the irishman movie review

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Robert De Niro  excels at playing closed-off, unreachable characters—hard men who might seem a bit dull if you met them for the first time, but have inner lives that they rarely let anyone see, and are mysteries to themselves. De Niro was 75 when he played yet another of those characters in Martin Scorsese ’s " The Irishman,” which feels like a summation of a rich subset of De Niro's long career. 

Adapted by screenwriter Steve Zaillian (“Schindler’s List”) from Charles Brandt ’s book  I Heard You Paint Houses , and clocking in at three-and-a-half hours, the movie is an alternately sad, violent, and dryly funny biography of Frank Sheeran, a World War II combat veteran who became a Mafia hitman and then a union leader, and who had a long, at times politically fraught friendship with Teamster leader Jimmy Hoffa ( Al Pacino ). You feel every one of De Niro’s years in his haunting performance, as well as those of Pacino, Joe Pesci , and Harvey Keitel , who are “de-aged” for flashbacks via computer-generated imagery as well as analog makeup and hairpieces. You also feel the years in the mostly younger supporting cast (including Bobby Cannavale , Kathrine Narducci , Stephanie Kurtzuba , Gary Basaraba and Stephen Graham as gang bosses, spouses, and union leaders), who age forward. 

And you feel them in Scorsese’s direction, which is more contemplative than his gangster movie norm (at times as meditative as his religious pictures), and which deftly shifts between eras, using dialogue and voice-over to make the time-jumps seamless. The frame-within-a-frame-within-a-frame structure is one of the most complex of Scorsese's career. But it's realized with such grace by Scorsese, Zaillian and longtime editor Thelma Schoonmaker that it never feels fussy or overdetermined, gliding from one thought-path to another as a recollecting mind juxtaposes the distant past, the recent past, and the present. 

The opening shot glides through a retirement home, finding Frank sitting alone in a wheelchair. He’s such a rock-like presence that, seen from the back, he looks as if he could be dead. Then the camera circles around to reveal his lined face, cloudy eyes, and white hair. He starts to speak. His statements become the film’s narration. We don’t know who he’s telling this story to. Very late in the movie, we see him talking with a priest. But the audience is us, really. 

The concluding half-hour—an immersion into this now-old man’s life, fuller than we’re used to seeing in any American film not directed by Clint Eastwood —provides a clarifying framework. This is a film about the intersection of crime and politics, Mafia history and Washington history. It touches on Fidel Castro’s rise in Cuba and the CIA’s attempts to overthrow him, President John F. Kennedy ’s assassination, and the mob wars of the 1960s and ‘70s. But it’s mostly about age, loss, sin, regret, and how you can feel like a passive object swept along by history even if you played a role in shaping it. If Sheeran’s account of his life is to be trusted (and many crime historians warn that it isn't), he was intimately involved in a handful of pivotal moments in American history. And yet we might still come away from " The Irishman " seeing him as a passive figure: the Zelig or Forrest Gump of gangsters—because of how he tells the story, as if he's in denial about what it meant and what it says about him. 

Although he's capable of violence, and can mete it out on a moment's notice, Frank seems mostly content to hang in the backgrounds of Scorsese’s wiseguy murals, behind louder, more eccentric men (especially Jimmy Hoffa, played with wit and gusto by Pacino, in hoarse-voiced, shouting-and-strutting mode). Frank is muted and reactive for the most part, and great at talking his way out of tight spots by pretending not to understand the questions being asked of him. He comes into several defining tasks and jobs by virtue of being in the right place or meeting the right people at the right time. As he describes his inexorable march through time and life, he characterizes choices that he made of his own free will (including several murders) as things that just happened to him. 

This is not a seamless movie. Admirable as it is to see Scorsese committing to self-contained scenes that often unfurl like deadpan comedy sketches, the many digressions, marvelous as they are, come at the expense of fleshing out the canvas. And even at three-and-a-half hours, certain aspects feel undernourished. Major supporting players like Keitel (as Philadelphia crime boss Angelo Bruno), Cannavale (as Felix "Skinny Razor" DiTullio) and Ray Romano (as Teamster lawyer Bill Bufalino, whose daughter’s wedding provides a pretext for Frank to take a car trip that literalizes the idea of life as a journey) all register as visual and emotional presences, especially when you first meet them. But it’s not always easy to understand who they are as people, or what role they’re playing in this narrative besides sharing space with the leads. (Pesci, who hasn’t acted onscreen since Taylor Hackford's 2010 film " Love Ranch ," makes a much stronger impression as Frank’s mentor Russell Bufalino, boss of the Northeastern Pennsylvania-based Bufalino crime family; he’s as quiet and controlled as his “ GoodFellas ” and “ Casino ” characters were obnoxious and volatile.)

