To my mind it is a fact, a cold, clinical and inarguable
fact, that Martin Scorsese is one of the finest filmmakers of our generation.
Any generation for that matter. The man’s body of work is second-to-none. Even
if his gangster epics aren’t your bag, he’s a master of historical epics. If
you crave something a little more modern, then his character studies founded
upon the parasitic relationship between man and society are right up your alley.
And, if those sound a little too heavy, Scorsese revels in creating moments and
films that can put a smile on your face and the twinkle of true wonder in your
eyes. The man is a master of film and, beyond his time spent in the director’s
chair with his oversized spectacles pressed to the viewfinder of the camera, he
is committed to honoring the legacy of film if not in the physical preservation
of filmstock than in the deliberate homage to past masters in his own movies.
All of this is to say that when Scorsese emerged as
the villain in the public consciousness, I was dejected to say the very least. To
my mind, Martin Scorsese’s opinion on the hugely successful Marvel franchise is
irrelevant. What does it matter if the 77-year old Scorsese finds little to
connect with in the wham-bang shenanigans of the Marvel Cinematic Universe? The
man’s opinion will do nothing to the detriment of the media juggernaut;
audiences will still flock to support their favorite on-screen heroes and their
favorite studio, even if that studio is founded upon the mining of nostalgia instead
of the telling of original stories. If anything, it is the fact that Disney,
Marvel’s parent company, is hesitant to deviate from their tried-and-true
formula that fosters Scorsese’s temper. The Marvel movies and the seemingly
infinite number of live-action remakes of Disney animated classics do not push
the envelope one millimeter; they are passive entertainment to be enjoyed from
the sunken seat of your recliner, experiences that the viewer knows will end in
the very same place they started. In other words, Scorsese’s suggestion that
these movies were amusement park rides could not be more apt.
The vitriol that was seemingly lobbed at Scorsese from
all corners of the acid-bathed Internet could not be ill-timed as Scorsese was
making the rounds publicizing the release of his latest film, The Irishman.
A return to the gangster film genre which had in 2006 reaped Scorsese and co. a
Best Picture Academy Award for The Departed, The Irishman was –
personally speaking – one of the most anticipated films of the year; certainly,
of the past few years. It was a perfect storm on screen: Scorsese reteaming
with Robert De Niro for the first time since Casino (1995); Joe Pesci,
formally retired from film acting returning the big screen in nearly a decade; Al
Pacino debuting under Scorsese’s direction; a script penned by Steven Zaillian,
the man who penned the screenplays to Schindler’s List, Gangs of New
York, and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo to name a but a few successes
from his filmography; and a gestation period of nearly ten years allowing Scorsese
to age the film as if it were a fine wine. In other words, the film seemed too
good, and prior to release I was utterly convinced that if Scorsese – known for
his love of the Rolling Stones and a particular fondness for “Gimme Shelter” –
dropped that first song from Let it Bleed into the film’s soundtrack then
it would have been perfect.
“Gimme Shelter” may not have turned up in The Irishman,
but there really was no place for it in the bleak and uncompromising film. Nevertheless,
The Irishman came pretty darn close to being perfect, as close to a religious experience as I have seen film fans come in a long while.
The Netflix-produced film (for those who have skipped
over it when it pops up in their list of trending titles) tells the story of
Frank Sheeran (De Niro), a small-time crook who rises through the ranks of the
Philadelphia mob and eventually gains status in the Teamsters union alongside
Jimmy Hoffa (Pacino), finding his allegiance torn between the two men who call
themselves his best friend (among them a prominent gangster played with nuance
and quiet intimacy by Pesci), and losing his identity in the process.
The synopsis should speak for itself: The Irishman
is not the typical Scorsese gangster movie. If GoodFellas (still surely
his most famous and most beloved gangster epic) is a rock n’ roll gangster film,
and The Departed is an angry grunge experience, then The Irishman
is all blues; slow, mellow, and unrelenting with the same sadness of an
isolated acoustic guitar. The film’s epic runtime exceeding three hours feels
entirely justified as we watch Frank age before our very eyes and by the end,
Frank is the only one left alive. The ravages of time are deadlier than any
single gangster in this film, and unlike Scorsese’s earlier crime epics, there
is little to no glorification of the mob. The Irishman is the product of
a director who is no longer seduced by the mob and presented with total
objectivity, never dwelling upon the extravagances of the gangster lifestyle.
Instead, perhaps more so than in any other film charting the rise and fall of
the mob, Scorsese focuses on the disintegration of Frank’s family and few sequences
in any one of his films has been as devastating as the elderly Frank futilely
attempting reconciliation with his daughter, Peggy, whose icy silence is imbued
with a multiplicity of layers by Anna Paquin.
This internal struggle is at the heart of the film, a theme
which surges through the seventy years of story which the movie seeks to put on
screen. That, in itself, is a feat, and the election to use the same pool of
actors for the same characters across the decades was a bold choice. Much was
made of the visual effects extravaganza that The Irishman would become
with De Niro, Pacino, and Pesci all being the subjects of digital de-aging
technology. Nothing new to cinema screens, the novelty of seeing actors
restored to their more youthful countenances had been employed in both the Star
Wars franchise and the Marvel superhero movies, but the results in The
Irishman feel extra special. All three men highlighted above shine through
their digital masks; De Niro, in particular, delivers a stellar performance
which has garnered much-deserved Oscar buzz. In only a few sequences is one
reminded of the star’s true age when the 76-year old actor walks like a man his
own age and not one half it.
I could go on and on about The Irishman: it’s a
powerful, resonant film that doesn’t so much linger in the memory as it does haunt
and stay in the periphery of the mind. Even if one has not committed its entire
three hours to memory (see all those who know the clown monologue from GoodFellas
inside and out), images and moments remain engrained in my mind and yearn to be
revisited. However, beyond the merits of the movie on its own, it is a massive
achievement of filmmaking in these turbulent times for the industry of film. In
the current media landscape, The Irishman shouldn’t work: It’s not based
on a preexisting, market-tested property; it is populated by septuagenarians;
and it’s over three hours long!
And that is disheartening.
If anything, one could make a very strong argument
that The Irishman is Scorsese’s reaction to the changing landscape of
the realm which he once knew so well. In just the same way that this year’s
earlier success Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood (dir. Quentin Tarantino)
was a metatextual comment upon the proliferation of new faces and new attitudes
in the world of moviemaking in today’s industry, The Irishman is
Scorsese’s own statement. And, good old Marty seems to be saying that he will not
change his colors just because that’s what everyone wants from him. In a world
that is obsessed with all the things that Scorsese does not understand as a
filmmaker, he is content to put all of his efforts into a passion project that
will deliver on the goods that he still holds near and dear.
Perhaps the greatest indicator of The Irishman’s
place in today’s media market is its financing from that other media
juggernaut Netflix. It is downright sad that Netflix was the only studio that
had enough confidence in the potential of another Scorsese epic and the only
one who was willing to invest sufficient capital into the venture. Is this really
the world that we live in now: a world where the movies will constantly be
saturated by the latest installments of audiences’ favorite franchises and
little else; a world where original thought – the original building block of film
itself – is regarded as a risk that much be navigated with care?
If we can take anything away from the attacks on
Scorsese, perhaps this is the world that so many audiences want. As long as
they receive what they want, then any deviation from the norm can be regarded as
unwanted and unnecessary. If film is a reflection of the world in which it is
created, then it is no wonder that The Irishman is oh so bleak.
