Action – AFTERFILM

In a Few Words (1)

actioners, old and new & a classic murder mystery

Death on the Nile (1978) / The Sea Wolves (1980) / The Day of the Jackal (1973) / 6 Underground (2019)

Death on the Nile (1978)

Death on the Nile (about; trailer) is one of those classic, star-studded movies, of the kind so few are made nowadays, to our misfortune. Let us just look at the cast, in this case: Peter Ustinov, David Niven, Mia Farrow, Bette Davis (!), Maggie Smith, Angela Lansbury, George Kennedy, Olivia Hussey (of Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet fame) etc.

One thing that I did not remember about the movie, is how funny it is – firstly, in the way in which Ustinov plays Poirot – but also through other characters, interactions, and specific scenes – e.g. the somewhat campy, perpetually falling apart character of Angela Lansbury; the brutal repartees between Bette Davis and her “assistant”, Maggie Smith; the characters dancing the tango; Poirot harassing every single passenger, in the aftermath of the crime etc. I also forgot just how bloody Agatha Christie’s stories are. And one can be but thrilled about, and enjoy, the Egyptian locations featured in the movie. I also remarked and liked the muted scene at the Temple in Karnak – with the characters wandering about, in the sunny, dusty, quiet midday – until something happens… Finally, I should also note how much more engaging and thrilling – how much more sanguine – this movie was, compared to the most recent Murder on the Orient Express (2017), which was Kenneth Branagh’s laudable attempt at putting together an all-star type Agatha Christie movie, but which (although I was very favorably inclined toward it) ended up being rather forgettable.

The Sea Wolves (1980)

The Sea Wolves 2 Speaking of all-star casts and “classic movie types”, The Sea Wolves (about; trailer) is a delightful exemplar from another subgenre: the war movie showcasing the heroic actions of a small group of misfits (played by a group of major Hollywood actors) during World War II. Movies like Where Eagles Dare or The Guns of Navarone come to mind, as other top-notch examples of this subgenre. In the case of The Sea Wolves, the cast includes Gregory Peck, David Niven (again), Roger Moore, Trevor Howard etc. And what a pleasurable romp it is, this movie – the enjoyment being but amplified by the fact that the misfits in this story are the “retired” English gentlemen (veterans of the… Boer Wars!) of the “Calcutta Light Horse” territorial defense unit in India (who are deeply dissatisfied with their current roles, and are itching to make their own significant contribution to defeating the Nazis). Yes, this film has it all: the colonial atmosphere, the British fighting spirit, the humor, and quite some action. I have seen the movie, therefore, many times, and (allowing for enough time between successive screenings) it never fails to entertain. Although the spy story within the movie (featuring Roger Moore, mainly, but also Peck) has its own charms, I am always more attracted to, and entertained by, the adventures, the fighting spirit, and the amusing peccadilloes of the gentlemen of the Calcutta Light Horse. Moreover, the fact that this movie is actually based on a true WWII story gives it additional, beneficial weight, making its heroes even more endearing.

The Day of the Jackal (1973)

The Day of the Jackal 1 If you watch the movie shortly after reading Frederick Forsyth’s bestseller book, the film (about; trailer) will probably come across as a bit of a disappointment; what the impression will be, if you have not read the book, that I would not know (at least, not at this point). And this is not about the usual and necessary differences between a book and a movie – differences with which I am well familiar, and that I take into account, implicitly. In fact, when it comes to the thriller genre, I would say that movies based on such books usually turn out better than their original source material (think of movies based on Grisham or Crichton books). It is also true that the slight disappointment with the movie, in this case, might just point to the fact that Forsyth is a much superior writer (within the genre), compared to the aforementioned ones; perhaps. In any case, I can only refer to this movie in implicit comparison with the book – and to the fact that, in that light, it is something of a letdown; so let us count the reasons why:

