The Irishman

Dir. Martin Scorsese 209 Minutes

USA

2019

​Starring: Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Joe Pesci, Jesse Plemons, Harvey Keitel, Bobby Cannavale, Anna Paquin, Aleksa Palladina, Stephen Graham, Jack Huston

​****/***** The Irishman sees Scorsese operating in a softer, more melancholic mode, retaining the frantic and kinetic energy of films like Goodfellas and Casino, but with the violence having more of an exhausted inevitability than a source of narrative entertainment. The pleasure to be had feels less of a spectacle nature, but sadder and more thoughtfully executed than its predecessors. And, in many respects, feels like the period at the end of a sentence that he has been creating as early as Mean Streets, making a lovely, epic case both for the notion that his time in this particular underworld has come to an end and that, perhaps, he has been incorrect about how to properly depict it this entire time.  The film follows Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro), a celebrated assassin for the high mob boss Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci), as he recalls from a wheelchair in his nursing home is involvement in the murder and disappearance of union leader Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino). From the early scenes, Scorsese feels to be directly conversing with his earlier work. The aged Sheeran sits among his elderly peers in close-up, De Niro’s voiceover setting the stage before it stops and he talks directly to the viewer. This is a film so rooted in reflection, both for its characters and its filmmaker. While the first two hours move along with an entertaining energy, there is a lack of romanticizing its subjects, and more of a lingering consequence in the violence it depicts. All three central performances are strong in their contrasting ways: De Niro highly reactive, responsive, internal, Pacino boisterous, reactive, external, and Pesci (finally a mob boss) as a terrifying weight resting between the two, able to ignite fear in his slow and quiet manner of saying just a few words of instruction. A late scene between De Niro and Pesci tips the film into its final, emotionally brutal hour, as the film churns along to its final, wistful moments. Scorsese seems highly in command of his material here: a far cry from the immaturity on display of The Wolf of Wall Street, with spiritual interludes that feel more personal than Silence, but interestingly blending the two modes. The film is long, but does not particularly feel it, and in the end as Sheeran reflects to his younger nurse about how life does not feel as fast until one gets to the end it seems correct alongside the 200-plus minutes that had been spent in his company. Portions seem in direct conversation with Goodfellas, especially in its visual language, but to more somber effect. A late group prison scene recalls images of Paul Sorvino cutting garlic or Ray Liotta carrying in fresh loaves of bread to their nightly dinner, but these gangsters a far cry from their peaks. Or the climactic killing of Hoffa emulating Pesci’s death in Goodfellas, but instead of graphically showing the violence (which happens just offscreen) taking its time on the image of its aftermath. Title cards for supporting players introduce them with their name and cause of death, often violently so (with one exception of someone “well-liked by all” who died of “natural causes”), whittling down its players until Sheeran is indeed the last man standing, a man who perhaps lived too long and is forced to just replay events in his head until his inevitable passing. It is impossible (but arguably unnecessary) to not devote a little space to the technological aspect which “de-ages” De Niro and Pesci to allow them to play their younger counterparts (also most recently used in IT: Chapter 2). The effect is a little jarring at first, though the film bounces around in time often enough where it stops being as distracting as it does initially, though some shots fare better than others (De Niro is forced to bear the brunt of these technological choices being our foundation). Perhaps there is an invitation to think about the technology as a “future” whereas Scorsese very explicitly muses on his past within the genre, though this is an area still to think about. The Irishman absolutely works on its own terms, but perhaps is elevated by a knowledge and following of Scorsese’s earlier works. In several respects, it is a film that would look very different had he made it ten or fifteen years ago, probably more focused on entertainment than soul. It is an imperfect work, with the late section perhaps giving a greater weight to the piece that the first two hours, albeit enjoyable, might be missing. But it is difficult to think about what to cut or trim, and one wonders if these later scenes would have the strength they do without everything that comes before it. Scenes of characters talking have a wonderful absurdist tendency (there is a good minute and a half devoted to different types of fish), and the film is rooted in communication: what is said, what is unsaid, what is omitted, what is filler, what is pivotal. Conversation is emphasized in the way that one reflects years later on what may have been a crucial exchange (and, boy, can Pesci make one chill by saying the bare minimum). Violence is present (and certainly graphic) though a feature and not an obsession. Women exist in the form of Sheeran’s wives and daughters, though sidelined in his complete lack of interest in other people outside of “the business” (with his healthiest relationship probably with Hoffa). This is an engaging and terrific piece of work, and perhaps the most latched I have been on a Scorsese picture this decade. As a piece of entertainment, this was expectedly enjoyable.  But its gravitas creeps up, its reflection of life and mortality feel true and personal (comparisons to what is on Tarantino’s mind in Once Upon a Time. . . In Hollywood are apt), and it is a Scorsese more interested in time (his own, his collaborations, his genre, his medium) than seen before. September 27th, 2019​