The return of Scorsese, De Niro and Pesci is not romantic or sentimental. The Holy Trinity of American gangster cinema returns, but not too as familiar a territory as you might think. This time, they’re exploring the political maze of last century’s most high profile skirmishes, through the eyes of the gangsters once thought of (and who in the film practically admit to) having had a role in the bitter end to some of the mid-20th century’s most high profile figures. When you take all of this into account, and add Al Pacino, Harvey Keitel, Bobby Cannavale and Anna Paquin (in a tremendous, almost dialogue-free performance), there is perhaps room for a little romanticism on the viewers part, even if the film isn’t.
After recently making headlines regarding his opinion relating to Marvel and their output, Scorsese has come under tremendous scrutiny, with some believing him now an old man who’s met his end, an old dog who lost his fastball. Perhaps, but Greg Maddux made a career of not having a fastball. And if Scorsese can’t blow it by us anymore for two-and-a-half or even three hours (a la Casino), then he’ll make us go down looking, thinking about what we saw all the way out to the sidewalk and into the coming days of our lives. This is the effect of his latest effort, The Irishman, (and recently, in 2017’s Silence—after watching at the Arc Light in Hollywood, I carried a sense of grief with me for days, alas… the power of the back door change-up.)
Now, after seeing it and reflecting on it’s own power, I am certain that it is great. It is not, as some would have it, a “retirement” party. If anything, it’s more of a funeral. A quiet, thoughtful meandering through the life of one man and his sins. And ultimately, the damage done to his relationships, his inner sanctum, and the incredible tragedy of loneliness. The Irishman is a meditation on death, and it’s goddamn certainty to (believe it or not, Mr. Hoffa) every single one of us burdened with a life on earth. Feel depressed yet?
Almost every character introduced meets his demise. And if we don’t see it on screen, Scorsese lets us in on the when and where of said character’s death via tongue-in-cheek title cards. There’s a distinct reason for this—because people die. And these men usually don’t die warm in their beds. But burning from a car bomb. Or to the luckiest few, unbeknownst to them, passing from this life to the next as a bullet passes through their brain with so much speed, the brain itself doesn’t register before it clicks itself off for good.
In a sprawling three-and-a-half hour journey through mid twentieth century America, we meet Frank Sheeran, a World War II veteran with over 400 days of hand to hand combat, completely desensitized to the violent folks around him and unperturbed by the violent deeds he’s asked to do.
In a confessional, minor key, De Niro’s “Frank,” the titular “Irishman,” explains to us the ways and inner workings of the mafia and their inherent meddling in the US Government. Like Henry Hill in Goodfellas, Ace Rothstein in Casino, or even Jesus in the Last Temptation of Christ, we’re deep in the throes of this tale at the hands of an unreliable narrator. A hitman raconteur, there’s something more believable about him than say, Henry Hill, or even Jordan Belfort. Dare I say, because he’s a good man? Or rather, De Niro gives him such a tenderness, you’d think he was a good man.
De Niro has always chosen understatement in his greatest roles. In both of his Academy Award winning turns (The Godfather, Part II and Taxi Driver), he is on one hand a quietly brave immigrant earning the respect of his neighborhood, and on the other, a quietly enraged Vietnam veteran, a ticking time bomb of grief, sexual frustration and anger. Later in his career, he began to raise his voice, he began to become larger than life, but here, he’s back to the De Niro of before. The one who garners our respect, and who can erupt at any moment. It’s not his best role, but he’s as comfortable on screen as in his earlier years.
Theories of corruption and coup d’état’s abound. And while they may not be as explicitly stated as truths as they are in Brandt’s book, based off of Sheerhan’s own testimony, they have amazingly all found their way through Sheerhen’s life at some time or other. One could argue that no man in the history of organized crime was involved in, or knew more about, the inner workings of La Cosa Nostra than Frank “The Irishman” Sheerhan. A non-Italian and never “made,” he somehow became trusted by one of the most respected gangsters of last century, the little known Russell Bufalino, played miraculously by Joe Pesci.
We meet Bufalino at the beginning of the picture, in his seventies, taking a road trip with Sheerhan and their wives. At a familiar truck stop, we are magically taken back several decades by tremendous, ground breaking visual effects from Pablo Helman and the team at Industrial Light and Magic. Pesci, the moments ago wrinkled and bespectacled old man, suddenly is twenty-five years younger, his voice more spry, his wrinkles and crows feet disappeared. The same thing has happened to De Niro, his eyes now a vibrant baby blue.
ILM tested the effects of “de-aging,” an expensive post production process that ballooned what should have been an average budget into the stratosphere. As the decade went on, the effects became more concise, and while still not perfect, they oddly work here.
There is one particular scene with a thirty-nine year old Sheerhan and the owner of a corner store. You so clearly see the older De Niro’s body tenderly moving and practically unable to perform the action required for the scene. Yet, his face is that of a thirty-nine year old who shouldn’t move like this. It’s odd looking, and doesn’t really work, until you look at it in context of the movie as a whole, which is the memory of an older, dying man. He remembers his young, fresh face, but that memory comes from an old and beat up body. The dichotomy of this is very interesting, and in line with the theme of the picture.
