The Irishman – Review

The Irishman

Directed by: Martin Scorsese

Runtime: 209 minutes(!)

Considering that The Irishman (2019) has been director Martin Scorsese’s darling project for close to fifteen years, languishing in development hell until filming truly started in earnest in 2016, it’s hardly surprising to find out that Scorsese’s twenty-sixth feature film generated headlines even before filming started.

Firstly, there’s already been significant discussion surrounding the film’s extensive use of CGI for the de-aging for its three central actors—Al Pacino, Joe Pesci and Robert De Niro—so much so that Scorsese had to recreate an iconic scene from one of his earlier films to make sure it would work. Then, after rumours of an ever-ballooning budget, came word of a financing deal with Netflix for distribution and a (mostly) exclusive release, leading some industry insiders to speculate on the future of film itself and the calculus behind Best Picture contention at the Oscars. For his part, Scorsese weighed in on this discussion too, with all the grace and subtlety you’d expect from a 77-year old man who directed The Wolf of Wall Street (2013). And let’s also not forget Scorsese’s now-infamous comments about super-hero films, the Disney/Marvel juggernaut and the integrity of cinema overall, which set the Internet aflame only a few short months ago, engendering suitably smarmy responses, only to have Todd Phillip’s Joker (2019)—which also features De Niro—sweep in and feed off the chaos.

Film industry inside baseball aside, there’s just as much going on under the hood in The Irishman as there is in the outside world. In terms of plot, Scorsese’s film, written by Steven Zaillian (Schlinder’s List, Gangs of New York), is a mostly faithful retelling of the 2004 book I Heard You Paint Houses by Charles Brandt. The story itself follows the life of the titular Irishman, a truck driver named Frank Sheeran (De Niro), who becomes enmeshed in the East Coast mob life of the 50s/60s, eventually becoming an enforcer for mob kingpin Russell Bufalino (Pesci) and the influential union teamster Jimmy Hoffa (Pacino). It’s a classic Scorsese tale, filled to the brim with gritty anecdotes, gallows humour and historical significance. And yet, while Brandt’s original story and the veracity of Sheeran’s wild confessions remain heavily disputed to this day, Scorsese has been clear in stating that The Irishman is not a true historical account or biopic—the film isn’t concerned with truth; it’s not about history, but simply one man’s version of it.

After watching The Irishman in one sitting, and then digesting and ruminating on it for several days, I’ve now come to some preliminary conclusions. It’s easily Scorsese’s best film of the 2010s, and it provides a fitting denouement to the loose thematic trilogy established by Goodfellas (1990) and Casino (1995). The staggering success of the film and the masterstroke of Scorsese’s vision comes down to two distinct aspects: temporality and restraint.

Much has already been mentioned of The Irishman’s exhausting, not-quite-three-and-a-half hours run-time, and while the film is certainly a long one by any conservative measurement, the effect it generates while you’re watching it is something like teamster time dilation. Now that’s just a fancy way of saying that the film never drags; it feels both immersive and static at the same time, kind of like sitting alone with a good book and then not realising that a few hours have slipped away. I’ve seen other commentators complain that the run-time makes for an overall boring slog of a film experience, or that significant edits could be made to tighten the film. Yet truthfully, I feel that these criticisms miss the overall point. Feeling the weight of time as a human burden is a deliberate narrative choice here. Sheeran’s story crosses six decades, and the film is relaxed enough to move through these different periods as required. Scorsese’s main gambit is to bank on the audience being so enrapt with Sheeran’s story, his world and the characters populated in it, that they won’t mind the wait.

Of course, this also means that The Irishman is a ruthlessly patient film, one that is in no hurry to wrap up character arcs or rush on to the next scene. Every bit of dialogue sticks, hangs around and eventually sinks in; shots hold and linger on people and inanimate objects before slowly rolling on to the next. And much like Scorsese’s restraint in direction, the performances here from heavyweights like De Niro, Pacino and, in particular, Pesci are suitably subdued and measured. We’ve seen all three of these actors give electric and volatile performances (often in other, perhaps better, Scorsese films) but here they each feel meditative and unfathomably complex in their own way. Sure, they might fuck up, and a few people might get whacked as a result of this or that choice, but the film isn’t interested in death purely for the sake of excess or glorification. The Irishman isn’t about how blood gets spilled; it’s more about the stain that murder leaves on your clothes, maybe even your soul. As a director who has thoroughly chronicled the ins and outs of mob life, Scorsese’s latest work shows that he isn’t interested so much in the hits but the wounds they leave behind.

