The Irishman: A Semi-Spoiler Reaction to the Scorsese Epic

While watching Martin Scorsese's new 209 minute Netflix production The Irishman, it becomes apparent how much of a construct time truly is. Not only concerning its massive run time, which feels no longer than the typical two-hour movie that modern audiences have come to know, but also in the personal perception of the film's narrator—Frank Sheeran (played by Robert De Niro). Sheeran spends a majority of the film recounting a road trip to Detroit that alters his life forever, as well as offshoot stories that fill in the gaps of his aging mind, and reckons with the grief, regret, and loss in his life. While there is landmark Scorsese gangster violence, moments of comedy, and long pauses of intensity, that sorrow at Sheeran's core is what this movie is truly about. This is not a story of crashing and burning like so many mob flicks but rather, much like the Godfather saga before it, the tragedy of regret, survival, and lost time.

Early in the film, we are introduced to Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci) and his power. This is not the Pesci that normally accompanies a Scorsese picture, lots of talk and even more violence, but rather a cold and still man who radiates his status with every breath that he takes and every frozen stare that he gives. From the moment that Sheeran meets Bufalino, he is by his side and at his mercy. It is through him that Sheeran is introduced to the flamboyant and proud Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino) the President of the Teamster's Union. A face that every person in the United States of America could recognize. This is about 45 minutes into the movie and when things begin to take off. From there every action that Frank Sheeran takes, everything that he does is at the behest of someone else. His choices are never his own. All of these actions and consequences are so expertly balanced by the cast and Scorsese, each one is given its proper weight. The epic begins to unfold and loose ends begin to tie and we are hurled into the climax of the film.

Throughout the well-paced story, we are introduced briefly to many side characters, gangsters who don't make it until the end. Each of these men are given captions detailing the date and cause of their deaths; Scorsese, a man walking towards the end of his own life, is telling us in no uncertain terms that you can have money, fear, and power but you will never best death. Art is often a reflection of how an artist sees the world, so it would make sense that a legendary filmmaker in his late 70s would make a movie (starring legendary actors in their late 70s and early 80s) that is a musing on death and reconciliation of his past. He, as well as De Niro, force the audience to see every choice, or every forfeit of choice, that Frank makes leading up to the worst thing he will ever do. And, with great care and purpose, that action is shown so anticlimactically with only a slightly longer take that lingers on the immediate consequence—a frame that is marred by silence. And then, as we all hold our collective breath, the story continues; just as it had after every action that Frank previously committed. This time, however, there is a hollow feeling that follows the camera. No one touched by this event is entirely whole anymore.

By the end of the film, we are left with an aging man. A man whose daughter hasn't spoken to him in almost 30 years and will not do so. A man whose other daughter feels nothing but sadness and pain due to the actions that he took—and who tells him in no uncertain terms that while he thought his choices were right, they were wrong. There is nothing that he can do to change this reality, it is how he fated himself. He may have survived into his old age but he did so at a cost. He did not crash and burn, rather slowly faded away. Even the memory of his lost friend, once one of the most known men in the country, has long faded into obscurity with the passing years. He is finally being punished as he watches everyone he has ever loved die or leave; Frank is left with a deafening silence.

At the end of his life, completely alone and almost forgotten, Frank has to live with that silence. Every mistake that he has ever made is painted across his wrinkled face and his aging, failing body. It is impossible not to look upon him and feel a slight twinge of empathy pity for a man who can no longer walk, even if he is a monster. The final scene of the film cuts deep, with a cracked door and darkness, inviting reflection and sincerity from anyone watching. That is the beauty, and the meaning, in this film. Scorsese is not asking for but rather commanding the sincerity, the reckoning, from every single viewer. As Frank weaves his way through each section of his story and brings us to present day, as everyone else fades away, and as every caption showing the death of the gangsters appears on the screen we are reminded again, and again, and again of our own mortality and our own lost time and regret. It is what it is—and so we reflect.