SPOILER-FREE REVIEW
A slow-burning Mob epic with outstanding performances, greatly benefiting from deft, skilful direction from Martin Scorsese, who uses it to prove the power of old-school filmmaking.
If someone asked you what you’re heard about Martin Scorsese this year, chances are that his tussle with Marvel and Disney would be the first thing on your mind. You’d be forgiven for not knowing that those comments that got superhero fans from New York to Tokyo so riled up were actually made while Scorsese was on the press trail for his upcoming film The Irishman. As it turns out, the universe works in mysterious ways, because watching The Irishman feels like gaining valuable context for those comments. They don’t really make movies like it anymore, but the filmmaking philosophy behind them? As this film and its veteran director show, it still absolutely works, and it works very well indeed.
The Irishman is itself an adaptation of a book, I Heard You Paint Houses by investigator Charles Brandt which details the life of Frank Sheeran, the titular Irishman who allegedly served the Bufalino crime family and the Italian-American mafia as a hitman. There’s a specific focus on Sheeran, played in Scorsese’s film by actor Robert DeNiro, and Al Pacino’s Jimmy Hoffa, the leader of the Teamsters labour union. To ‘paint houses’, we are told, is a mob reference to killing people; the metaphorical paint being the blood splatter formed when a person is shot. It is long, complex and something that clearly earns the title of ‘cinema’ according to Scorsese’s interpretation of the word. So, the violence it depicts is never gratuitous nor silly, rather it’s consistently meaningful, impactful and earned: a unique achievement since the actual acts of killing are almost as quick as someone snapping their fingers. It’s sharp, almost pinpoint.
The same can be said for the rest of the film, and particularly for its striking half-hour climax, where you finally begin to understand what the director was doing for the past three hours and what exactly he’s talking about. The film burns almost imperceptibly slowly in its build-up and like a frog sitting in slowly heated water, the audience never notices the emotional weight building up until the final reveal. It’s something for patient people who are willing to accept that excess fat could have been trimmed but wasn’t apparently for the sake of art, and willing to wait for payoffs in the long term. It’s certainly not for everyone.
Despite the length, the cast never falter thanks to the power of the edit, but also due to their commitment to their roles in which they deliver striking performances. DeNiro, who’s already had an excellent turn this year as television host Murray Franklin in Joker, finds himself paradoxically playing the role of a killer who’s neither psychopath nor sociopath. He walks a fine line, taking no joy from killing, but not totally detached either, warm with emotion, but not raging hot. He’s an imperfect human being looking out for a wife and children with whom he makes a costly error that ultimately speaks to this film’s true emotional and thematic core: legacy and what you leave behind. Joe Pesci’s Russell Bufalino, is quietly chilling, magnetic and dangerous. A single look can pass between him and DeNiro’s character, and the audience already understands its oft-deadly intent. Al Pacino completes the central trio as Hoffa, a charismatic, boisterous character who roars and shouts, and moves like he expects the world to move out of his way. You won’t even notice the digital de-aging. Almost.
The film’s choreography is subtle and understated, featuring long tracking sequences set to period-appropriate music that offers a contrast between on-screen violence and relaxation, and other clever shots that shouldn’t be spoiled. Even the smooth camerawork is striking; the choreographers use each and every technique at their disposal sparingly, creating a three-hour epic film that’s oddly almost minimalist in its approach.
It is then the exact opposite of the Marvel films Scorsese infamously claimed were like “theme parks”. Where they deliver quick thrills, The Irishman is patient and slow, drawing out its build-up to create a spectacular climax and finale, accompanied by veteran actors, some of whom seem intent on taking a final bow before re-entering retirement. For them, and possibly its director too, it makes for an elegant swansong but one that’s not necessarily meant for everyone.
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