Speaking as a Gen Xer, growing up in the analogue '90s undoubtedly seems quaint to today's younger cinemagoers. Among the various aspects of cinematic culture from that decade that now feel somewhat archaic, particularly prehistoric is the fact that - wait for it - it was virtually unheard of for movies, even the biggest, to run anywhere near the three-hour mark.

Then, such excesses were seen as a positive turn-off, as filmmakers strove for narrative economy. Nowadays, as filmmakers and studios desperately try to give their releases the allure of 'event' cinema, exorbitant running times are now par for the course. Off the top of my head, movies few years that have landed in and around the 180-mark have included No Time To Die, The Batman, Oppenheimer, Avatar: The Way Of Water and Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning Part One.

I'm not sure exactly how long Ari Aster's Beau Is Afraid was, but when I went in, Limerick hadn't won a hurling All Ireland since the '70s, and when I came out, they were gearing up for the drive for five. Matching the young pretenders stride for stride is the grandfather of modern cinema, Martin Scorsese. Not content with one three-and-a-half hour epic in The Irishman, the maestro has now unleashed another in Killers Of The Flower Moon.

It's just as well that the films make for a brace of late career masterpieces to add to Scorsese's already glittering filmography. As with The Irishman, Killers... revisits many of the director's favourite subjects, most notably the fundamental entanglement of avarice and corruption in the American story, a theme that's all-too-relevant amid the ungodly shitshow of modern US politics.

The story sees World War 1 vet Ernest Burkart (Leonardo Di Caprio) return to Osage County, Oklahoma where the titular Native American tribe have reaped the spoils of a major oil discovery. Of course, the barely concealed racism and venality of the local white population quickly surfaces.

It is decided that the Osage need "oversight" on their new riches, which is the cue for various levels of graft and exploitation to begin in earnest. It all quickly turns murderous, with the bodies of tribe members accruing, while Ernest's scheming uncle, William King Hale (Robert De Niro), urges his nephew to woo Osage member Mollie, in order to gain a claim on her wealth.

More than ever, during awards season, insufferable Oscar bait has become all the rage in Hollywood over the past decade, with sundry filmmakers' attempts to address serious sociopolitical issues descending into tedious editorials. The fact is, there are precious few contemporary directors - if any - with Scorsese's cinematic artistry, and he injects the movie with his customary panache.

Together with Mexican cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto, the director conjures some gorgeous, sweeping visuals, all beautifully offset by the bravura dustbowl score from the late great Robbie Robertson. But while the filmmaking style is characteristically impeccable, more than ever, Scorsese - as he acknowledged in a masterful GQ profile by Zach Baron - is happy to let his camera settle for prolonged periods and allow the performances to breathe.

Though Di Caprio excels as the sullen, earthy Ernest and De Niro similarly impresses as the oleaginous Hale, it's Gladstone who ultimately walks away with the acting honours. Simply magnetic as the self-possessed Mollie, her performance is alternately knowing, vulnerable, passionate and witty, all underpinned by a sharp intelligence. You'd say it was a shoo-in for an Oscar, but more than ever, trying to anticipate Academy voting is a fool's game.

Elsewhere, there are further impressive turns from the likes of Jesse Plemons (as FBI officer Tom White), John Lithgow and Brendan Fraser, while there's even room from a cameo from one Jack White.

As Scorsese enters the final stages of his career, he has been understandably exercised by the cinema's shrinking place in the cultural conversation. The director is an enthusiast for the Barbenheimer phenomenon, and there has certainly been buzz this autumn for the likes of Killers Of The Flower Moon and David Fincher's The Killer.

Still, it's probably best to temper any hopes that this will presage a new era of serious mainstream movies for adults. More likely, the lesson Hollywood will take is that A-list directors like Scorsese, Fincher, Christopher Nolan and Greta Gerwig can make their passion projects, while the young bucks can content themselves making umpteen Marvel and DC efforts, as the era of (yawn) landfill superhero and IP movies drag on.

But that's a discussion for another day. For now, best to just savour one of the cinema's true pleasures - a classic Martin Scorsese film.