The overwhelming maleness of the story also hurts it in the long run, notwithstanding the intentionality of this choice (the film is narrated entirely by Frank, and he’s barely interested in life outside of his work in a world of men). As Russell’s wife Carrie, Narducci has brilliant moments early on, mainly in car trip flashbacks, passive-aggressively hassling her husband to make Frank, the driver, pull over so she can smoke; but she becomes a non-presence after that. Kurtzuba (as Frank’s wife Mary) and Anna Paquin (as the grown-up version of his daughter Peggy, who saw many things she shouldn’t have) are largely mute, almost ghostly presences. There’s nothing innately unaccceptable about stories focusing mainly on men (or women, as in the current “ Hustlers ”). But at the same time, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Scorsese’s two greatest Mafia pictures, “GoodFellas” and “Casino,” carve out substantial space for wives, girlfriends, mothers and daughters, and feature indelible lead performances by actresses (respectively, Lorraine Bracco in “GoodFellas” and Sharon Stone in “Casino”) that energize and transform the material, exploding the hero’s lives like the bombs that roast vintage cars in “The Irishman.” 

As for the de-aging technology, it's not there yet. I don't think it's been there yet in any movie, though your mileage will vary. But if the results are sometimes distracting in "The Irishman," they're no more distracting than, say, then-fortysomething Pesci and De Niro in "Goodfellas" playing twenty-something versions of themselves. And Scorsese never gets too hung up on that kind of thing anyway—he's legendary for letting obvious continuity errors slide because he's more interested in continuity of tone and emotion—so here, as in his other epics, it's best to just roll with it. 

All that having been said, anyone who worried that Scorsese was dipping into the Sunday gravy one too many times will be reassured by the tonal originality of what’s been achieved here. More so than any other Scorsese crime picture—and this is saying a lot—“The Irishman” confirms him as one of the greatest living comedy directors who isn’t described as such, and De Niro as one of the great scene-stealing straight men. His byplay with Pacino, Pesci, Keitel and all the rest is masterfully acted and edited by Schoonmaker. Much of it is a gangland “Who’s on first?” routine, or the “Joey Scala/Joey Clams” exchange between Keitel and De Niro in “ Mean Streets ." Zaillian’s script is filled to bursting with quotable lines. And every few minutes you get a marvelous bit of character-based comedy acting, such as Frank’s blank-faced concentration as he plots their long car trip on a map with a red Sharpie marker, or a wild-eyed Hoffa glaring at a nemesis during a union awards banquet while sawing though a bloody steak.

The net effect is more unsettling and melancholia-inducing than you might have expected. Frank’s storytelling aligns him with the most mesmerizing unreliable narrators in Scorsese’s voice-over-heavy career. As in so many Scorsese films, what matters most is the relationship between this movie and its audience. It's about the difference between what the film shows us and how Frank describes it: the words and tone he chooses, and—most strikingly—what decides to gloss over, or present without comment. 

How much agency, how much moral choice, how much say , do we truly have in our lives? Is a sin still a sin if we don’t recognize the concept of sin, or lend credence the idea that some deeds are innately right and others innately wrong? Does it make sense to distinguish between murder and killing, or gangland mayhem and warfare as practiced by nations? Or are these just mental constructs designed by authority figures, meant to sanction acts approved by the state and condemn them when practiced outside its purview? Is Frank a sociopath who is a great killer because he doesn’t feel emotions or have relationships in the way that most people do? (De Niro italicizes so little of Frank that we often don’t know what Frank thinks of the things he does.) Or is it possible that violence, even killing/murder, is just one more type of activity, forbidden by rules of most societies, yet still widely practiced, and compatible with friendship, love, and loyalty? Are a killer’s tears at losing a friend or loved one counterfeit, a performance of grief? Is his smile on his wedding day a performance of love? And even if these are performances, what’s the substantive difference between performing feelings and experiencing them? Is it different from deciding to become a soldier or a mobster, then being accepted as that thing, and eventually feeling as if you are that thing?

Scorsese, Zaillian and Schoonmaker don’t answer these or other questions. By the time we reach the movie’s detached and unfussy final image, we still aren’t sure quite what to make of Frank, or this sprawling tale. And I don’t believe we’re supposed to. The movie expects us to complete it on our own by thinking back on it later, and discussing it with others. Scorsese is the last big-budget filmmaker who mostly declines to hand meaning to viewers. And in his crime films, he refuses to boldface why he’s telling stories about self-serving criminals or assure us that he personally condemns them. “The Irishman” keeps with that tradition. The opportunity to sit with the movie later is the main reason to see it. For all its borderline-vaudevillian verbal humor and occasional eruptions of ultraviolence (often done in a single take, and shot from far away) it feels like as much of a collection of thought prompts and images of contemplation as Scorsese’s somber religious epics “ The Last Temptation of Christ ,” “ Kundun ,” and “ Silence .” 

God is as tight-lipped as Frank. 

This review was filed from the 2019 New York Film Festival on September 27th, 2019.

Matt Zoller Seitz

Matt Zoller Seitz is the Editor at Large of RogerEbert.com, TV critic for New York Magazine and Vulture.com, and a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in criticism.

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Film credits.

The Irishman (2019)

Rated R for pervasive language and strong violence.

