David Remnick: Here's my man. How are you?

David Grann: Hey, I'm good, I'm good. Good to see you.

David Remnick: The New Yorker over 99 years has been privileged to publish a lot of astonishing writers of non-fiction, and David Grann is certainly among the best. Yet David's work lately has become as popular as it is great. Killers of the Flower Moon has held a spot on the bestseller list for almost two years running, and a film version directed by Martin Scorsese opens in theaters next month. David's latest book, The Wager, also hit number one this summer, and it's been sold to the very same Martin Scorsese for a movie as well.

At the same time, I can report from long years together as friends and colleagues that success has not spoiled David Grann. No one I know is less complacent about his work, and no one I know is less self-satisfied. His urge to find unique stories and tell them with rigor and style is rare to the vanishing point. David has worked like crazy to get where he is today.

David Grann: I had been wanting to write for The New Yorker for a long time to write these unusual narratives that I like to do, eccentric topics. In my usual style, I was terrified to do so. It took me about 10 years to work up the courage to pitch a story. I wanted to find a story that I couldn't fall on my face on. I kept looking, I kept looking, and eventually, I found the story, Old Man and the Gun, which was about a serial bank robber who was also probably the greatest. He robbed banks into his 70s. Then he was also probably the greatest prison escape artist in American history.

He broke out of San Quentin in a kayak, and what you're painting on the side, Rub-a-Dub-Dub. He used a hearing aid when he robbed banks into his 70s. I'd say, nobody can mess this story up.

David Remnick: That story, The Old Man and the Gun, was David Grann's first for The New Yorker, and it later became a film with Robert Redford. We'll talk about the movies a little later, but the foundation of David's success is his deep, almost obsessive writing process. If you've ever wanted to write anything in non-fiction, get out your notepad because, in our conversation, David Grann delivers a masterclass. Before coming to The New Yorker, you wrote for The New Republic, the Times Magazine, even if I remember right, a piece or two for The Atlantic?

David Grann: That is correct. Yes.

David Remnick: What was the difference here? If I remember correctly, and it's always been my impression, the worst thing I could ever do to David Grann is go to you and say, "Could you do a profile of, I don't know, Donald Trump or Senator so and so who's in the news?" That was just distinctly not your thing, but you would had a background in that thing.

David Grann: That was my background years. It's funny you take the jobs you get as an aspiring writer. My first job was at The Hill newspaper. I was actually hired as a copy editor. What they didn't realize is I'm not the best at grammar, and I'm also partially blind. The idea of me as a copy editor is a bit hysterical. In that chaos as it is, I then quickly rose to executive editor there. Because of that first job, I just needed a paying job. I was always thought of as this political person, got a cover campaigns.

David Remnick: You hated it ish?

David Grann: Ish. I think that the truth is you need to love it so much to be able to penetrate the veil of consultancy and political speak and to get the inner story. There are people who do it amazingly well. I didn't love it enough to want to spend all that time getting through press secretaries and consultants. My idea or my dream of reporting is to spend hours with a subject, to disappear around them, to observe them in their job or their profession. They forget I'm even around. The turning point really came when I was at The New Republic and I did a story on congressman trafficking.

Probably many listeners will not remember him, but he had this crazy hairdo that stuck up on its head. He was a congressman from Ohio. We later learned that that was a toupee. I never thought it was a toupee because nobody--

David Remnick: That was the least of his problems.

David Grann: Yes, that was the least of his problems. You never would think that anyone get a toupee that bad. Everybody assumed it was real because nobody would ever get a toupee.

David Remnick: Hard to believe? I'm wearing a toupee. [laughs]

David Grann: He was a congressman from Ohio, and I learned that he was being investigated by the Justice Department on allegations of corruption. I made a trip out to Ohio to Youngstown, where he had been congressman, he was congressman of. I went to a courthouse. In the courthouse, I found a transcript of a wire tap that was made by a mobster. I'm reading this thing, and suddenly, the honorable gentleman from Ohio is talking about taking bribes from the mob about people coming up swimming in the Mahoning River.

He is dropping the F-bomb every other word. I'm just like-- There, I pierced the veil. I was just like, "Oh my God, this is not how you ordinarily hear the dialog of DC." I thought, these are the stories I want to tell, and these are the voices I want to get, these real unvarnished voices. It was also the first time I realized the power of archives. I really was like, "Oh my God, this transcript was just sitting around gathering dust in some box. Probably no one had looked at it for 25 years," and I was just astonished by what it said.

