The Irishman

Release Date: November 1st, 2019 (in select theatres), November 27th, 2019 (on Netflix)
Runtime: 209 minutes
Directed by: Martin Scorsese
Written by: Steven Zaillian (based on the book I Heard You Paint Houses by Charles Brandt)
Starring: Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Joe Pesci, Ray Romano, Harvey Keitel, Bobby Cannavale, Stephen Graham, Anna Paquin, Stephanie Kurtzuba, Kathrine Narducci, Domenick Lombardozzi, Sebastian Maniscalco, Jack Huston, Jim Norton, Welker White

SPOILER ALERT—DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE FILM AND DO NOT WANT TO KNOW ABOUT SOME KEY DETAILS

Martin Scorsese is widely regarded as one of America's greatest living film directors, and indeed one of the most celebrated moviemakers of all time. The Irishman—also known as I Heard You Paint Houses, the title of the book on which it's based—marks Scorsese's 9th feature film collaboration with Robert De Niro, his 4th with Joe Pesci, his 6th with Harvey Keitel, and his first time ever working with Al Pacino. At three-and-a-half hours long, it's an epic American crime story chronicling the life of Frank "The Irishman" Sheeran (De Niro). A World War II veteran, Sheeran became a top mob hitman and union official with close ties to Jimmy Hoffa (Pacino)—the infamous Teamsters union president who went missing in 1975.

With its long runtime, large cast, and numerous themes, The Irishman is a monumental, ambitious work that will take some time to digest. So consider this review a collection of my initial impressions—which may change upon repeated viewings, as a film this rich necessitates.

One of the most anticipated movies of my life, I've been looking forward to The Irishman more than any other film release since Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut or George Lucas's Star Wars prequel trilogy. This years-in-the-making project is Scorsese's first with De Niro and Pesci since 1995's Casino and his first with Keitel since 1988's The Last Temptation of Christ. Screenwriter Steve Zaillian (Awakenings, Schindler's List, Gangs of New York, American Gangster, Moneyball) adapted the script from the 2004 book by former homicide investigator and lawyer Charles Brandt. Shortly before dying in a retirement home in 2003 at age 83, the real-life Frank Sheeran confessed to Brandt that he'd killed Jimmy Hoffa, and dozens of other big-time mafia players. Scorsese and De Niro had been trying to adapt the book into a movie since 2006, so it's kind of astonishing that they finally got it made—and with such gangster film alumni as Pacino, Pesci, and Keitel joining the cast.

Pacino steals the show as Hoffa—portrayed as a larger-than-life, charismatic figure described as having once been one of the most famous and powerful people in America. It's one of Pacino's greatest performances, which is saying a lot given that he's a Hollywood legend with countless outstanding performances to his name. He doesn't attempt to impersonate Hoffa but rather creates a character of his own, effortlessly channeling the spirit of a man who's been painted as a historical figure of almost mythical status. What makes him so entertaining here is that he's still the showboating Al Pacino who has gained a caricature-like persona through his stereotyped roles—with a gruff voice and intense outbursts—as solidified in movies like Scarface (1983), Scent of a Woman (1992) and Heat (1995). But here Pacino embodies a chameleonlike hybrid of himself and the controversial labour leader Jimmy Hoffa. He's riveting in every scene he's in as a character who is at once strongly principled and morally ambiguous.

It's also one of Joe Pesci's best performances, who reportedly refused the role some fifty-odd times, only agreeing to come out of retirement after being relentlessly pestered by De Niro and Scorsese. It's a Pesci we've never seen before; he plays Russell Bufalino, an elderly, mild-mannered crime boss, in contrast to the psychopathic, violent mob characters he's perhaps most remembered for, as in Scorsese's Goodfellas (1990) and Casino. As Bufalino, Pesci captures an understated quality of slyness, intelligence, and even kindness. With just a slight vocal tone he intimates that he understands a lot more than what he appears to on the surface. Like Pacino, Pesci is a worthy contender for this year's Best Supporting Actor Oscar.