209 minutes

Robert De Niro as Frank 'The Irishman' Sheeran

Al Pacino as Jimmy Hoffa

Joe Pesci as Russell Bufalino

Harvey Keitel as Angelo Bruno

Bobby Cannavale as Joe Gallo

Ray Romano as Bill Bufalino

Stephen Graham as Anthony Provenzano

Kathrine Narducci as Carrie Bufalino

Anna Paquin as Peggy Sheeran

• Martin Scorsese

Writer (book)

• Charles Brandt
• Steve Zaillian

Cinematographer

• Rodrigo Prieto
• Thelma Schoonmaker
• Robbie Robertson

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Movie Reviews

Movie review: 'the irishman' is an epic with the feel of history.

Bob Mondello

Martin Scorsese's three-and-a-half-hour mob movie, "The Irishman," stars Robert De Niro as a killer for hire, and Al Pacino as Teamsters union boss Jimmy Hoffa.

AILSA CHANG, HOST:

Martin Scorsese's new movie "The Irishman" reunites him for the first time in decades with Robert De Niro, his star from "Taxi Driver," "Mean Streets" and "Goodfellas." Al Pacino and Joe Pesci co-star in "The Irishman," and critic Bob Mondello says they and their director have made an epic that has the feel of history.

BOB MONDELLO, BYLINE: The opening shot is a callback to that gorgeous, unbroken tracking shot Martin Scorsese used to introduce "Goodfellas," where the camera followed that film's gangland narrator at the peak of his career - from his car, through a crowded kitchen and into a bustling nightclub. This time, the camera isn't following "The Irishman's" gangland narrator.

It's looking for him - you might say from the other end of his career, travelling down nursing home corridors until it finds him sitting in a wheelchair, face lined, hair white - Robert De Niro as hitman Frank Sheeran, looking back on a career that started decades earlier when he worked for mob boss Russell Bufalino, played by Joe Pesci. Frank remembers the night Bufalino introduced him to a big shot who would change his life.

(SOUNDBITE OF FILM, "THE IRISHMAN")

JOE PESCI: (As Russell Bufalino) Listen. I got that kid I was talking to you about here. I'm going to put him on the phone, let you talk to him, OK?

ROBERT DE NIRO: (As Frank Sheeran) Hello?

MONDELLO: Actors De Niro and Pesci are both in their 70s, but they've been digitally de-aged for these flashbacks to roughly their 40s, a trick that is visually disconcerting at first. Their eyes look right - skin? Not entirely, but you get used to it. Also appearing younger than his mid-70s is the guy on the phone, played by Al Pacino.

AL PACINO: (As Jimmy Hoffa) How are you, Frank? This is Jimmy Hoffa.

DE NIRO: (As Frank Sheeran) Yeah. Yeah. Glad to meet you.

PACINO: (As Jimmy Hoffa) Well, glad to meet you, too, even if it's over the phone. I heard you paint houses.

MONDELLO: Painting houses is code. They're talking about blood spattered on walls because by the early 1960s, Frank, who was real - this story is based on a chronicle of his life - was deep in the embrace of the Bufalino family. You wanted somebody whacked? Frank was your guy.

And this being a Scorsese flick, there are a lot of whackings - ones that are in pursuit of mob justice, of political justice with regard to the Kennedy family, and also in pursuit of union justice, which can be just as rough as the other kinds when the Teamsters and Jimmy Hoffa are involved. Assassinations and assassination attempts are this film's stock in trade, with larger-than-life Hoffa surviving one...

UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #1: (As character) Get that gun out of his hands.

MONDELLO: ...Then grandstanding for the press.

PACINO: (As Jimmy Hoffa) You always charge a guy with a gun - with a knife, you run away. So you charge with a gun - with a knife, you run.

MONDELLO: For the first two of the film's luxuriously rich 3 1/2 hours, "The Irishman" offers the sort of raucous, splattery mob movie spectacle that Scorsese's so often trafficked in, sometimes presented with resonance and majesty, sometimes with inventive little quirks - minor characters with colorful names, for instance, introduced with a freeze frame that notes when they will ultimately die and how. The screenplay is quirky too when, say, a minor mobster disrespects Pacino's Jimmy Hoffa.

PACINO: (As Jimmy Hoffa) I never waited for anyone who was late more than 10 minutes in my life.

UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: (As character) I'd say 15, 15's right.

PACINO: (As Jimmy Hoffa) No, 10.

UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: (As character) Ten's not enough. You have to take traffic into account.

PACINO: (As Jimmy Hoffa) That's what I'm doing. I'm taking traffic into account. That's why it's 10.

UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: I still say 15.

UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #3: (As character) How about 12 1/2 minutes?

UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #2: (As character) There we go, 12 1/2.

UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #4: (As character) Right in the middle. Beautiful. Beautiful.

PACINO: (As Jimmy Hoffa) Yeah. More than 10 is saying something. You saying something to me?

UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #5: (As character) I'm here.

UNIDENTIFIED ACTOR #6: (As character) It says what it says.