I think it's hard to emphasize too much the degree to which it's become, if not impossible, but then impossibly difficult to write about anybody in American public life today who has a measure of fame, whether it's a pop star or athletes or politicians. If I called you up, "David, I'd really love you to do a profile of Beyoncé." I think all I would hear at the other end of the line is, Click.

David Remnick: Yes.

David Grann: It just wouldn't be for me because of that. If somebody was willing to really let you spend time with them to observe, then I would be happy to do it because it's not that these people aren't interesting often. Sometimes fame doesn't correlate with interest, too. That is when you cover athletes as you have. One of the things you learn about athletes is the best person is not necessarily the most talented is not necessarily the most interesting on a team. They're not the most articulate or insightful about their craft.

There are people in these fields who are really interested. There are politicians or friends of them, but it's just penetrating and it's so difficult.

David Remnick: In The Devil and Charlotte Combs, which is your collection of pieces largely from The New Yorker. There's a profile there of an athlete who is enormously famous in his time in the Major Leagues for the Oakland As and the Yankees and so on, Ricky Henderson, a great bass dealer. You were then seeing him, I think, at the age of-- He was in his late 40s, not even a Minor League team, but some off-the-radar something team. At that point, he comes before you in all his humanity.

David Grann: Yes. It was interesting because that was a story. I had followed Ricky Henderson, who was far past his prime, but was desperate to get into the major. He was a very flamboyant player. He always used the third person, Ricky this, Ricky that.

David Remnick: He wanted to get back into the Big League.

David Grann: He wanted to get back into the Big League. He'd been doing this for years. Before I came to The New Yorker, or pitch this, and everyone was like, "No, this moment is gone. Nobody cares about him anymore." I thought, "No, no, no." This is such pathos. Not only here, this pathos is somebody who had been at the very pinnacle of his career and is struggling with that great riddle of mortality, which has just come so young for an athlete. 43, old for an athlete, but in his prime for most careers. What is that like psychologically?

He also, because there was no press, he was somebody who was surrounded by press in his career, and we just blow them off. He suddenly was like, "Come on down." He let me sit on the dugout next to him because he was so lonely.

David Remnick: This always struck me about you, David. You're getting better and better all the time. Who are you learning from? What are you learning from? What are you reading a non-fiction that you said, "Ah, I need to pick up on that."

David Grann: I'm fortunate enough to work with so many great colleagues, whether it be Burkhardt [unintelligible 00:08:56], Lawrence Wright. You just pick up the magazine, you read these people who do it, and they do it so well. Larry has been doing it for a long time. Jane Mayer, as an investigative reporter. I also read a lot of fiction. I tend to read more fiction for pleasure because I have to read so much non-fiction for work. I'm just hopefully studying techniques of getting better with language and how to structure stories.

What I realized is, as I did this more, is that you are an excavator. You aren't imagining the story. You are excavating the story. The most profound revelation I had was when I was working on a story here for the magazine about a squid hunter. That story came about in very funny circumstances. I was new to The New Yorker. I was, as I want to be behind on my contract to produce a certain number of stories, I'm getting David Remnick looking at his watch when he walks by my office, and I'm frantically at that stage.

I had a little boy and you're worried, I knew you're worried about your job. Are you going to make it at this place you've wanted to be at? I was frantically calling around everybody I knew for a story idea, and I eventually called a friend of mine. He said, "Why don't you look for the giant squid that would make some news?" I really thought it was a myth, and then I got off the phone, I looked it up and I said, "Sure enough, it was a real creature." I had eyes the size of a human head, had these tentacles that stretched as long as a school bus."

Yet, at that time, no scientists had ever document it alive. I thought, "Well, okay, well that's interesting," but there's no story. How are you going to tell a narrative that would make a Wikipedia entry? How are you going to tell a narrative based on that? Lo and behold, I then learned there were these giant squid hunters who had obsessively devoted their lives to trying to become the first to capture this creature. Then eventually, I learned there was this giant squid hunter in New Zealand named Steve O'Shea, was probably the most obsessed of all.

