If you can imagine the honey-gravel of Ray Liotta’s voice in Goodfellas saying: As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a stockbroker you’ll get some idea of Martin Scorsese’s new movie The Wolf of Wall Street. It’s a raucous, crazily energised, if occasionally slightly shallow epic on a familiar subject, conducted in the classic voiceover-nostalgia style with sugar-rush jukebox slams on the soundtrack. I’ve watched it twice in quick succession now, and though it skirts the edge of cliche, the sheer sustained blitz of bad taste is spectacular. This movie sprints frantically, in the direction of nowhere in particular, like our appalling hero after his first ecstatic toke of crack cocaine. It is based on the memoirs of crooked broker Jordan Belfort who during the 1980s and 90s enjoyed unlimited amounts of sports cars, drugs and prostitutes, paid for by millions of dupes and dopes buying his fraudulently inflated stocks. Finally, like Henry Hill before him, Belfort has to swallow hard and confront the possibility of betraying his partners to minimise the inevitable jail term