MONDELLO: Steve Zaillian's screenplay says what it says - precisely and with eloquence, especially as Scorsese nudges the actors in sadder directions and the story gets more invested in loss. For while "The Irishman" is like many mob movies about violence and betrayal, it's a work of a filmmaker who has earned the right to sum up this genre. So it's also about regrets, remorse, reckonings and elegy.

I'm Bob Mondello.

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The Irishman Reviews

The Irishman has the same Scorsese beats we have come to love but moves to a noticeably staggered rhythm in it's device of storytelling, laboured performances and reluctance to commit to the brutal energy of Goodfellas.

Full Review | Original Score: 3/5 | Feb 20, 2024

The Irishman tests patience with its runtime and less effective storytelling on a second watch. CGI de-aging distracts, yet Scorsese's touch shines in cinematography.

One of the most important characteristics of the gangster genre is that we access the story through the point of view of the protagonist, in this case Frank Sheeran, who, is an immigrant. Through the narrative resource of the first person...

Full Review | Original Score: 10/10 | Jan 27, 2024

Loyalty can’t exist without betrayal, and Scorsese explores that dichotomy with surprising empathy. When Hoffa refuses to accommodate the will of the mafia, he triggers a Steinbeckian tragedy on par with Of Mice and Men.

Full Review | Jul 20, 2023

It is a personal view for an aging man who feels guilty for his betrayal and pays a hefty price...

Full Review | Mar 2, 2023

Even though [The Irishman is] extremely long, the way in which it depicts the themes of brotherhood and loyalty is superb.

Full Review | Original Score: 9/10 | Jan 22, 2023

A genuine testament of art of making cinema as art. [Full review in Spanish]

Full Review | Original Score: 5/5 | Dec 7, 2022

We’re watching characters decay over five decades (though many don’t live long enough to have that option) in just under three and a half hours, and I don’t know who wouldn’t be moved by that.

Full Review | Dec 2, 2022

In a lot of ways, this film is the antithesis to “Goodfellas”, a eulogy to the gangster genre the same way “Unforgiven” was a eulogy to the western genre.

Full Review | Nov 24, 2022

An All American epic that gains its import from its accumulation of seconds and minutes and years -- those tracking shots turned to myth, and we, a country of endless highways stretched end to end, always ending somewhere, on some face

Full Review | Nov 17, 2022

My obsession with Scorsese and this genre might not be healthy anymore. To the point where I found every minute of this movie interesting. The mob epic this director wanted to give us, throwing homages to the cinema that made him. [Full review in Spanish]

Full Review | Original Score: 9/10 | Oct 21, 2022

Scorsese’s maturity and range as a storyteller is sure handed throughout. There isn’t a single misplaced camera angle, or, despite the film’s long length, a throwaway take.

Full Review | Oct 18, 2022

The Irishman is Scorsese’s Gangster Epic: A big, grand, ambitious rags to riches mob tale that blurs the lines between loyalty, friendship, and business. It might be the quickest 209-minutes in the history of cinema. Joe Pesci, welcome back.

Full Review | Original Score: 4.5/5 | Aug 22, 2022

You could say “The Irishman” is above all things a tragedy. Underneath its veneer of wise guy tradition and violence lies the story of a man facing the music for his embrace of mob life and neglect of his family.

The best comparison one could make to The Irishman is David Lean's similarly epic-sized Lawrence of Arabia (1962), a biography that examines its subject for four hours before conceding to its unknowability.

Full Review | Original Score: 4/4 | Feb 23, 2022

The Irishman gives its audience so many emotions and is poignant, funny, violent, and beautiful. It is a modern-day mobster masterpiece from a master of his craft.

Full Review | Original Score: 4/4 | Feb 18, 2022

A towering achievement in storytelling not just cinema.

Full Review | Original Score: 90/100 | Jan 14, 2022

Irishman represents, with its somber and mournful mood, what may be Scorsese's farewell to the sort of gangster tales that largely made his reputation.

Full Review | Sep 18, 2021

A wonderful three and a half hours... a very human story.

Full Review | Sep 16, 2021

The Irishman is grand and ambitious, asking unanswerable questions about legacy, sorrow, and death.

Full Review | Original Score: 5/5 | Aug 16, 2021

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Martin Scorsese brings a life's work to his starry, bloody, and very long drama The Irishman

Leah Greenblatt is the critic at large at Entertainment Weekly , covering movies, music, books, and theater. She is a member of the New York Film Critics Circle, and has been writing for EW since 2004.

There's an enormity to almost everything about The Irishman : the casting, the killing, the Iditarod run time. But it's not the blood splatter or the tracking shots or even the much-discussed CG de-aging effects (which are impressive, if not a little unsettling) that stay; it's seeing these faces we've watched for nearly half a century — a sort of craggy-cinematic Mount Rushmore — come together again, most likely for the last time.

One face is actually here for the first time, which seems hard to believe: Al Pacino and Martin Scorsese have never worked together until now. So it makes a certain sense that the director would bring him on, finally, to play a figure as towering as Jimmy Hoffa, the legendary Teamster whose 1975 disappearance became one of the late 20th century's most enduring mysteries.