He had come up with this very novel idea, rather than trying to capture the big calamari, as he called it. He was going to try to capture the baby. It was only the size of a cricket. Then I went down to you, David, and to my at long time editor Daniel Zalewski. I may have committed that sin that reporters sometimes do in their desperation, which is to oversell a story. I'm like talking about squid migration patterns, and I said, "Look, he's inviting me to go down to New Zealand and he tells me we're going to make history and I'll look, I'll bring you back a photograph.

No one's ever had a photograph. He's going to capture this baby and grow it in captivity. We're going to make history." You looked at me and you said, "All right, God speed," and so you sent me down to New Zealand. The second I got to New Zealand, everything began to go wrong, just everything. I got there, I took one look at the boat, and I really did think we were going to be going in some Jacques Cousteau-like vessel. It turned out the boat was a skiff. I can't remember now, maybe 16 feet, maybe it was a little bigger.

It had an outboard motor. He had basically [unintelligible 00:12:03], basically bankrupted himself looking for the giant squid, and this was all he had.

David Remnick: For this, I've flown all the way to New Zealand.

David Grann: Yes, to New Zealand and to capture this baby and then his only crew was a graduate student who got seasick and me. Then he turns to me and he says to me, "I should warn you, mate. There's a wee bit of a cyclone coming our way."

David Remnick: Great.

David Grann: He wasn't exaggerating. There was a cyclone come air where there was a national emergency. The power soon went out though. I said, "All right, we'll just wait it out." He said, "Oh, no, no, we can't wait it out because apparently, these are the things you learn on a journey, like this giant squid only spawn at this period in New Zealand so we got to go now."

David Remnick: [laughs]

David Grann: We head out in this little boat, and then he starts to aim towards the chute where all the ocean is funneling through. He starts staying right towards it. I take my flashlight and I turn towards us. There's a mountain of water in front of us. I look behind me, there's a mountain of water, and the boat is just sloshing about jumping. He turns to me and says, "You won't find this in New York, will you, mate?" I'm paraphrasing these quotes. Then it was in that moment where I was like truly wondering whether my captain was fully in command of all his faculties, but he manages to lead us out.

We start to drop these traps in the water. We do this night after night, dropping these traps. He put me to work. My favorite type of reporting is just to quietly observe. I'm the [unintelligible 00:13:27] reporter, just disappear. Instead, he put me to work. We're pulling these trap out after all to no avail, again and again, all to no avail. Then about the fourth, I can't remember what night it was, but one night, about 3:00 in the morning, we pull up the trap and the graduate student says, "Oh my God, that's your dream squid."

Steve O'Shea puts his eye right up against the container and he's like, "Oh my God. Archi," which was abbreviation for the scientific term for Architeuthis and we have to transfer it into another container. Now, you got to understand, we've been doing this for nights. We're exhausted. Cyclone has passed, but it's still rough, and as we're transferring it, suddenly Steve O'Shea says, "Oh my God, where the bloody hell did it go?" It had disappeared, we had seemingly lost it. I looked at Steve O'Shea's face and a look of despair like I'd never seen before.

All I was thinking in that moment was a completely selfish thought was, "I am dead." I persuaded my editors to fly me out to New Zealand. I'm behind on my contract and what we-- I've been out here for weeks. We had it and we lost it. There's no story. I was convinced there was absolutely no story. It was only later that it dawned on me, and for me, it was such a learning experience like that. That was the story. I was steering right at it, and I swear to God, I could not even see it that this was a story about an obsessed person who had devoted his life.

He had his grail and then he lost it. The pain and the anguish of that, the story wasn't this Hollywood fairy tale I concocted in my imagination, which is, "Oh, we get this baby," which so much less interesting. It just really taught me, it was such a funny, but it was such a profound experience to realize, to always keep your eyes open to the stories, you don't know how many of these stories when they're unfolding in real time are going to end. It's often the most interesting ends are the ones we're not even looking for.

David Remnick: David Grann author of Killers of the Flower Moon and The Wager. We'll continue our conversation with him in just a moment. This is The New Yorker Radio Hour. This is The New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. David Grann is a staff writer for The New Yorker and the author of two nonfiction books that have topped the bestseller list this summer. Killers of the Flower Moon is about a harrowing case of multiple murders in Oklahoma of Indians whose land had suddenly become valuable through oil rights.

