The Irishman (2019)

“an elegy”

I guess that, for many, Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman (synopsis; trailer; cast & crew; rated R) might pose a bit of a conundrum, as one can find oneself being caught between the need to show an uncritical appreciation for this accomplished director and for the stellar cast – or, at the opposite end, one might actually dare oneself to be critical toward this star-studded film (and in consequence becoming overly-critical). Yet I do not think that any of these positions is necessary; instead, I think that one can enjoy the movie simply on its own merits.

And it is indeed a film that one can enjoy – while, at the same time, thinking about what was, in fact, Scorsese’s ultimate intention with it. At least, that’s what I found myself doing – both these things.

I chose the tagline above (“an elegy”) because the overall sentiment permeating the movie, and reaffirmed by its conclusion, is one of melancholy, sadness (the sadness of sin, which is the other side of the gangster glamour), and of Scorsese saying “good bye” – good-bye to the subject matter, to his favorite actors (De Niro, Pesci, Pacino), and perhaps to a good part of his artistic oeuvre. And even without reading too much into the underlying motivations, sadness, melancholy, and a sort of desolateness (yet not lacking in compassion) remain, indeed, the main sentiments that permeate this film.

Gone are the euphoric and youthful violence of Goodfellas, or the flashiness and glamour of Casino (although in those movies these somewhat appealing aspects were always counterbalanced – especially toward the end of the story – by the ugly, the unfulfilled, the tragic). Yes, they are gone, in the Irishman. Furthermore, while the characters are tridimensional and fully human – and thus worthy even of our compassion – the emphasis does falls, overall, on the desolation of it all (of this whole lifestyle). It’s as if Scorsese would like us to look at everything that happens, at this whole lifestyle and life choice, through the perspective of Frank Sheeran’s (the “Irishman” of the title) daughter, Peggy – whose eyes and presence accompany, silently judging, Frank’s entire trajectory (down to the final judgment expressed by her cutting all relations with him; and when does that happen? after the Hoffa episode, when – perhaps – Franck loses even the last bit of the integrity of his soul). What sets apart this movie, then, in Scorsese’s gangster oeuvre, is that here the “downside” of the life (la cosa nostra – “our thing”) is much more prominent – and the underlying sadness of this lifestyle seems to blend, in a way, with that melancholy with which Scorsese seems to be looking back at his life’s work.

Yet Scorsese still looks at his characters as human beings – full, tridimensional human beings (as he should!). This is facilitated by the actors’ excellent performances, but perhaps by none more than by Joe Pesci’s, who creates such a rounded, complex, fully human character, that it is hard to pinpoint just one thing that would define it (his character, his performance). What do I mean by this? Well, take Pacino, who plays Jimmy Hoffa in the movie; as good a performance as one would want, but also one in which certain notes clearly dominate (perhaps sometimes even a bit shrill?). Or, take De Niro, who plays Frank Sheeran; again, a thorough and “full” performance (as he “fills out” the character), but a resulting profile which could be best characterized through the word “gray”; gray, as in an emotionally- and existentially-stunted person, who is almost a “mute” in his incapacity to truly open toward the other(s) (and even “the Other”). And, in fact, there is no performance in this movie that is not good, within this stellar line-up (in addition to the three mentioned, featuring also Harvey Keitel, Ray Romano, Bobby Cannavale), and supported by great character actors (Jesse Plemons as Hoffa’s adopted son; Stephen Graham as Tony Pro; Sebastian Maniscalco in a deliciously juicy part; the wives played by Welker White / Jo Hoffa and Stephanie Kurtzuba / Irene Sheeran), as well as by tiny bits from other noteworthy artists (comedian Jim Norton as Don Rickles, or Steven Van Zandt stepping in as singer Jerry Vale). And, of course, let us not forget the young Peggy (Frank’s daughter), and her eyes – and in this sense I would like to remark especially the actress playing her, Lucy Gallina. So, only good things to say about this accomplished cast, and about their performances. And yet for me Pesci’s performance stands apart, as being the most inconspicuously rich and complex of them all: no flashy bits, whatsoever; and yet with an inner, pulsating – if sad, – life; combining warmth and menace; blending reserve and affection. The only thing that I would mention about Pesci’s character, Russ Bufalino, is that I would have liked to “feel” (and perhaps also to be shown) a bit more of his colder, violent side (although, yes, we are told that he never did any of those things himself, but had others do them for him).