It's Frank Sheeran ( Robert De Niro ) who's the ostensible center of both the movie and the 2004 memoir on which it's based, I Heard You Paint Houses . Sheeran's father was in fact a house painter, though in his own future line of work it came to mean something else (if there's blood on the wall, it's because he put it there; not with a paintbrush but a gun).

A WWII veteran and short-haul truck driver, Sheeran gained favor with Philadelphia Mob bosses Russell Bufalino ( Joe Pesci ) and Angelo Bruno (Harvey Keitel), eventually becoming one of their most trusted assassins and enforcers. He also, with their blessing, was assigned as a sort of body man and best friend to Hoffa, whose fortunes as the head of organized labor in America were deeply entangled with organized crime.

As Scorsese hopscotches across cities and decades, often in the service of a dizzyingly large number of plot turns, characters, and narrative cul de sacs, it's hard not to wonder whether the movie — underwritten entirely by Netflix in the anything-goes age of streaming — would have made more sense as a limited series. (The real-life story would certainly support it, and surely there must be reams left over on the cutting-room floor; though it also feels a little like sacrilege to question his famously discerning editor, Thelma Schoonmaker.)

There's a sense too, that The Irishman is a kind of caps-lock Scorsese — the greatest hits of his career revisited once more, with feeling. The movie's passing parade of gangsters and goodfellas don't have the electric specificity of 2013's The Wolf of Wall Street or the still, hymn-like beauty of 2016's Silence . Babies are born; deals are forged; doubles are crossed. Men go to prison (though they call it "school"), women smoke cigarettes (and don't speak much), and kids (played in adulthood by, among others, Anna Paquin and Jesse Plemons) serve mostly as bystanders, looking on in vague confusion or with the harder squint of those who've seen more than they really want to know.

It all becomes a bit of muddle for a while midway through; one that's not nearly as compelling as the acting itself, which is largely phenomenal, frequently surprising, and often more than a little heartbreaking. As Bufalino, Pesci — who's hardly been on screen for over a decade — abandons his hair-trigger intensity for a sort of gentle, contained menace, his eyes slow-blinking behind enormous glasses and his mouth pursed in a thoughtful moue. He doesn't want to do bad things, but sometimes bad things are necessary for the order of things, you know?

Pacino plays Hoffa as a man with his own indelible code of honor: Bristly, driven, and fiercely intelligent, he has a soft spot for kids and ice cream sundaes and a blind one for the limits of his own power (which went nearly to the top — though in the end, clearly, not high enough). He often feels like the heart of the movie, if Frank is its muscle; for much of his performance, De Niro is stoic to the point of impenetrability, an Easter Island statue in wingtips and a rayon bowling shirt.

It's only as the film enters its final devastating chapters that the full weight of Frank's actions begin to register as something more than names on a coroner's ledger. And that's where The Irishman finds its deepest, truest place: not as a whiz-bang Mafia caper or a sprawling, starry history lesson, but as a poignant meditation on mortality — both for the real lives unfolding on onscreen, and for the actors who've spent their own lives turning these stories into something more than real; they've made them ours. B+

( The Irishman premiered last night at the New York Film Festival, and will be in limited theatrical release beginning Nov. 1 before coming to Netflix Nov. 27)

Related content:

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• Watch Robert De Niro and Al Pacino go to war with J.F.K. in new trailer for The Irishman

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Remembrance of Kills Past in “The Irishman”

By Anthony Lane

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, what will you talk about? Your grandchildren? The far-off scents and tastes of your own childhood? Your first love? Or that time when you walked into Umberto’s Clam House and shot Crazy Joe, only you didn’t whack him right, so he runs outta there, more like stumbles, and you follow the guy and finish him off on the sidewalk, you know, pop pop, close the deal? The sorry fate of Joe is one of the many events recalled for us by Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro), in “The Irishman,” as he sits in a nursing home and summons up remembrance of kills past.

The director of the movie is Martin Scorsese , returning to the rich soil that he has tilled and sown before, in “Mean Streets” (1973), “Goodfellas” (1990), “Casino” (1995), “The Departed” (2006), and the opening episode of “Boardwalk Empire,” in 2010. The new film is adapted by Steven Zaillian from a book by Charles Brandt, partly based on conversations with the real Frank Sheeran, who died in 2003, and titled “I Heard You Paint Houses.” We see the phrase onscreen, writ large in capital letters. Apparently, it’s what you say to a hit man when making polite inquiries into his availability—a useful tip, though not if you are genuinely concerned with redecorating your home.

The tale is told in flashback, either in voice-over or to the camera, with Frank looking directly—and disconcertingly—toward us, as if he were being interviewed for a documentary. To and fro we glide, across the decades, tracing Frank’s ascent, decline, and fall. We see him as a hale young fellow, delivering sides of meat, and then as a fixer for the Bufalinos, who are not, as the name suggests, the reigning monarchs of the mozzarella trade but a noted criminal clan in Philadelphia. Frank, arraigned on a charge of theft, is defended by Bill Bufalino (Ray Romano) and befriended by Bill’s cousin Russell (Joe Pesci), who becomes a soul mate for life. Frank soon graduates from fixing to whacking, with Scorsese, as so often, eschewing grandeur for the downbeat detail—a gun handed over in a brown paper bag, with no more fuss than a sandwich.