And then there's De Niro, another screen icon, who carries the movie as the title character. Fascinatingly, he's simultaneously the protagonist and antagonist. Scorsese and De Niro have done this before like no others, captivating audiences with heavily troubled, violent, and/or seemingly amoral protagonists—antiheroes like Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver (1976), Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull (1980), and Rupert Pupkin in The King of Comedy (1983). Ray Liotta's Henry Hill in Goodfellas also fits the bill in this regard. De Niro is my all-time favourite actor, as I grew up enraptured by his performances in Scorsese films and others like The Deer Hunter (1978), The Mission (1986), and Midnight Run (1988). He's subtly effective here, even as a character with a rather nondescript disposition. For most of the movie Frank Sheeran bears the same expression, alternating between outright emotionless detachment and a stern, concerned face with De Niro's characteristic downturned mouth and squinty eyes. He occasionally shows other emotions, but for the vast majority of screentime he has a slightly sad or worried countenance as he executes his seediest of affairs without, usually, much thought or hesitation.

The entire tale spans roughly 60 years, but the main plot covers about 20—using computer-generated digital "de-aging" methods which allow De Niro to play the same character throughout. The movie is bookended with scenes of an octogenarian Frank Sheeran in a nursing home, telling his story in a "looking back" narrative. Sheeran started out as a union truck driver, describing himself as "one of a thousand working stiffs" who Bufalino took a "shine" to. He talks of having killed many men in Europe during the war, and how it was the same in his criminal exploits—just a soldier following orders. His ability to indiscriminately kill is what leads to his "success"; one of few non-Italians to gain such close access to the upper levels of the organization. And one of few to die of natural causes outside of prison. This is again reminiscent of Henry Hill, who began and ended his life as an outsider to the mafia world despite spending much of his life deeply involved in it. But Sheeran’s still essentially a middleman, and he finds himself in the most morally compromising of positions. It's shown that he’s not simply a depraved sociopath, particularly near the movie's end when he seeks to rekindle his relationship with the daughter who disowned him because of his sins. But rather than expressing actual regret, it more so seems that Sheeran finally acknowledges the impact that his crimes had on his family, as he ends up old, sick, and alone.

Sheeran's personality is rather vacant—perhaps necessary for his line of work. And his motivation is foggy; he doesn't seem in it for money and power. Perhaps he's a product of his environment, suffering from untreated PTSD from the war. Still, his character is ultimately less compelling than Pesci's, Pacino's, or even Keitel's—who is underutilized as mafia boss Angelo Bruno. Harvey Keitel is another heavyweight actor who's shown time and again his willingness to take risks with extreme roles, but his few scenes here register as little more than a cameo appearance. It's great to see him back with Scorsese—considering they started their careers together with Who's That Knocking at my Door? (1967) and Mean Streets (1973)—so I'd rather have more Harvey and less of some other supporting characters. Those characters, however, in this large acting ensemble, are played by about half the casts of The Sopranos and Boardwalk Empire, and virtually every bit player from Goodfellas and Casino appear in some minor capacity. Even Welker White—who played Henry Hill's bratty babysitter Lois ("I never fly without my lucky hat") in Goodfellas—shows up as Hoffa's wife Josephine.

And so The Irishman resonates as an epic postscript, an elegiac coda to Scorsese's crime films—and indeed to all American mafia movies of the last 40 or so years. The Godfather trilogy, Scarface, Once Upon A Time in America, The Untouchables, Carlito's Way, Donnie Brasco, and so on, all contain themes touched on again in some similar yet different ways in The Irishman. Scorsese has said he considers Mean Streets, Goodfellas, and Casino to be a kind of trilogy in that each successive film examines a higher echelon of mafia power than the previous. And The Irishman follows suit, detailing an even higher level of organized crime, and features older, more mature gangsters as the leads. All of these aforementioned crime movies starred some combination of De Niro, Pesci, and Pacino, and most were directed either by Scorsese or his contemporaries Francis Ford Coppola and Brian De Palma. What's familiar are the mafia movie tropes; unaffected tough guys speaking in code, macho posturing, ego-driven competitiveness and unquenched thirst for unrestricted power. And what's different here is the meta-quality of featuring old actors playing the same characters over decades, as Scorsese and his septuagenarian cohorts reunite for a probable last dance through the potent underworld ethos of American gangsterisms.