Much has been made about the extensive use of special effects (CGI) in this movie, which also contributed to its high costs (which is why it could only be made in the context of Netflix’s policy of giving almost blank checks to certain prominent creators), and which also allowed for Scorsese to use his (by now aged) favorite stars, to depict a story that spans several decades. Watching the movie one is therefore aware of this feature, as well; and regarding its success (of this experiment  – of de-aging actors in their 70s, to look like people in their 30s etc.), I would say that it had both its well-done (almost seamless), as well as its less-than-happy moments. Yet this is an issue that does not really interest me, at the end of the day; works of art are predicated on a willing suspension of disbelief from those who engage them; what matters, then, is less the individual type, or even the quality, of the effects, but that the same stylistic conventions be kept throughout, making the “universe” that the author creates consistent within itself (even a puppet theater can be deeply immersive, and we quickly forget that they are awkward puppets, if the same wooden figures are used throughout, and if the story is full of life). So, if I have anything to criticize about the use of CGI, it is precisely in relation to the unevenness that I mentioned – because it is that (and not the use of CGI in itself) that can take one out of the story. But all this is, ultimately, unimportant, because overall the experiment worked, and the story – which is what truly matters – worked, as well.

Another aspect that has attracted the attention of many is the length of the movie (about three and a half hours). Did it feel too long? No, I would say that it did not. Was I engrossed in it? Yes, I would say that I was – and that is all that matters. I mentioned in the discussion about Once upon a Time… in Hollywood that it happens sometimes with artists who have reached a certain status in the business, that they become a bit self-indulgent, losing a certain degree of self-discipline, and thus making choices that are detrimental to the artistic act itself. But I did not see that happening here – and not in terms of the length of the movie; because, as said, I was engrossed by it; because the story was rich, and continually moving, continually being told.

As in the other discussions on this website, I would also like to mention here some specific moments or aspects from the film that stood out for me, or that I liked in a special way. One such aspect would be the interesting (although by no means novel) parallel that Scorsese made between the violence of the mobster life, and the general (macro-level) violence of the society at large, through the references made to Sheeran’s experience in the army (in World War II – which is where he learned how to kill, and how to obey orders unquestioningly, for his own survival and self-interest; and thus where he started losing his soul, his connection with God – see the wartime promise that he broke soon thereafter).

Acting-wise, I also enjoyed nice little scenes such as that of Hoffa eating ice cream in the prison, and “conversing” with Tony Provenzano; or Sheeran’s phone call to Hoffa’s wife, Jo, after Hoffa’s “disappearance”.

I mentioned the elegiac, dismal, sad feelings underlying this movie – that is, this mobster life. In this regard, there is a sense of the sic transit gloria mundi, in reference to the trajectories and the demise of (all) the characters. (Demise which, for a number of minor characters, is announced and described at the same moment as we are introduced to them – with a freeze frame, and a brief text describing the manner of their future death.) So, sic transit a this-worldly “glory” that is predicated largely on the logic of power (brute force, violence). Yet eventually all this power fades, naturally. Thus, Frank Sheeran falls in his own house, as his legs simply give out, because of age and ailments. And, when in prison, they all look dismal, all these people who once were the city’s most powerful bosses; and Sheeran’s voice-over tells us that “we were all falling apart there, in the freezing f-ing cold” (an atmosphere aptly conveyed through tones of metallic blue and gray). And the power (violence) that helped these characters control their environments, everything, also had, simultaneously, the most destructive impact on their close relationships (the ones that normally would have been characterized by, and that would have needed mostly, the opposite – tenderness and affection). See here, of course, the relationship between Frank and Peggy (and the other daughters, as well) – and how, at the end, at the end of the day, he is all alone (“Peggy, Peggy, I just want to talk!” – he calls out). Not just alone, but, his power(s) naturally decaying and leaving him, Frank, who once used to “paint houses” (i.e. to dominate others through violence) is now completely and utterly dependent and reliant on others, on other people, on strangers’ mercy. And, by the way, he also finds that, slices of that mercy (from the nurse, from the priest – and, possibly, from God) – as Scorsese’s gaze never ceases to be compassionate.

Finally, in this movie, perhaps more than in any of his previous films of the genre, Scorsese’s characters have (and are) souls – which gives the foundation for and contributes to the overall elegiac tone of the movie. Because, when looking back from the perspective of the soul, what is there that actually remains?… The worldly power and glory? The nurse in the retirement home does not even know who Hoffa once was – let alone recognize the figure from the picture that Frank is showing her.

Following a longer coda (i.e. that part of the movie that follows after Hoffa’s disappearance), the actual ending of the movie is very apt, as well; Frank Sheeran asking the priest not to close the door to his room, but to leave it half-open, because he does not like (want) to remain alone, in the dark. Aloneness, the dark, the cold – attributes of hell, i.e. of the absolute lack of the good: love, warmth, relationships.

Overall, a long movie that reads like a good book, and that, on its own terms, is similarly satisfying.