The Power and the Glory of "The Irishman"

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.