It's immediately established that Sheeran survived his criminal endeavours, as we first see him as a decrepit old man in a wheelchair—evoking a somber, reflective feeling of tragedy and loss. One of the film's central messages is that murderers are still human beings, and that gangsters—so often romanticized in American cinema—are perhaps meek, injured people with feelings of guilt over the evil acts they've committed, as much as they are monsters. And conversely, the powerful political figures intertwined in the narrative—like John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, and Richard Nixon—those with supposed ethical superiority, are often indistinguishable from mobsters. Scorsese de-romanticizes outlaw Americana with a cold quietness at the same time that he creates a majestic, mythological feel with enthralling narrative strokes. But it's not really a film about politics, or history, or even about Hoffa, or the mafia. In the end, it's largely about relationships.

Still, at this length the movie seemed an opportunity to delve deeper into the politics of the labour movement's relationship with the Italian-American mafia, and Jimmy Hoffa's role in it. Unless you were around at the height of Hoffa's fame in the 1950s and '60s, or have researched the history of unions or organized crime, you're likely to regard him as most do—a powerful figure with shady ties who suddenly "disappeared" in one of America's biggest unsolved mysteries. Yet he was also a hero to many rank-and-file union members nationwide, blue-collar folks who worshipped him as a champion of workers' rights even after he served prison time on corruption charges. Maybe he once was a strong labour leader, only to lose his vision as he became corrupted by his own power. Hoffa began as a hardcore union organizer, an unflinching striker unafraid of being arrested—as he was dozens of times—or getting his head cracked on picket lines by company-paid thugs and police. In his heyday as Teamsters' president, union membership tripled, only to be decimated again following his departure. But little of Hoffa's activist origins are emphasized, and the focus instead remains on his corruption.

Hoffa and his mob partners were funneling money out of the Teamster pension fund, ostensibly as loans, in exchange for protecting the union. In other words, what mafia operations have always entailed: extortion. Hoffa went along with it for years but eventually seeks to collect on the loans with full interest, and restore the money to the union. He refuses to be intimidated by government agencies or organized crime—if there's a difference—and seems to genuinely believe what he says in his passionate speeches about working-class solidarity. Or is it all just a big con job? Maybe Hoffa was playing the mafia all along, exploiting them to advance pro-labour agendas—and/or for his own financial gain—which the mob finally got wise to. Or was he exploiting the union to advance mafia agendas? The lines are severely blurred.

There are numerous references to the Kennedy family, pointing to the hypocrisy of John and Robert in launching aggressive investigations into Teamster-mafia connections even though their father, Joseph Kennedy, purportedly made a fortune alongside mobsters as a liquor bootlegger during the prohibition period of alcohol in the 1920s and '30s. While in the past Hoffa supported the generally more pro-union Democratic party, he views the Kennedys' anti-mafia actions as anti-union, attempts to dismantle workers' rights and undermine the labour movement. So Hoffa bribes Nixon, donates millions of dollars to his campaign, receives a presidential pardon from the yet-to-be impeached Republican, and is released from prison early. It's all a massive tug of war between bosses on all sides of the law, manipulating each other—even their own kind—in attempts to gain or maintain power.

What's confusing about the story is on one hand it shows that Hoffa's power grew from his fearlessness in partnering with the biggest, wealthiest mafia bosses and politicians in the country, yet on the other hand it shows he thought he was just as powerful without them. But when convicted of fraud and sent to prison, Hoffa lost his position as union president and unsuccessfully attempted to regain leadership status upon his release. So if he didn't have the mafia or the union behind him anymore, then what power did he have? Was this Hoffa's fatal flaw then? Arrogance, inflated ego, and that whole "power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely" thing? When it becomes clear that Hoffa won't back down in his efforts to retrieve union power and collect on the pension money, Bufalino tells Sheeran that orders have come from the "higher-ups" to take Hoffa out. Sheeran replies that Hoffa himself is a higher-up. Bufalino shakes his head and says that if they can whack Kennedy, they can whack Hoffa. But it seems he's not talking about the mafia anymore…so who is the "they" he is talking about? The CIA?

