2019’s The Irishman,
directed by Martin Scorcese.
Starring Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci, Al Pacino, Ray Romano, ,
Stephen Graham, Jesse Plemons, Bobby Cannavale, Harvey Keitel, Aleksa
Palladino, and Kathrine Narducci.
What is it about?
WWII Veteran Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro) drives trucks
and eventually begins skimming his deliveries to sell to organized crime. He
meets up with mobster Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci) and begins to work for him,
before meeting Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino) and getting involved with union
movements. Sheeran is prized for his loyalty and consistency, but those
qualities will be put to the test when Hoffa’s outspoken ways rub the power
establishment the wrong way. Will Sheeran have good or bad memories of what was
to come during his young turk days?
Why is it worth seeing?
Based off of the 2004 novel I heard You Paint Houses, The
Irishman is the work of a confident auteur, now in his late 70’s, who has
nothing left to prove. Unless of course, that auteur is trying to prove that he
can make a film 3.5 hours long that’s still interesting. Filled with Scorcese
flair, it moves similar to his previous genre gangster films- but features a
new wrinkle (no pun intended)- consequence.
There’s a lot of consequential age in The Irishman. Sure, that’s demonstrated by a variety of geriatric Scorcese cast favourites, from De Niro to Pesci to Keitel, not to mention the addition of Pacino- all given various techniques to make them look younger throughout the extended flashback portions of the film. But as the film crawls towards its last third, their ages aren’t masked at all. Neither are the consequences of time- how it saps youth, fuels regret, and takes loved ones from us. While the first two thirds play somewhat like the third chapter of an unofficial Goodfellas/Casino trilogy (and their respective energies), its last third is some of the most sorrowful and mournful work Scorcese has ever done, more comparable to his quieter (and profound) works like Silence and Kundun.
Look, I swear I have an attention span. But a 3.5 hours run time will be challenging for some viewers. Ironically, it’s the first two thirds that threaten to drag, because they go to such familiar places in the Scorcese canon. Scorcese’s mastery of camera movement/close ups of inanimate objects, juxtaposed with habits of accompanying rock music, support familiar tropes of bad men making bad choices, for the sake of gaining power, or keeping it. Inevitably a loose cannon has to be contained, because, well, we did all that we could, but… you know. It’s the Rolling Stones playing their hits all over again, which can get old. Its story also follows Scorcese’s less welcome habits of shoving women firmly into the background (in particular, Anna Paquin is especially wasted, as one of the scornful daughters of De Niro), trapped in a zero sum man’s world. Finally, the addition of Pacino, results in a performance more reminiscent of his more overt 90’s grandstanding (and occasionally even Big Boy Caprice mannerisms).
What I could use even more of, is Pesci’s performance. Yet again, Scorcese was able to coax a dynamite performance out of an actor who previously said that they were done with acting, a retired actor whisperer if there ever was one. Pesci speaks quietly and economically, barely a hint of the over the top menace that he previously won an Oscar for- and it couldn’t resonate louder. The rest of the cast is great as well, a real coup for the casting director. As mentioned above, people may come for an opportunity to witness the greatest hits played yet again, but The Irishman’s greatest achievement is in its feeling of ramifications, first manifested in a tension of not wanting something to happen, followed by the regret that it did. To know it is to be sad. To watch it is divine.
There’s a lot of consequential age in The Irishman. Sure, that’s demonstrated by a variety of geriatric Scorcese cast favourites, from De Niro to Pesci to Keitel, not to mention the addition of Pacino- all given various techniques to make them look younger throughout the extended flashback portions of the film. But as the film crawls towards its last third, their ages aren’t masked at all. Neither are the consequences of time- how it saps youth, fuels regret, and takes loved ones from us. While the first two thirds play somewhat like the third chapter of an unofficial Goodfellas/Casino trilogy (and their respective energies), its last third is some of the most sorrowful and mournful work Scorcese has ever done, more comparable to his quieter (and profound) works like Silence and Kundun.
Look, I swear I have an attention span. But a 3.5 hours run time will be challenging for some viewers. Ironically, it’s the first two thirds that threaten to drag, because they go to such familiar places in the Scorcese canon. Scorcese’s mastery of camera movement/close ups of inanimate objects, juxtaposed with habits of accompanying rock music, support familiar tropes of bad men making bad choices, for the sake of gaining power, or keeping it. Inevitably a loose cannon has to be contained, because, well, we did all that we could, but… you know. It’s the Rolling Stones playing their hits all over again, which can get old. Its story also follows Scorcese’s less welcome habits of shoving women firmly into the background (in particular, Anna Paquin is especially wasted, as one of the scornful daughters of De Niro), trapped in a zero sum man’s world. Finally, the addition of Pacino, results in a performance more reminiscent of his more overt 90’s grandstanding (and occasionally even Big Boy Caprice mannerisms).
What I could use even more of, is Pesci’s performance. Yet again, Scorcese was able to coax a dynamite performance out of an actor who previously said that they were done with acting, a retired actor whisperer if there ever was one. Pesci speaks quietly and economically, barely a hint of the over the top menace that he previously won an Oscar for- and it couldn’t resonate louder. The rest of the cast is great as well, a real coup for the casting director. As mentioned above, people may come for an opportunity to witness the greatest hits played yet again, but The Irishman’s greatest achievement is in its feeling of ramifications, first manifested in a tension of not wanting something to happen, followed by the regret that it did. To know it is to be sad. To watch it is divine.
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