Martin Scorsese
The Irishman

A computer-generated younger Robert De Niro kicks a man on the sidewalk. He mistreated his daughter, and this is what he deserves. Robert’s face is young, but his movements are slow and wooden like those of an old man. The suspension of disbelief cracks.

This is a film of old men. No doubt about it. And there's nothing worse for an old man than trying to act young. But thankfully, Scorsese's latest gangster movie doesn't overdo it on violence and action. It's been 46 years since Mean Streets. No need to imitate it. Yet, there's no shortage of some good scuffles. Nor is there a lack of treacherous gunshots with well-visible blood splatters.

It's a film that's not so much to be watched for what it is, but for what it represents. A testament. If we watch it for what it is, there's not much to say. Because Scorsese, at the end of the day, always makes the same gangster film, from 1973 to today. The gradations of violence and irony change a little, the pulsing of the scenes, the speed of the narration, the pressing of the music, and the colors of the clothes. But the stories are pretty much the same.

And so for at least two hours, The Irishman should be viewed with tenderness, like a delightfully anachronistic exercise. With some interesting touches that add just a hint of sparkle. But these are little tricks to refresh an otherwise already known discourse. Be patient, there are some old men carving out their space of protagonism. More or less successfully. Al Pacino is a force of nature, spectacular. The others shine less, but they hold their own. De Niro hasn't given such glares since the days of Casino.

What surprises instead is the director's lack of self-criticism, who lingers in some excessive redundancies. Lately, good Martin hasn't skimped on durations, but here we are indeed at excess. Like when grandpa starts telling a story, you need to arm yourself with patience and hear things two or three times at least. In the end, however, that stubbornness moves you.

An anachronistic exercise, but not a useless one. One needs to be patient to understand it. Very.

In the long run, trust is repaid and we have a conclusion that delivers the final blows of a career that, like few others, has known how to tell the thrill of crime while at the same time offering a very bitter counterpoint. Here we're beyond. It's a great collective funeral, and those who resist a little longer do so by praying. A bitterness that doesn't lead to repentance, but like a feeling of emptiness, an aura of mystery that envelops the meaning of these men's lives. Inscrutable souls, perhaps not even so evil. Simply, they took a road from which there's no return. These “goodfellas” just can't be different.

There's no final catharsis, no revelation, no settling of scores. Everything is consumed meanly; the murders are vile, treacherous, and, in the same way, life after crime extends into the infamy of those who cannot feel remorse or pain for their victims.

Scorsese shows that “after” which is never there in gangster films. He shows the slow end of a man who has outlived everyone, has killed anyone without flinching, yet his heart isn't black. On the contrary, there's a sense of inevitability in him, he doesn't ask why he did it: he knows, he believes he never had an alternative. Or rather, he did, but now (in the film's present) he wouldn't be there to tell it. That's why he can't repent for the blood that stains his hands.