These questions aren't answered. This is ultimately Frank Sheeran's story, and the focus stays on age-old machismo—the likes of which we've seen in countless mobster movies—more than elucidating political specifics. Entertaining as it is, a lot of time is spent on mob movie clichés; gangsters occupying various levels in the power hierarchy speaking in minimalist, coded language. Phrases like "get our friend a ticket to Australia" mean "kill him." Empires crumble with a brief glance. Men are murdered by their best friends and business partners at the drop of a hat. Codes of loyalty, honour, allegiance, are alternately upheld or disregarded with the change of the wind. Betrayal. Crime historians and law enforcement officials have apparently debunked Sheeran's claims. But Scorsese said that in the end he doesn't think it really matters who gave the order or pulled the trigger…on JFK, Bobby Kennedy, Hoffa, etc. The real story is about the people. Families. Legacy. Enterprise. The fulfillment—or lack thereof—of the American Dream.

In this movie about men, women are relegated to the sidelines more than in most Scorsese films, and there are no female characters as prominent as Lorraine Bracco's in Goodfellas or Sharon Stone's in Casino. There's lots about Sheeran's relationship with Hoffa, Bufalino, and the mob, but less about his family life (first wife, second wife, daughters). One scene near the end shows Frank with his daughter Dolores (Marin Ireland), but the main female character is his other daughter Peggy (played as a child by Lucy Gallina, as an adult by Anna Paquin). She has very few lines, but her presence throughout functions as Sheeran's conscience—even as a child she's wise to her father's evil deeds and never warms up to him or his gangster buddies (except for, interestingly, Jimmy Hoffa). It all resonates as deliberate commentary on the violent brand of masculinity that's displayed, and the inherent sexism embodied by the men who profit most from the capitalist system.

The story's sense of place is unfixed, jumping all over the U.S. map from Philadelphia to New York to Detroit to Miami. As much as Goodfellas is New York and Casino is Las Vegas, The Irishman is all of America. It's a hard-edged drama that plays as a kind of filmic eulogy, deglamorizing the operatic, grandiose aspects of mafia movies like The Godfather series while concurrently paying tribute. Scorsese employs some of his usual techniques, such as intermittent voiceover narration, and monologues by an elderly Sheeran speaking to an offscreen interviewer. Freeze-frames and captions describing the fates of various mafia men ("Shot three times in an alley, 1980", etc.) are other familiar Scorsesean touches. As are instances of black comedy inserted into the otherwise serious drama, with humourous dialogue between meathead thugs. The depictions of violence are for the most part realistic save for a few theatrical, Peckinpah-esque slow motion sequences. And a typical Scorsese soundtrack of popular hits from the 1950s through '70s—produced by his longtime score collaborator Robbie Robertson—ties it all together.

Internet streaming service Netflix financed The Irishman's $159 million budget, but Scorsese—an old school filmmaker who treasures the art form's traditions—requested it debut in theaters. So Netflix agreed to a 26-day limited theatrical release starting on November 1st, 2019, before being made available for home viewing on November 27th—and controversially stuck to this schedule despite movie theater companies urging them to respect the traditional 2-3 month theatrical window. As a result major theater chains boycotted the film, leaving it only available at film festivals and small independent theaters. I saw it at such a theater, the one location where it played in my city for two weeks. Netflix obviously seek market domination so badly that they're willing to forego the many millions of dollars the movie would've likely generated at the box office. As of December 1st, 2019, ticket sales equal $6.5 million. Scorsese and crew have all publicly commented on this, taking a levelheaded stance in recognizing that the times, and the movie medium, are changing—and that Netflix was the only company to offer the money and creative license they needed to make the movie they wanted to make. Fair enough. But it all signals the end of cinema as I've known it.

