement, cold-calling clients from a cubicle that smells of stale coffee and desperation. He’s got a knack for numbers and a nose for opportunity, but he’s still a minnow in a shark tank—until he lands a meeting with Gekko, the corporate raider who turns companies into carcasses faster than you can say “leveraged buyout.” Gekko’s a predator in bespoke tailoring, a man who doesn’t just play the market—he bends it, snapping up airlines and steel mills like they’re clearance-rack ties. Bud offers him a tip about his dad’s airline, and Gekko bites, pulling the kid into his orbit with a promise of riches and a wink that says, This is how the world really works. It’s a Faustian bargain sealed over cigars and single malt, and before long, Bud’s trading his soul for a penthouse view.
The film hums with the electric buzz of ’80s excess—stock tickers clattering like machine guns, traders shouting over each other, and Gekko’s office gleaming with the kind of wealth that doesn’t whisper, it roars. Bud dives in headfirst, ditching his polyester ties for silk, his subway pass for a limo. He’s not just building a fortune; he’s performing it, seducing an art-dealer girlfriend (Daryl Hannah, all cheekbones and calculation) and decorating his life with the trappings of a man who’s made it. Gekko schools him in the art of the deal—insider tips, hostile takeovers, a little light espionage—until Bud’s less a broker than a pirate, raiding equity like it’s buried treasure. There’s a moment where he stands on his balcony, Manhattan glittering below, and you can almost hear the cash piling up, a symphony of greed in finance that drowns out the warning bells.
But Stone doesn’t let the party rage unchecked. The cracks show early—Bud’s dad, a union man played by Martin Sheen with quiet grit, smells the rot in his son’s new life. Gekko’s latest target is that same airline, and what starts as a tip turns into a betrayal, a slow bleed that strips the company bare. Bud’s caught between loyalty and the lure of Gekko’s world, and when he finally picks a side, it’s not redemption—it’s revenge, wired with a tape recorder and a deal with the SEC. The film doesn’t flinch from the fallout: Gekko’s arrested, Bud’s hauled off in cuffs, and the skyline fades to a courtroom gray. It’s a crash landing, but not before we’ve seen the view from the top—and damn if it isn’t dazzling.
Douglas steals the show, his Gekko a reptile in cufflinks, all charm and venom. He’s not a villain—he’s a philosopher, preaching that greed isn’t a flaw but a fuel, the engine of markets and men. Sheen’s Bud is his perfect foil, a puppy turned pitbull, chasing the bone until it bites back. The supporting cast—Hannah, Terence Stamp as a wary rival—flit around like moths to Gekko’s flame, but it’s Douglas who burns the screen down. Stone directs with a slick, propulsive energy, every frame dripping with the cocaine-and-caviar vibe of the era. It’s a film that loves its monsters, even as it locks them in cages.
Wall Street endures because it’s less about 1987 than about us—about the itch we all feel when the jackpot’s in sight. Gekko’s gospel isn’t wrong; it’s just incomplete. He built an empire on audacity, but it’s a house of cards with no foundation—no quiet moves, no tax-advantaged shelters, no buffers against the inevitable raid. Bud learns the hard way that wealth isn’t just about grabbing—it’s about holding, a lesson The Empresario might murmur over a glass of bourbon. Greed in finance isn’t the sin; playing it sloppy is. Gekko didn’t fall because he wanted too much—he fell because he didn’t know where to stash it. The smart ones, the ones who last, don’t just climb the ladder—they rig it. But that’s a story for another day, and we’re not here to spill the beans—just to light the fuse.