First of all, the casting choices, more specifically with regards to the title character of The Jackal; as Edward Fox comes across more as a Bond-type figure, instead of the silent, grey and inconspicuous (when he wants), yet somewhat attractive (when he so wants), but, deep down, “dead inside” character – that Forsyth constructs (so nicely) in his book. In addition, Fox’s interpretation fluctuates throughout the movie, somewhat inordinately. Second, the plot of the book is wisely constructed on the tension and conflict between poles – between two people who never meet, but are engaged in a cat-and-mouse game, right until the bloody end: The Jackal, and Deputy Commissioner Lebel. Well, this tension between two distinct yet so similar poles never really comes alive in the movie, as Lebel is depicted somewhat passingly, thus never acquiring the necessary “weight” needed in order to constitute a real counterpoint to Le Chacal. Third, the murder scenes in the book are much more life-like, chilling, and therefore gruesome – which is not the case with the murder scenes from the movie, which either came across as a bit clumsy, or were not actually shown on the screen (this, of course, might have to do with the accepted film aesthetics of the time, especially with regards to blockbusters – to movies made for general consumption). Finally, in the movie the story feels rushed, boxes being quickly checked and then passed over, in a hurry toward the finish; this, notwithstanding the movie’s runtime of almost two and a half hours. This, of course, can be written off as simply a limitation of the medium, especially in comparison with the complexity of a book; yes, one could suggest that, but I do not think that that is where the problem lies. Instead, I think that a wiser choice in terms of where to put the emphases – on certain moments, on certain characters (two or three) – that is, choosing wisely the “gravitational points” of the story – might have resulted in a different final impression – and in a more balanced, clearer, and better delineated story (without this feeling of trying to cram too many things in too small a space).

One of the things that I did like in this movie (a lot) was them using the real Bastille Day celebrations – with parades and all, police presence, and actual Parisian crowds – as the setting for what in the story would be the Liberation Day celebrations in Paris. This provided such a feeling of authenticity and immersion that, for me, it turned out to be the stand-out experience within this movie.

As said, you might come to slightly different conclusions, if you do not happen to read (or to listen to) the book right before watching this movie; perhaps, but I am not sure of that – because I think that these aspects, which I just mentioned, represent dramatic and filmmaking weak points whose effect one will feel (even if one will not be able to pinpoint them, specifically) whether or not one is familiar with the source material. Speaking of the source material, the original story, in all its details, is superb and gripping; a thriller that immerses us in a real historical moment (France under de Gaulle, at the moment of the Algerian civil war, and on the brink of an internal civil war) and in the universe of the political and of the law enforcement institutions of France (and of the UK).

6 Underground (2019)

I must confess that I found it quite irritating to see how many of those end-of-the-year, “worst movies of 2019” lists included 6 Underground (about; trailer) in their selection – doing it with a certain glee, as well. And no, I did not find this irritating because I consider 6 Underground some sort of a masterpiece – but because this kind of choice and this kind of attitude illustrate, for me, a type of snobbishness that is in fact an obstruction to a real engagement with movies, and with the art form as such.

With regards to Michael Bay, there are, generally speaking, two opposite approaches – one being a hasty dismissal of him and of his work, or (at the other end, and often to spite the opposite position) proposing him as a sort of visionary genius. Although both positions have a gram of truth in them, I would argue that neither represents a healthy approach to movies and to the art form. On the one hand, Bay does have a style and an aesthetics that he has developed, and that are truly his own (best exemplified by the Bad Boys movie of 1995) – and that many have started to copy (because of its success). On the other hand, he is also the tremendously successful (financially, that is) maker of those empty, noise-and-light spectacles that are, for example, the Transformer movies. My point, therefore, is that a balanced approach, of one who actually likes movies, filmmakers, and filmgoers, should be able to appreciate and to consider both these aspects, simultaneously; that is, admitting both the fact that Bay has created an original aesthetic style (which has both its good aspects, e.g. his ability to cut down everything, images, sound and action, to their most impactful essentials, to their most striking “barebones” – with the directness of, say, a rollercoaster, and with the shamelessness of Las Vegas aesthetic) – and also that he is the money-making mastermind behind mind-numbing and ear-shattering thrill-rides like the said Transformers series. The Transformers movies, which I would liken to a ride at a country fair: not everybody hops on, and yet sometimes you yourself will choose to hop on, and even to add some greasy food to it, just because you are at a country fair.

And this movie, 6 Underground, fits right between those ends – between certain aesthetic skills, and sensory overload – and, truth be said, with not much to set it apart, as a movie, in any extra-ordinary way. In other words, if approached with the required levelheadedness, and with an awareness of Bay’s style and portfolio, there is no specific reason to include it in a “worst of” yearly list (lists that, as we know, are both entertaining, and also, in effect, disingenuous – as it is pretty obvious that they do not contain the actual ten worst movies of the year, as selected from all the movies made in the world, at all the levels of the movie industry). Thus, it is the lack of artistic discernment and the cheap snobbishness that (often) lie behind the choice of including this movie on such a worst-of-the-year list, that I find most irritating – because they reflect an artistic lack of earnestness and superficiality that are not unlike what they are accusing Michael Bay of.