Anyway, Sheerhan and Bufalino begin a burgeoning friendship. Sheerhan is the affable, respectful young man. Bufalino is the friendly father figure he never had. From here, Sheerhan is introduced to Bufalino’s powerful web of associates who employ him in a various set of ways. Eventually, after upsetting local mafia chieftain Angelo Bruno (played by longtime Scorsese collaborator Harvey Keitel), Sheerhan gets his first (post war) life or death assignment. He does well, and he’s taken in further by Bufalino and his mafia cohorts. Eventually, we meet their friend, Pacino’s loud and boisterous Jimmy Hoffa, the energetic Teamster Leader who was at one point as popular as any President, Elvis, and the Beatles.
De Niro and Pacino serve the film dutifully. Pacino’s trademark “puffy-chest” is on full display (there’s something to be said here about De Niro and Pesci, who are wonderfully understated. Perhaps Pacino didn’t get the memo or wasn’t directed that way. Either way, he’s entertaining.) But Pesci is the true revelation of “The Irishman.” He is the heart and soul of the film and the embodiment of the picture’s main theme: life is fleeting. Like a shooting star, appearing through the ever encompassing night, to be marveled at for a few seconds, and then completely out of sight, gone, only to be remembered. His performance in the last half hour of the picture will leave you as appreciative as ever of this vastly underused, underexposed talent.
Is this movie like anything else Scorsese has directed? As a fan of the man’s work, I say kind of, but not really. Simply because it lives in a gangster genre with frequent collaborators, does not make it fair to pigeon hole this piece of work into the Goodfellas, Casino or even The Wolf of Wall Street milieu. You won’t find the trademark Scorsese whip pans or push ins. Thelma Schoomaker’s always brilliant editing work tends to be a bit more deliberate lacking in the speed department. The Rolling Stones aren’t even close to making an appearance. There’s a grater warmth to these men. Something that makes you gravitate to them for the right reasons.
For example, in Goodfellas we tend to admire the characters for having lots of money and their own set of rules. Our fun is doomed to fail us, but we’re sort of okay with it because, well, you’re entertained by their extravagance. The same can be said for the world portrayed in Wolf. We’re doomed to watch their downfall, and the expectation of their downfall feels right.
But for these guys now, in The Irishman, there’s a different kind of sympathy. It perhaps, is even empathy. Many of us have never seen a group of gangsters in a restaurant taking out their guns and asking how or why they’re funny. But we’ve all seen someone get old. We’ve all seen someone on the brink of the end of life. And no matter what they have done, their suffering—their fear of death, even if they’ve imposed it on others— affects us greatly. We’re witnessing lives ending, relationships deteriorating, and friendships dissolving. We’ve all been there, it’s part of life, and it’s damn sad.
At three-and-a-half hours, some viewers will undoubtably be turned off, and probably won’t even bother. Scorsese’s comments on Marvel didn’t help either. Last month, Scorsese was quoted during an interview as saying something along the lines of “Marvel movies aren’t cinema to me” and the world reacted. The media made this a lot bigger than it’s intention, and I’d like to try and provide context for what I believe he meant.
Scorsese and the great directors of the “film brat” generation, grew up on a steady diet of going out to the movies. They went to independently owned, wonderfully ornate movie palaces, and could find a theater on almost every city block. They grew up on re-releases of Casablanca, Sunset Blvd and musicals like Easter Parade and The Band Wagon. They were able to follow along with the most prominent releases, in real time, of cinema icons like Alfred Hitchcock. And in their late teens and early twenties, they were able to see the challenging, divisive imports that cinephiles flock to the Criterion Channel to discover today, nearly fifty years after their release. Those being the films of Bergman and Fellini, Fassbinder and Godard, among others.
Today’s generation didn’t grow up on the same diet. We grew up on serialized, franchised “sure-things.” There’s nothing wrong with that, but all I’m saying is that it’s the classic “generational gap,” now playing out in cinema, which by the way, is still in it’s nascent stages compared to the arts of literature, music and painting. For us, the audience of today, to be up in arms about Scorsese’s point of view is ridiculous. The way we discuss The Dark Knight and The Avengers was how these filmmakers of the “New Hollywood” discussed East of Eden or A Face in the Crowd. It was a different time, with different content, and I think that much is abundantly clear.
Luckily, we still have great filmmakers like (to name only a few, there are so many) Jordan Peele, Marielle Heller and Ari Aster to provide us with the “cinematic” thrills that Scorsese I believe was alluding to in his comments. Was he bashing Marvel? Of course not. What he was saying is that cinema to him was about the people he saw on his own city block, in Shadows by John Cassavettes or, perhaps the people he couldn’t meet in his little Italian village, like the beautiful dancer in The Red Shoes. Yes, he mentioned how well made the Marvel films are, but for someone conditioned to seeing films like those mentioned above, or two hours and ten minutes of James Stewart silently stalking Kim Novack, he’s not going to be interested in Iron Man, plain and simple. But for us, the generation who grew up on this stuff, we welcome this type of big budget, blockbuster event movie as the very definition of cinema. And that’s perfectly okay.
Lastly, isn’t there always a split between “cinema” and “movies”? Cinema being the hifalutin gateway to understanding and exploring humankind’s foibles, while “movies” were the escape from that into the surreal? Of course, there’s always a financial implication to either, but there’s always been a line, and its placement has varied from filmmaker to filmmaker.
So, don’t skip The Irishman. If you can’t see it in a theater, watch it on Netflix. If you need two sittings, take full advantage. Know this, a cinematic giant is operating at the top of his powers, continually making things fresh. The movie could be shorter. But if a movie like this only to come around once in a generation, what’s the harm in an extra thirty minutes? Who knows, perhaps you’ll find the same romantic charm in the film that I did, and perhaps, some its sadness too.