The next step up finds Frank being presented to Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino), whose command of the Teamsters is absolute, and who needs a bodyguard. It’s instructive to compare Pacino’s Hoffa with Jack Nicholson’s, in the underrated “Hoffa” (1992). Pacino is leaner and louder, with a wary stare in those haunted orbs; Nicholson is more of a bulldog—foursquare, wasting fewer words, and thus, for my money, providing a more tenacious bite. Also, Pacino fails to shed the tic that has pervaded the second half of his career. Whatever the role, he stretches out a word of one syllable into two, or even three, and declaims each syllable at a different pitch. So, as Hoffa, he doesn’t say “fraud.” He says “frahr-aud.” Call it irritable-vowel syndrome, and leave it at that.

Much of “The Irishman,” in its later stages, is consumed by the Hoffalogical—too much, perhaps, what with the added weight of speculation. Hoffa vanished on July 30, 1975, and left no trace; rumors have seethed ever since, and the movie, endorsing claims made by Brandt, in his book, tags Frank as Hoffa’s murderer. Whether or not you buy the thesis, so calm and so remorseless is the clarity with which Scorsese charts the events of that day that you somehow yield to them not as a flight of fancy but as the reconstruction of an established truth. Such is the method of the movie: patient, composed, and cool to the point of froideur. It runs for just under three and a half hours, although, to be honest, it seldom runs. Instead, it maintains a sombre pace, like a mourner in a funeral cortège. Whenever a town car—the hoodlum’s transport of choice—passes before the camera, it looks like a hearse in waiting.

As for Frank, when he’s not wielding a weapon, he likes to stay on the sidelines, keeping his counsel. It’s a joy to see De Niro at his most watchful, after too many films that have diluted his force of concentration, though I could have done without the tinting of his eyes. Gone is the dark Italianate brown of De Niro’s natural irises. New Blue Eyes is here. Short of cladding Frank in shamrock green, it’s hard to think of a less subtle means of ethnic signalling. The movie makes a brazen effort to explain the oddity, by having Russell ask Frank, “How did an Irishman like you get to speak Italian?” To which Frank replies that, in the military, he fought his way through Italy, picking up the lingo along the way. Yeah, just like all those thousands of G.I.s who came back from the war against the Nazis looking tall and blond and talking in fluent German.

This is not the first occasion, of course, on which De Niro has stepped aside from his cultural identity for the sake of a long and chronologically complex gangster flick. In Sergio Leone’s “Once Upon a Time in America” (1984), he was Noodles, who led a gang of Jewish pals through a lifetime of scrapes and misdemeanors. I love that movie, despite its faults, and have to be swept off the floor after every viewing; you can’t blame Scorsese for not trying to match the warmth of Leone’s emotional clutch. “The Irishman” has wider horizons in mind.

For one thing, it keeps glancing outward, to the world beyond the streets of Philadelphia. “Would you like to be a part of this history?” Hoffa says to Frank, as if he knows that they’re all in a movie, and there’s a touch of Zelig in Frank’s peculiar talent for being around whenever a crisis looms. He drives a truckful of arms to the men who are headed for the Bay of Pigs, and his contact at the handover, in Jacksonville, is “a guy with big ears, named Hunt”—E. Howard Hunt, whom Frank later recognizes on TV, during the Watergate hearings. Then, we have the Kennedys. The movie encourages dark thoughts about organized crime and its links to political homicide, and Frank is present when Hoffa orders the Stars and Stripes, flying at half-mast after the death of John F. Kennedy, to be hauled back up the flagpole on the roof of the Teamsters’ headquarters.

As a conspiracist, however, Scorsese is far less full-throated than, say, Oliver Stone , and the quieter and more private moments of “The Irishman” offer a sense of relief. Hoffa and Frank are such boon companions that they share a hotel bedroom, and, as the nation’s most powerful union boss stands there in pajamas, brushing his teeth, the two men seem less like purveyors of menace and more like a nice old married couple. Don’t tell the Bufalinos, but deep inside this movie lurks a sitcom. There is comedy here, but it springs from the rat-a-tat rhythms of Mob talk, veering toward Damon Runyon: “They told the old man to tell me to tell you, that’s what it is.” More than once, Frank is cautioned with the words “No, not that.” Translation: “Don’t rub him out just yet.”

Now and then, in “Mean Streets,” the names of the characters flash up on the screen—“Johnny Boy,” “Charlie,” and so on. The same thing happens in the new film, but with an extra chill: the action freezes for each name, and it’s accompanied by the date and the manner of the character’s future death. (“Phil Testa—blown up by a nail bomb under his porch. March 15, 1981.”) Scorsese, like many of his fellow-masters, from Welles to Almodóvar , has grown ever more interested in the passage of time; in how that passing can be slowed, or in how a simple cut can bridge the chasm of the years. (Leone originally wanted Noodles to be played by Richard Dreyfuss, with James Cagney as his older self.) In the course of “The Irishman,” this quest is aided by technology, with actors digitally rejuvenated and aged. Such tricks are both dazzling and creepy, and, in stressing facial change, they tend to neglect the other, no less telling ways in which we are gradually transformed. When Frank, supposedly still limber and youthful, clambers over rocks to a shoreline, where he can toss away used firearms, his motions betray the tentative and unmistakable stiffness of an older man. Reboot his features all you like; the body does not lie.