Because, if you want a real “worst of” movie from the Bay catalogue, you have to go no further than Pearl Harbor (2001); now that, indeed, is some offensive cinema-making, as it takes something that is deeply meaningful and tremendously rich (in historical, emotional, cultural, and general human content), and debases it and vulgarizes it, replacing all that real meaning with sensory noise, empty action, and superficial emotions. In other words, the offensiveness of that movie comes from the egregious and off-putting dissonance between what its subject would require, and what its content should be – and the completely inadequate, and ultimately disrespectful, treatment that it received from its director. But a similar dissonance between content and form does not emerge when you take, say, raw chewing gum (that is, some inessential content, whose only purpose is momentary enjoyment), and you give it a coat of artificial coloring (which simply enhances its entertainment-focused purpose). And 6 Underground probably could be characterized as such a “purely entertainment-focused” fare, which has no deeper meaning, and does not really intend to have such a meaning; but which does what it actually sets out to do – namely, to entertain, in the moment, in typical Michael Bay fashion. (The only thing really standing out about this movie is the number and variety of exotic locations, which point to the large sums of money probably put at Bay’s disposal by Netflix; which, by the way, is neither my nor anyone else’s business.).

In fact, for me the only distinct artistic takeaway from watching 6 Underground is related to a ongoing qualm that I have with so many moviemakers of our day (especially from the genre of action movies); that is, the fact that so many of them do not seem to understand (or, if they do, that they do not act based on that understanding) how essential the presence of real actors – who are able to create tridimensional, flesh-and-bones characters – is, even in a silly action movie. Compare, in this movie, the screen presence of Ryan Reynolds (who is a real actor), with the presence of – well, all the other actors, whose main distinguishing trait is (a common mistake among these filmmakers) that they are either athletic, or attractive, or both – but not real character actors, and thus never becoming “real persons” on the screen. In other words, my problem with so many filmmakers is that they do not seem to understand that what audiences connect with are human beings, with their human stories – yes, even (!) when there is some outrageous action happening all around. And to conclude I will mention one of the best examples of how to do such a thing well: the first Die Hard movie, in which, while the action is relentless and often spectacular, what draws us in, and the reason why that movie remains a favorite of many, is that we care deeply about, and are invested with, what happens to the very sympathetic, emotionally raw and physically vulnerable, and funny – in other words, the very human – character of John McClane, as portrayed excellently by Bruce Willis.

The Mandalorian (Season 1 / 2019)

“adventure”

The Mandalorian poster The reason why The Mandalorian (synopsis; trailer; cast & crew: rating) is noteworthy, from my perspective, is that it is the first work within the Star Wars canon that manages to reflect the characteristics that made the original Star Wars trilogy (now considered to be Episodes 4-6) so unique. Because, what was it, that set those movies apart, and that made them into the cultural and generational phenomena that they became?

Well, I am sure that the answer to this question will vary, depending on the person asked (to state a truism). However, from a cinematographic perspective – that is, from the perspective of what those films represented for the history and development of cinema – I would suggest that the original Star Wars movies were remarkable, and still stand out, by having opened new horizons for the very artform (for widening our understanding of the possibilities of film itself). Yes, those who were young at the time surely watched with eyes wide open, in wonder, the overwhelming, fabulous, never-before-seen space compositions parading in front of them: spaceships, stars and planets, strange new creatures, novel worlds; and that experience must have marked many, on a very personal level. But this feeling of wonder (which, whom are we kidding, was shared by most of those who saw the movies, no matter their age at the time) was the viewers’ response to a specific adventurousness of the creative imagination, of filmmaking vision, and of story-design, and adventurousness that uniquely defined those movies, of the original trilogy.

And this is why and how those movies opened new universes – both in the minds of their millions of viewers, as well as in terms of the creative horizons of filmmaking itself.

And it is from this perspective that I found The Mandalorian to be the only filmic work, really, within this “cinematic universe”, that was guided by, and that embodied, a similar sense of adventure and of wonder. And it is quite unpretentious, in that sense, The Mandalorian – because it knows how to focus on what is important, on what lies at the core of Star Wars as a genre – this sense of adventure, both narrative, and artistic. By comparison, and in dismal contrast, the prequel trilogy (“Episodes 1-3”) felt like a forced, sweat-fueled, clunky, artificial effort, for many of us; while the sequel trilogy, after starting with a fairly promising Episode 7 (The Force Awakens), was definitively derailed by a most displeasing and disheartening Episode 8 (The Last Jedi). But we are not here in order to talk about those pre- and after- trilogies, but to note how The Mandalorian is probably the closest in spirit to what was the best and the most unique feature of the original Star Wars.