Now, if you’re at all daunted at the prospect of watching a three-hour Scorsese film (which, let’s face it, you shouldn’t be, but I still haven’t seen Silence, so no judgement from me), then here’s a helpful breakdown of the film into miniseries-size sections and timestamps for easy viewing. (But also, don’t tell Marty about this, because he’s been quite emphatic about people watching it all in one go.)

Part I – I Heard You Paint Houses (Start to 49:00)

This section contains the primary introduction to principal characters and the story’s narrative frames. The film begins with Sheeran as an aging, lonely old man in the 90s, running down the clock in a retirement home. As he begins to tell his story, the narrative shifts and flashes back to 1975 for a road trip with mob boss Russell Bufalino and their wives. As they reach a particular bend of the highway, Sheeran reflects on how he met Bufalino for the first time, and the film flashes back once more to 1950s Philadelphia as Sheeran recounts his story proper.

This section is also where the CGI de-aging is most pronounced and heavily utilised, only becoming noticeable and potentially distracting through the physicality of the actors. In particular scenes, it becomes very clear that Scorsese has 70-year old actors playing versions of their characters in their 30s and 40s (e.g. the scene with Sheeran and his daughter outside the grocery store). Truthfully though, after the first ten minutes, I barely noticed the CGI effects at all and the integration was relatively seamless. The supporting cast here is also superb, with Scorsese drawing from a veritable whos-who list of alums from his previous films, The Sopranos, Boardwalk Empire and The Wire to flesh out the seedy intricacies of Sheeran’s world.

Part II – I’m a Friend of Jimmy Hoffa (49:00 to 1:40:00)

With the introduction of Pacino and the character of Jimmy Hoffa, this section finds The Irishman tackling similar themes as Casino and Goodfellas (loyalty, retribution, power, corruption, etc.); however, this time around the difference is in Scorsese’s meditative approach.

The film wistfully follows Sheeran as his work for Bufalino, Hoffa and the teamster union allows the life of this measured, anachronistic truck driver to intersect with the Kennedy family and the CIA’s failed invasion of Cuba in the Bay of Pigs, to infamous mob figures like Anthony “Tony Pro” Provenzano (Stephen Graham) and “Crazy” Joe Gallo (Sebastian Maniscalco).

Part III – What Kind of Fish? (1:40:00 to 2:47:30)

By far the slowest portion of the film, this traditional third act section includes the fall of Jimmy Hoffa and his attempts at restoring his legacy, followed by the slow, crushing realisation from both Bufalino and Sheeran that there’s only one way for this to end.

The real standout here is the interplay in performances between Pesci and De Niro. Like most Scorsese films, a lot of the narrative tension from scene to scene results not from what’s said directly but what isn’t said. There’s a level of control and nuance in the physical presence of these actors—the long stares, the glassy reflections in their eyes, subtle pauses and gestures—that communicates more than dialogue could ever hope to convey. It’s breathtaking to watch in places, and when the narrative tension is eventually released, it’s all-too-brief, violent and then calmly brushed aside with little time for introspection.

Part IV – It Is What It Is (2:47:30 to End)

The film’s conclusion essentially acts as a coda to the core narrative contained in the previous three sections. The narrative frames of The Irishman finally come together and as the cast members begin to show visible signs of senescence—both inside and outside of prison—before shuffling off the mortal coil one geriatric at a time, the audience is left alone with Sheeran, as his world gets smaller and smaller, one death at a time.

Perhaps the most striking presence in this whole section is that of Anna Paquin, who plays the elder version of Sheeran’s shy, minnow-quiet and near-silent daughter, Peggy. Scorsese’s depiction of Peggy as mostly sidelined in Sheeran’s story, along with Paquin’s reserved portrayal of the character, has garnered some criticism for silencing feminine voices and perspectives in The Irishman. And while I think that this particular analysis certainly has merit, I would also argue that Peggy’s silence in the face of Sheeran actions speaks much louder than words here. Peggy’s role is strictly one of an observer, and she knows it. In Sheeran’s world, where nothing is ever explicit, and directives exist merely as hints, innuendos and subtext, her silence conveys a sense of judgement that is both uncomfortable and utterly inescapable for Sheeran. Ultimately, as the film states, it is what it is.