Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro) is both defender and confidante to Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino). © 2019 Netlfix US, LLC. All rights reserved.
In the business of making massive, intricate films about wicked, sharp-tongued criminals, Martin Scorsese has been around the block a few times. It makes sense now, nearly 50 years since Mean Streets, that Scorsese would make a film that seems almost to look back at the lives of some of his previous mobster characters throughout his filmography, this time illuminating the weight of guilt and consequence brought about by a life lived wickedly.
The Irishman is based on the book I Heard You Paint Houses by Charles Brandt, and like the book, it documents the allegedly real life of Frank "The Irishman" Sheeran, a mafia hitman for the Bufalino crime family throughout the 1950s, '60s, and '70s. Sheeran is played by Robert De Niro, aged and de-aged with special effects to portray Sheeran at various stages throughout his life. The story is framed through narration from an elderly Sheeran, now white-haired and living in a nursing home. He recounts his journey from meat delivery man to confidante and hitman for Pennsylvania crime boss Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci), and eventually to bodyguard for Teamsters Union President Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino).
Much like many of Scorsese's previous mafia- and crime-related films, the main characters discuss the grim, violent proceedings with the callous levity one could expect from clever, brutish men who make their living hurting others. Thanks to this, The Irishman is jazzy, peppy, and mostly well-paced (though the 3.5-hour runtime is a bit taxing). This film stands out from Scorsese's others, however, in that it tends toward cold, haunting depictions of Sheeran's and his associates' heinous crimes, rather than reveling in the decadence of their lifestyles. Murder is awkward and understated—De Niro crudely jabs his gun at people's heads when he shoots them and shuffles away down the street. Likewise, there's a chilling detachment in the way Scorsese frames the scenes in which one mobster casually decides it's time for another one to be offed for inconveniencing him.
Inevitably, the appeal of this film to most will be the collaboration of Scorsese, De Niro, Pacino, and Pesci, all titans of late-20th century crime film. To that, I can say, yes, these men are all incredibly talented—no less here than usual—and it's fun to see them gracefully swim through familiar waters, not entirely dissimilar to watching a supercut of their combined greatest cinematic moments. Like watching old characters show up in a new Star Wars movie, or finally seeing this Avenger meet that Avenger after all this time, there is fun to be had in the dialogue scenes as these old masters work their magic on Steven Zaillian's zig-zaggy script.
At times, however, it almost feels like that's The Irishman's primary focus, rather than telling a compelling, full-bodied, original story about the spiritual price of murder and debauchery. Lots of showy, silly dialogue scenes that go off on tangents or dance around the same idea in different words. That's entertaining, especially when it's being done by talented people who can sell it convincingly. But the emotional threads tying together these various vignettes from Sheeran's life are thin and loose; it was hard to care much whether or not Sheeran, Hoffa, or Bufalino got what they wanted or made peace with their mistakes because Scorsese never quite gets into their heads enough.
Add to that the film's obsession with packing in well-known and/or incredibly talented actors, inserting them in fleeting, unimportant roles. The film even introduces them as though they'll be important, only to fade them out of the movie over the next 20 minutes. There are such appearances from Harvey Keitel, Bobby Cannavale, Sebastian Maniscalco, and most heinously, Anna Paquin as Sheeran's daughter Peggy, who shows up maybe four times in the film, and says all of six words, otherwise just staring coldly at him or out the window.
On the other hand, De Niro works wonders with his quiet moments between lines, conveying Frank's compromised moral compass and conflicting desires when he has to do things he can't quite make sense of. The much-discussed de-aging effects on De Niro and Pesci are largely unnoticeable, or at least easy to get used to, but occasionally they look all too similar to the glossy, rubbery faces in The Polar Express.
It's The Irishman's final 20 or 30 minutes that distinguish it in a meaningful way from Scorsese's other work. There is an engrossing quietude in Frank's life at the end—he is, in some way, haunted by his life choices, and the desire to reconcile the consequences burns in him. And yet, at the same time, he is incapable of finding the perspective to become truly sorrowful or repentant. A couple of scenes at his nursing home, one of Frank attempting a confession before a priest, and another of him denying two federal agents of the same, land squarely on what I believe Scorsese wanted to convey in this film, and those scenes are among Scorsese's best filmmaking, maybe ever.
Unfortunately, the same can't be said for the majority of the film, which feels too often like a "Best of Scorsese Crime Dramas" reel, without quite enough substance to make it all resonate in harmony. And the length doesn't do the film many favors, given the familiar material.
But on the bright side, De Niro, Pacino, and Pesci are fun to watch together. What else is new?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHXxVmeGQUc&w=585