All this might also help to explain why the much (too) maligned fanbase received The Mandalorian with such enthusiasm and open support – which mirrors also the general response to the Knights of the Old Republic (KOTOR) series of computer games. And I am not bringing the general public into this discussion as an argument per se about the quality (or the achievements) of The Mandalorian – but because this supports, I think, the reading that I am proposing: namely, that The Mandalorian, just like KOTOR, and just like the original Star Wars trilogy, are adventures (of the mind, of the imagination, and of artistic vision and creativity) – and that this is the specific quality, the salient artistic trait, and the utmost characteristic that any artistic product within the Star Wars “genre” should aim for. In other words, by its very nature, Star Wars is made to deliver for the people such “new worlds” and such unbridled, youthful, hope-filled adventures – and the people hunger for this! And this is why the individual works within the “Star Wars universe” that will fare the best, and that will be the most memorable, will be those that will understand this essence of what Star Wars is (as a type of artistic product) – and that, in consequence, will unabashedly try to follow and to embody this specific essence (the specific “spirit” of what is, by now, the Star Wars “genre”).

Among the other aspects that I would like to mention about this first season of The Mandalorian, and that I enjoyed or found noteworthy, would be the across-the-board elevated technical quality – special and digital effects, set design – of the series; high enough to create a seamless Star Wars world, and as high as any “series” (thus, not “feature film”) might aim to be; indeed, it would be hard to find fault with any aspect of this dimension of the series. Another thing that I found especially delightful was the choice casting – really notable names, in supporting roles: like Nick Nolte as the gnomic, friendly mechanic (farmer), Taika Waititi (although I was sure that it was in fact Richard Ayoade) as the assassin robot (bounty hunter), Werner Herzog as one of the main nemeses of the protagonists, and so on.

The overarching story, in itself, is fairly simple – and the episodic stories, as well. But that is not the point; or, rather, that is not a problem. The main point – as said – remains the fact that they are all adventures, namely occasions for us (and for the creators) to discover new worlds and intriguing characters, to root for the likable protagonists, and to be thrilled by what happens, and might happen.

And, yes, the “cute” “baby Yoda” did become an instant cultural phenomenon – and yes, the creature design is inherently manipulative. However, ask yourself why the tremendous difference between the open-hearted, warm reception of “baby Yoda”, and the general loathing of a character like Jar-Jar Binks. The answer, I would suggest, lies in the difference between the very nature of the films in which they were featured; namely, the difference between the forced, toil-and-sweat smelling, unlikable prequels, and the childlike wonder- and adventure-driven nature of The Mandalorian. The point is, once we (the spectators) believe in the premise and the principal “nature” of a work, then we become immersed in its universe, and thus the suspension of disbelief is not a problem. But we need first to believe in the truthfulness – the genuineness – of the given artwork; because, if we feel that we are being manipulated, if it feels like a cash-grab or like a forced effort from a committee – if we feel (unconsciously) that the creator’s impulse is less than genuine, then we will respond negatively (even if unconsciously), and reject all of it, wholesale (no matter the “cutesiness” of the featured creatures). (To give another example, KOTOR, that computer game that I mentioned, is fairly clunky in terms of its game mechanics; and yet it possesses tremendous attractiveness because of the breadth, inventiveness, and originality of its imagination, of the worlds and characters that it offers us, to discover and to wonder about; no wonder, then, that it became a legendary hit within the Star Wars universe.)

In brief, and in conclusion, this series, The Mandalorian, knows what it is and what it wants – both in terms of what it has to be (an embodying and a furthering of that Star Wars spirit) and of what it should not try to be (re. the limitations of a series, in terms of its episodic nature, limited time and budget etc.). In this sense, The Mandalorian is a good example of a felicitous meeting of form and content – and the resulting, harmonious product is persuasive and attractive. Credit is due, therefore, to the creative vision of its makers – Jon Favreau (his abilities in this sense being proven, like before) and Dave Filoni (also with a strong track record) – and, I assume, a few others whom I do not know.

What will follow – in the next seasons – we do not know, of course. One would hope and wish that the same faithfulness to the original vision (and thus the same, winning “simplicity” of vision) will be followed in the future installments of the series, as well – for its own sake, as an artistic act – and for the delight and pleasure of its viewers.

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.