The Irishman

It’s been 3 days since I watched “The Irishman.” The first few hours after leaving the State Theatre were ripe with contemplation. I thought about the right ways to describe why I loved the movie so much. Of course, it was all the go to maxims of the modern day; the cinematography and editing were amazing, the performances were stellar, and the direction superb. Sometime in the evening, now more than a few hours later, I was still talking things out to myself. “What’s the collection of words that best illuminates just how wonderful this film truly is?” That night I still hadn’t thought of it. It’s been 3 days and I still don’t have it — maybe I never will.

What does that mean though? For the most part, I can usually articulate just what resonates with me when it comes to a film. At it’s core, “The Irishman” is a Martin Scorsese period gangster film starring Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci, and Al Pacino (with support from Harvey Keitel, Ray Romano and Anna Paquin among a whole host of others). The story follows Frank Sheeran (De Niro)— a WW II vet and truck driver — and his involvement with Russell Bufalino (Pesci) and infamous union leader Jimmy Hoffa (Pacino). With a run time of three-and-a-half-hours and a narrative that spans decades, Scorsese as crafted an epic, historical crime story as only he can do. No other filmmaker (living or dead) could have put together a story this big but have it feel so meditative and intimate. This was the thing that stuck out the most to me. Well, this and the fact that I can watch De Niro and Pesci sit and chat over a bowl of cereal for the rest of my life. When I think about films I’ve seen recently that have long run times, I think of “Avengers: Endgame” and “Midsommar.” “Anvengers: Endgame” is epic in grand, spectacular ways. It’s a film that threads together one big episodic set-piece after another which culminates in a gigantic-ass battle between the good guys and the bad guys. “Midsommar” was a film about grief, and how we process that grief, and how it effects — for better or worse…really worse for this movie — the ones we love the most. What does “The Irishman” do better than both of those films? It doesn’t have one wasted moment. Every conversation feels vital. Every characterization and conflict is built from the ground up. When Scorsese and writer Steven Zaillian put to characters in a room it has meaning. It’s not to say that “Avengers: Endgame” and “Midsommar” don’t have meaning or conflict or vitality, it’s just they don’t have the precision and laser focus “The Irishman” has — and they surly do not have master touch of a Pesci, Pacino or De Niro.

I think this movie did what “Once Upon A Time in Hollywood” could not — it gave us the ultimate old guy hang out movie. The movie is narrated by De Niro from an old folks home. De Niro, wheel-chair laden and crumbling, lays the story out for us in much the same way your grandfather would lay out the details of his former life, just probably with a lot less of him shooting people in the face. We then come and go with Frank Sheeran as he drives Russell Bufalino and their respective significant others to a wedding. One thought that I was about to grasp was Scorsese made a gangster road movie. The thought of that kinda blows my mind. I mean, has there ever been a road movie that’s also a crime epic? And it’s Martin Scorsese in his mid-70s actually evolving the American gangster movie, turning it into a meditation on old age, and how whoever you are is what decides when you die, but that death is always the conclusion to life no matter who you are. There’s almost a meta quality to “The Irishman” that I know is not lost on Scorsese. And Scorsese knows that you’ve seen “Goodfellas” which is exactly why he slows this one way down. Gone are the fast zooms, replaced by slow pans. The cinematography, done by Rodrigo Prieto is mellow and smooth like a nice red wine, the editing, done by living fucking legend Thelma Schoonmaker, breaks bread and dips itself in the scenes effortlessly. The music is all pop tunes from the 50s and 60s, with none of the flash we’d expect in a Scorsese picture — Jagger was on the bench for this one.

In the end, I still don’t have the words. All I have is this wonderful, magical piece of cinema. It’s like when an artist you love puts out a fantastic record that reminds you of their best work, or of the work you loved the best. There’s a familiarity there even if the material is brand new. You recognize that one one riff from that one album, that one musical phrase that made you fall in love with the band in the first place. For me, “The Irishman” reminds me of what made me fall in love with Scorsese’s pictures all those years ago, when I was a young teen. The film is an inspiration and a brilliant example of what can come out of an artist if they get to work into their golden years. This is (God willing) not Scorsese’s last picture, but has the feeling of being one of his last pictures. It has the feeling of a career that has spanned decades, much like the film itself. It is almost a Scorsese picture that represents a whole life of filmmaking, a life that gives life to me as a lover of film and as a screenwriter.

I think I have the words…