The book was adapted to film by Martin Scorsese, and the movie comes out this fall. Scorsese is also adapting David Grann's newest book, The Wager about a shipwreck and a Mutiny in the 18th century. David spent years in archives and on the high seas to tell that story. Sometimes you undersell the degree to which you throw yourself into a story, and I mean undersell it in the telling of the story itself.

In your new book, The Wager, which is a story about shipwreck, imperialism, mutiny, and murder, you in the furtherance of your story, which was all there in the archive seemingly, you made a three-week trip to God knows where off the coast of Chile to find this island where the mutiny and the shipwreck occurs, and it barely shows up in the book. You barely tell us you went on this trip, except maybe a little bit in the acknowledgment, which I think is the coolest move I've ever seen. It's such a cool move. Tell me about that trip and why you don't include it in any real way, in any full way, in The Wager.

David Grann: Yes. It's interesting. I think, as a reporter and a writer, you're always gnawed by doubts. I am somebody by nature-- What I eat for breakfast provokes doubts, but when I'm working on a story, the doubts can be quite large and the doubts are always annoying at you. What don't you know? What more could you learn? I also, even when people are passed, so in The Wager, these people are long since dead. It takes place in the 1700, you always feel a certain moral obligation.

I think not to be pretentious, but a certain obligation to try to understand what these people went through. Your job is not to exculpate them or to overly extol them, it's to understand them and narrate what happened as truth as possible. These are British sailors who have gone off to fight the Spanish. [unintelligible 00:18:24] fights in to chase a Spanish guy and filled with treasure, known as the prize of all the ocean and everything, talk about everything going wrong. It made my squid trip look like a piece of cake.

They faced scurvy and typhoons and tidal waves, and then eventually, The Wager of wrecks on this desolate island off the coast of Chile. After about two years, I had been combing the archives. There was a remarkable reserve of these primary materials that I don't know how they survive, but some survive going around the world, some survive shipwreck their water stain, the bindings are disintegrating, but you can go there, you can read them, you might need a magnifying glass, but you could really vividly reconstruct what happened.

Yet, I kept wondering, "What is that island really like?" One officer, a British officer, described it as a place where the soul of the man dies in him, which probably should have told me not to go, but I'm thinking--

David Remnick: It might've been a hint. You can use Google Maps or something.

David Grann: There were a couple. The other hint was that the place where the island is where they wrecked is known as a Golfo de Peñas, which translates as the Gulf of Sorrows or as some call it the Gulf of Pain. That should've also told me.

David Remnick: Another hint.

David Grann: Another hint not to go, but in any case, I just like, "Oh, I better go to Wager Island. We're going to go." Then I look around and I start asking around and I find some, and eventually, I find a captain who is in [unintelligible 00:19:38] Island who has a boat. The captain slept by the wheel of this boat just on a cushion. The boat was heated by wood, even though it was winter. We had a wood stove, we had to chop with to heat it. Patagonia, I had never been, which is partly why I felt the need to go.

If you go along the [unintelligible 00:19:55] there, actually all these fragmented islands. It looks like someone almost smashed a plate. If you stay between the islands and weave in those channels, you're actually shielded from the--

David Remnick: As we learned from the book.

David Grann: Yes, from the brunt of the ocean. This goes on for several days, and my confidence is growing. We would stop to chop down wood, and then we would get water from glacial streams. We take a hose, and we get the coldest shower I ever had. It was like two seconds. I did it just so I wouldn't stink. I didn't do it every day. It was like every three day, I'll take a two-second shower. After about several days, as the captain turns to say, "Well, now if you want to get to Wager Island, we're going to have to go out into the ocean."

We head out into the ocean, and that's when I got my first glimpse of the seas. The boat was just rocking. It felt like a ping-pong ball, and you were in the middle of it in the ocean. I was truly drunk on the Dramamine, and I was like-- and the other thing which was funny was you couldn't-- you had to sit, you had to sit on the cabin floor because if you stood, you really would break a limb. You would just get chucked. You had to just sit on the floor of the deck, holding on. Obviously, there's nothing to do for hours and hours.

I had on my iPhone with me an audible recording. I was reading all of Melville back then. I had Moby Dick on my iPhone which--

David Remnick: Wait a minute. Some guy is reading Moby Dick on iPhone [crosstalk] while you trying not to throw up and die.