Many early reviews hailed The Irishman as a masterpiece, and as much as I'd like to agree, I can't fully commit to that assessment. Everyone wants this movie to be a masterpiece, because of what Scorsese, De Niro, Pacino and company have contributed to cinema in the past. It's certainly a fascinating film in many respects, and a worthy addendum to the American crime film genre of the last half-century. Numerous captivating scenes and memorable lines like "I know things they don't know I know" will surely be considered classic. But unlike Scorsese's best works, some sloppy details detract from the otherwise skillful execution of this tremendous undertaking of a film. For example, it's too obviously a body double in Pacino's place when he physically attacks a mob boss, and De Niro as a 40-year-old Sheeran looks too old and stiff when beating up a shopkeeper. Also, the runtime could've been utilized better by branching into more diverse narrative threads and relying less on overdone mob movie conventions. While it rarely lags, the extended ending is perhaps the only segment that feels a bit overlong and somewhat inconclusive.

Then there's the issue of the title. Following the opening scene, the onscreen title I Heard You Paint Houses appears. And at the end of the movie The Irishman appears followed by, again, I Heard You Paint Houses. It's like they can't make up their minds. De Niro, half Irish himself, said he prefers the title I Heard You Paint Houses—a hitman code meaning "I heard you kill people for money", as in "painting" the walls with blood. I can only speculate as to why they chose The Irishman as the official title but at the same time seem noncommittal to it by including the alternate title twice. The Irishman title frames the film as primarily Sheeran's story, whereas the Houses title frames it a little looser and more evocative of mafia themes in general, reiterating the codes of secrecy surrounding nefarious acts.

But the real elephant in the room is the age of the actors. This movie might've been better if it was made 10 or 12 years earlier and didn't have to rely as heavily on the computer-generated "youthifying". Bufalino repeatedly refers to Sheeran as "kid", which is weird since De Niro—even de-aged—appears no younger than 50 most of the time. In reality he was 75 while filming, as was Pesci—Pacino was 78, Keitel 79, and Scorsese 76. There's also the unnecessary detail of De Niro's character having blue eyes, supposedly to make him look more Irish, and the inexplicable decision to cast Domenick Lombardozzi (42 at the time of filming) with heavy makeup to portray mobster Tony Salerno in his 60s—why not cast an older actor here? The de-aging process is relatively new, and future moviegoers will likely look back on this film's special effects as groundbreaking. While it's the best that's been attempted to date at this scope, it's still a distracting element. The participants have discussed it in interviews, with Scorsese describing the de-aging as simply the "evolution of makeup", and De Niro joking that with this technology his career can be extended by 30 years. So, while not ideal, it's moderately acceptable when viewed in this regard, as all movies require a "suspension of disbelief".

On the other hand, knowledge of the director and principle actors being 70-plus years of age enables the film to operate on a metacinematic level, as a retrospective nod to their careers in the American mafia movie genre. In this respect The Irishman transcends the mob movie catalogue while simultaneously manifesting it. De Niro and Pacino previously costarred most notably in The Godfather II (although they never appeared in a scene together) and Heat. So it's a great meta-detail that De Niro's character kills Pacino's in this film, whereas Pacino's character kills De Niro's in Heat. Sheeran looking back on his life mirrors Scorsese and company looking back on their careers, through the movie. As Sheeran, Hoffa, and Bufalino all say several times, "it's what it is." That is, it's better this movie was made as is, than not at all. While Goodfellas may remain the best of Scorsese gangster flicks, The Irishman will probably still go down as a classic. And deservedly so, although because of those other movies as much as because of its own merit. De Niro reportedly told Pesci in persuading him to take the role, "We gotta do this. Who knows if there will be anything after?"
Rating (out of 5): ★★★½
• Nik Dobrinsky / Boy Drinks Ink
December 1st, 2019