The Irishman

Here’s an unpopular opinion: Martin Scorcese’s latest gangster epic, The Irishman, just isn’t that good.

Feel free to stop reading now and begin burning a Mark Brown-shaped effigy if you must.

I love Martin Scorcese and his work. I have said if before and I’ll say it again here: he is one of the world’s most talented living filmmakers, hands down. I love his nervy, confident camera; his ongoing fascinations with religion, violence, music, and the rigid rules of strict subcultures whether it’s the Mob or Buddhism; and his world-class technical expertise. He is, of course, most known for his explorations of crime and violence like Taxi Driver, Mean Streets, Good Fellas, Casino, The Departed, but he has also made films about profound religious devotion like Kundun, Silence, and the infamous The Last Temptation of Christ (which, by the way, is beautiful and hypnotic and hardly the evil thing it was made out to be in 1988). He’s made knock-out documentaries and concert films, biopics, at least one kids’ movie in the form of Hugo, and my all-time favorite love story, the Gilded Age tale of forbidden romance, The Age of Innocence. In other words, I am not a Scorcese hater by any means. Quite the opposite. 

However, The Irishman just isn’t that good. 

It’s an adaptation of the 2004 book, I Heard You Paint Houses, a non-fiction book about Frank Sheeran, a Mob hitman who supposedly is the one who killed famed union leader, Jimmy Hoffa. The story is told in a series of flashbacks by Robert DeNiro as Sheeran sitting in a wheelchair in his retirement home. The story is meant to be reflective and perhaps purposefully rambling. But that doesn’t mean it’s a fun story to listen to. There’s almost no development of any of the characters. DeNiro’s Frank remains flat, inarticulate, and without insight to the very end. The only character that does seem to evolve a little is Pacino’s Jimmy Hoffa but that’s only to say that he gets crazier and more late-career Pacino-esque with every scene. He doesn’t get better, just louder.

Famously, the film digitally de-ages DeNiro along with Al Pacino as Hoffa, Harvey Keitel as Angelo Bruno, and Joe Pesci as Russell Buffalino. So we see these actors, all of whom are well into their 70s, play themselves in their 20s, 30s, and 40s. While the smooth digital skin on the actors does look pretty realistic, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s covering 75 year old bodies. The scene when Frank, supposedly in his 30s at the time, beats up a grocer who reprimands his daughter, is completely silly and cringe-inducing. Even with his digital de-aging, DeNiro moves like a man in his 70s – because he is. And the disconnect between what I’m supposed to be seeing and what I’m actually seeing is distracting and lame.

Narratively, the movie never builds any momentum. There’s no central conflict, no rising action that ultimately must be reconciled through a moment of crisis. A bunch of stuff happens. Sheeran and Hoffa repeat themselves endlessly. Harvey Keitel looks great in tinted glasses. The film goes nowhere and it gets there slow. The final image of Sheeran sitting alone and isolated in his retirement home is obvious, clumsy, and on-the-nose. Oh, a lifetime of murder and crime leaves you alone, trapped, and sad? Aw. Really?

I know, I know. It’s DeNiro, Pacino, Keitel, and Pesci – directed by Scorese for crying out loud. It’s like having the greatest starting line-up with the greatest coach of all time. But it just doesn’t work and it feels like no one wants to say it. Sometimes even the greatest mess up or just make a bad picture, you know? Critically-speaking, I think people are embarrassed for not giving Scorcese his due for so many years, that now everyone is falling all over themselves to reward work that, frankly, just isn’t as good as many of the films that got passed over for recognition in the past.