David Grann: Yes. The dumbest thing possible. Like I said, I'm not very wise. I don't know why. In any case, that was a great novel in retrospect, not the smartest thing to do. We get into the bay eventually. We were following in reverse, actually, the path that some of the castaways trying to get off the island had followed. It was just really interesting. We passed some islands and the captain points to them, and he says, "That's Smith Island, that's Hobbes Island, that's--" He sounded very British to me. I had some of the copies of the journals and I went and looked at them.

Sure enough, those were the names of these British castaways who after one of the castaway boats had sunk, they didn't have room for them in the other boat. They were abandoned on these islands. This was their epitaph. The captain didn't know why that was their names. She just knew that there was data. I just found that so interesting how history-- we stand on history, and often, we don't even know the history. Eventually, we did. We got to Wager Island, we explored it. It remains this place of wild desolation, completely desolate.

We found some wild celery on the island, which the castaways had eaten, which had helped cure the scurvy, but there's virtually no other food. Being on that island, it did actually really help me understand why that officer had just got his place for this old man dies in him. It really was. I don't describe my own trip in the book because it didn't feel germane. My journey did not feel germane as a narrative unto itself. It felt distracting. Yet that trip and that experience did breathe life into my descriptions, my understanding of their journals.

You want to describe the trees because, in journals, they describe things, but you can then see them yourselves.

David Remnick: You can do it with more confidence.

David Grann: You could do it with more confidence. Are they exaggerating, or aren't they? That was part of the thing when they're always saying they were hungry, there's no food. I'm like, "Really? No food? You're starving? Can't you find any food?" I was like, "Oh, yes, no, there's really--"

David Remnick: That celery is--

David Grann: Yes, the celery ain't much.

David Remnick: One of the things that's been very striking to me in recent years is that not only are you seeking, it seems to me, as a reader, stories, but stories that have greater-- you'll forgive me, political meaning. If I look at Killers of the Flower Moon and I look at The Lost City of Z and The Wager in particular, they're telling me something about power, about imperialism about the strong and the weak. I wonder how much these grander themes, these political themes, are part of your search.

David Grann: Very much so. I think in a way, they're-- I don't want to say the most important, but I don't want to do a story if it's just interesting or fascinating or even gripping. You really wanted to illuminate something larger and tell you something larger about the world in which we live and where we come from. I'll just tell you quickly, for example, about The Wager, because I think that really illuminates that and why I chose to tell that-- one of the reasons I chose to write that book.

I first came across a journal by the 16-year-old midshipman on The Wager, a man named-- he's a boy, then John Byron, who would go on to become the grandfather of the poet, Lord Byron. I read this account. It's written in this old, stilted English, and I had just stumbled upon it. The more I read, the more I was held by it, the more I realized that this journal held the clues to really one of the more extraordinary sagas of survival, resilience, mayhem I had come across. That would not have been enough for me to then want to go write that book.

As I was doing research and going to these archives, I realized that what happened when many of the castaways got back to England, they were summoned to face a court-martial for their alleged crimes. They all begin to tell their story or manipulate their stories or shade their stories. They were talking about disinformation and misinformation, and I swear to God, allegations of fake journals. Then I was coming home, and I was flipping on the news. We are living in a post-truth world right now with people screaming about alternative facts and fake news and whatnot.

Then I would go back to these archives, 18th century, dusty, weird, you know? They're having a battle over history. Who would get to tell the history? Who had the right to tell the history? If you weren't an aristocrat, could you tell the history? Also, the Empire didn't want to tell the true story. It wanted to whitewash that history. Of course, I'm coming home, and we're having battles over history. Killers of the Flower Moon. For example, there was a teacher in Oklahoma who was afraid to teach the book.

I just felt like, "Okay, this story has all these other dimensions." I'll find other dimensions along the journey, but it has these other dimensions. It begins to really reveal something, and it feels deeply resonant. I had no intention. It wasn't like I'm a naval historian who say, "Oh, I really want to tell a story in the 18th century." It was like the last place I wanted to end up, in a way. I didn't know anything about ships-- naval ships, naval life. The story took me there, and I just followed the story. The story felt larger than just its particulars.