If I had to define “The Irishman,” I would say that it’s basically “Wild Strawberries” with handguns. Like Bergman ’s film, from 1957, this one is structured around a road trip. To be exact, Russell drives Frank from Kingston, Pennsylvania, to Detroit. Both of them are elderly, and, as they halt near a truck stop, with a Texaco sign beside it, they realize that they first met there, decades before, when Russell helped Frank start his engine. With that, we are tugged back into the past.

But there’s something else about the journey to Detroit. Frank’s wife, Irene (Stephanie Kurtzuba), and Russell’s wife, Carrie (Kathrine Narducci), who is described as “Mob royalty,” go along for the ride. Their dramatic function is little more than to kvetch about being forbidden to smoke en route, and, when they do get out for a cigarette and a chat, we don’t hear more than scraps of what they say. More flagrant still is the movie’s treatment of Frank’s first wife, Mary (Jennifer Mudge), whom we barely see before he ditches her for Irene. It’s almost as if she’s being introduced in order to be erased, and we are reminded of the grave lack of women at the heart of Scorsese’s work, and of how rarely—with the blazing exceptions of Ellen Burstyn, in “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore” (1974), and Sharon Stone, in “Casino”—they are granted the freedom to occupy center stage. More often than not, they dwindle into scolds. Is Scorsese’s place in the pantheon not compromised by this shortfall? Can you imagine Bergman, Ophüls, Cukor, or Mizoguchi accepting such a curb?

To be fair, we have Peggy—Frank’s daughter, Russell’s goddaughter, and, as it were, the conscience of “The Irishman.” Wonderfully played by Lucy Gallina as a child and by Anna Paquin as an adult, she trains her fierce, accusatory gaze upon the male tribe around her, and, after Hoffa’s disappearance, refuses to speak to Frank. The problem is, again, one of gender: Peggy comes and goes like a ghost, scarcely giving utterance to her thoughts, without a single scene to call her own. She is clearly aware that her father is a brute, and as guilty as hell, but the movie leaves us wondering: does she also regard him, for all his prowess, as a loser? If so, she’s not wrong. In real life, Frank Sheeran was a thug and a blowhard, and it’s likely that his confessions, as related to Brandt, were inflated with hot air. In 2005, when police examined the house where Sheeran boasted of having shot Jimmy Hoffa, they did indeed find bloodstains. But the blood was not Hoffa’s. Nice try, Frank.

At seventy-six, and after more than fifty years in the business, Scorsese is still, to some extent, the hyper-smart kid, cradled in the cinema stalls, and lost in awe at the lives—so much tougher and nastier than his own, and so thrillingly uncultured—being led up there onscreen. If “The Irishman” feels sadder and slower than anything he’s done before, it may be because, at last, he’s seeking to reckon with that reverence. Hence the wistful sequences, at the back end of the story, with a decrepit Russell confined to a wheelchair, in prison. Even here, however, amid the creaking pathos, the director can’t quite bring himself to cast doubt upon the credentials of his heroes; the clear implication remains “How are the mighty fallen,” whereas someone like Peggy would question how mighty they were to begin with. That’s the thing with wiseguys. They don’t grow any wiser. They live and die, like the rest of us, just a little before their time. ♦

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The Irishman First Reviews: A Mob Movie Masterpiece and One of Scorsese's Finest

Critics say the epic crime drama is everything audiences want from its accomplished director and cast, and it's a serious awards contender..

TAGGED AS: Netflix

Martin Scorsese ’s The Irishman   isn’t just any run-of-the-mill awards season contender. It’s an epic collaboration between some of modern cinema’s most accomplished and celebrated icons, and it’s one of the most anticipated films of the year. So does this crime drama from the director of Goodfellas   and The Departed  —  reuniting here with Robert De Niro , Joe Pesci and Harvey Keitel and now working with Al Pacino for the first time — live up to expectations?

Reviews out of the movie’s opening-night premiere at the New York Film Festival are resoundingly positive in that regard. Not even the length or the notorious de-aging special effects can hold down what’s being called one of Scorsese’s best.

Here’s what critics are saying about The Irishman :

Has Scorsese got another gangster masterpiece on his hands ?