David Remnick: David, you've now become involved in a form that the story comes out of your hands. In other words, when you're writing your book, it's you. You are in control of the source materials. You're in control of the writing. If your editor makes a suggestion, you are, I presume, free to say, "I think I'll stick with what I have," or not, you're in control. It is by David Grann. Now, Killers of the Flower Moon is coming out as a film by Martin Scorsese and The Wager will one day as well. The Old Man and the Gun became a film.

You've had good fortune with this, and those aren't the only ones. How does it feel to have your book land in someone else's hands, even hands as capable as Scorsese and you're not quite in control?

David Grann: No, and you're not. You really have to accept that. I would say it's a learning curve because I've never been in the world of Hollywood. I've never tried to write a screenplay. It's not a place that I've been drawn to do any work. I really like what I do, and it consumes me.

David Remnick: What's your role on these films?

David Grann: It will depend on each production. Usually, your role is as a resource. You're a historical resource or archival resource, and it will vary. Some people will draw on you more. Some actors want to draw on you more in their methodologies and learning, did this person walk with a limp? Oh, I want to hear his voice. Do you have anything in his voice you can help me? Sometimes they might want to talk out a plot point to make sure it's factually accurate or to better understand it. It's usually that.

David Remnick: What were your interactions with people like Scorsese and DiCaprio?

David Grann: Working with them was pretty wonderful. They're artists. It's not like these are people I spend time with. In a lot of ways, it was like talking with an editor because they're just really just curious. They just want to know more. The production team would call me a lot with endless questions for research or material, which I would send them. I remember once they asked me a question like, "Can you help us? What was the lighting in the room?" I was thought about it for a long time.

I was like, "You know what? That's something I would not need to know writing a book. I have no idea what the lighting was like in this house in the 1920s. I know they had lights, but was it electric?" They're figuring that out visually. With DiCaprio, questions about just-- he was a veracious just learner, wanting to know everything about the person, the real person he was going to play. Get back to your [unintelligible 00:29:55] you have to let go. I try my best, and I have been incredibly fortune to get in the hands of people who actually know what they're doing.

I have no idea how to make a film, and I don't pretend to know how to make a film, and I'm not actually interested in making a film. I'm really interested in these stories. I love that somebody else with their own vision and intellect is going to draw on this story and add to our understanding of whatever this work is. With something like Killers of the Flower Moon, I would see each project is doing.

Killers of the Flower Moon, the challenge was so high, but one of the amazing things with the project like Killers of the Flower Moon was Scorsese and everybody from the actors worked so closely with members of the Osage Nation to develop the story, to shape the story. The Osage were involved in every element of that from there are actors to the Osage language is spoken to bring that out world into life. To me, that was the most important thing in the project. It's not how they really adapt my work. It's how they're going to develop this piece of history and the Osage story that matters to me.

David Remnick: You are now, David, how old are you?

David Grann: I'm 56.

David Remnick: When you look at the future as a writer for yourself, what do you see?

David Grann: It's interesting. It gets harder. Two things get harder, I think. Well, one, writing has never been easy for me. I've watched the way you write, you're a very fast writer. I know people are much more fast with this than I am. It's always hard for me. I think the hardest thing for me is stamina because these projects do take a lot out of me because I do these trips and because you want to do it and meet a certain standard. I think the biggest challenge in a way is I just, I'm happy to keep doing what I'm doing. It's just a level of stamina.

David Remnick: Do you see yourself like Robert Caro in your mid-80s?

David Grann: No.

David Remnick: Dealing with Moby Dick?

David Grann: Absolutely not. I know people don't believe it, but no, I don't.

David Remnick: Do you see yourself at a certain point going, "You know what, time to retire to a Caribbean island"?

David Grann: I don't think I could keep up at a certain level at a certain point. There are things I love. I love to read. I don't think I will. People insist I'm completely lying and maybe I'm lying to myself. You know you never know yourself. That's the other great riddle when you report. You're not only reporting about others, you're actually learning about yourself, and you often don't. Just as other people, your subjects don't know who exactly they often are or the way they present themselves, you often don't know exactly who you are.

I say that and I actually genuinely believe it but whether it's true or not, we'll find out. Many other people around me say it's not true that my compulsions will continue.

David Remnick: I'm hoping that will continue well for a very long time. David Grann, thank you so much.

David Grann: Oh, it's my pleasure.

David Remnick: David Grann is a staff writer for The New Yorker. Killers of the Flower Moon, the film, based on his book, opens early October.

 

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