It’s the film that, I think, a lot of us wanted to see from Scorsese… rippling with echoes of the director’s previous Mob films but [it] also takes us someplace bold and new. –  Owen Gleiberman, Variety

The Irishman  has both the frenetic swagger of his mob movies and the more contemplative gut wrench of his most spiritual films, like 1988’s  The Last Temptation of Christ  and his most recent film, 2016’s  Silence . –  Alissa Wilkinson, Vox

This is Scorsese’s least sentimental picture of mob life, and for that reason his most poignant. –  A.O. Scott, New York Times

Scorsese is at the top of his game. –  Johnny Oleksinski, New York Post

The Irishman may not be as groundbreaking as Mean Streets or Taxi Driver , but then again, what is? –  Caryn James, BBC.com

So it’s not just another Goodfellas wannabe ?

The Irishman is Martin Scorsese’s best crime movie since Goodfellas … an ideal match of filmmaker and source material. – Eric Kohn, IndieWire

This is not  Goodfellas . This is not  Casino . This is Scorsese at his most reflective, crafting a masterwork that finds the filmmaker reflecting on everything he’s done, and what it’s all amounted to. – Chris Evangelista, Slashfilm

It’s moving in a way  Goodfellas  is not. An old man couldn’t have made that movie, just as a younger one couldn’t have made this one. – Stephanie Zacharek, Time Magazine

(Photo by Netflix)

Is it reminiscent of any other movies?

The Irishman  reminded me a bit of  Unforgiven : It feels, at last, like a critical eulogy for an era of crime fiction that Scorsese and De Niro and Pacino built. – A.A. Dowd, AV Club

There are aspects of  The Irishman  that recall David Lynch’s work on  The Return . – Joe Dieringer, Screen Slate

With stories within stories within stories,  The Irishman  is a little like a mob movie version of  Inception . – Matt Singer, ScreenCrush

Move over  Braveheart . Move over  Air Force One . Move over  Field of Dreams ,  Gladiator ,  The Right Stuff ,  Ben  Freaking  Hur .  The Irishman  could well be Dad Movie of the Century. – Taylor Antrim, Vogue

How are Robert De Niro and Joe Pesci?

De Niro is in top form… he hasn’t been this good in years, and his rather understated performance really carries the movie. – Brett Arnold, Consequence of Sound

Frank Sheeran gives [De Niro] his most satisfying lead role in years. – Eric Kohn, IndieWire

De Niro’s superb performance is a close cousin to his work in GoodFellas . – Owen Gleiberman, Variety

What a joy it is to have Pesci back on the screen and to see him deliver such soulful work in the process…. the film really belongs to Pesci. – Chris Evangelista, Slashfilm

Joe Pesci emerges from retirement to give a superbly measured performance… the polar opposite of the lit-fuse firecrackers Pesci famously portrayed for Scorsese. – David Rooney, Hollywood Reporter

And when they’re together?

De Niro and Pacino play off one another beautifully, with De Niro often playing the calm straight-man to Pacino’s loudmouth comedian. A warmth radiates between the two. – Chris Evangelista, Slashfilm

When [Pesci] and De Niro are onscreen together, you believe in the power of art. – A.O. Scott, New York Times

What about Al Pacino?

Pacino arrives almost a third of the way into the film and instantly electrifies it. – Caryn James, BBC.com

Pacino shines among an incredible cast. [It’s] his best display of rampant emotion and thoughtful characterization since  Heat . He is Hoffa. – Robert Daniels, 812filmreviews

More than just a believably magnetic Hoffa, Pacino kicks the film into the realm of pure, delicious crazy. – Joshua Rothkopf, Time Out

Pacino’s over-the-top presence borders on parody, but at the same time, feels attuned to the larger-than-life shadow that Hoffa cast in his prime. – Eric Kohn, IndieWire

How distracting is the de-aging effect?

Is the de-aging process perfect? Of course not… the process is still amazing, and there’s a strange, singular way that it works for the movie. – Owen Gleiberman, Variety

The de-aging is… pretty good. I’d say the best I’ve seen so far… you do get used to it. – Mike Ryan, Uproxx

The eyes adjust to the illusion. Moreover, this magic trick speaks to the unreliable unreality of memory itself… a “problem” with (potentially accidental) resonance. – A.A. Dowd, AV Club

After a while, you adjust, or rather, you get tired of probing the slightly-off evidence of your eyes and the headache it produces. There’s a lot of fun to distract you. – Joshua Rothkopf, Time Out

Now and then I had to stave off a PTSD flashback to Robert Zemeckis’  Polar Express . – Stephanie Zacharek, Time Magazine

What about the runtime ?

The film, which clocks in at 209 minutes — even longer than  The Return of the King  and  Avengers: Endgame —  barely feels its length. – Karen Han, Polygon

This is a remarkably brisk three-and-a-half hours — Scorsese, at a ripe 76, still directs with the energy of a hungry young filmmaker. – A.A. Dowd, AV Club

The material would have been better served by losing an hour or more to run at standard feature length, or bulking up on supporting-character and plot detail to flesh out a series. – David Rooney, Hollywood Reporter

I’m not sure  The Irishman  needed all 209 minutes… even when the characters are younger, [it] moves at a leisurely (or even elderly) pace. – Matt Singer, ScreenCrush

How’s the pacing?

Its last half-hour is deeply moving in a way that creeps up on you, and it’s then that you see what Scorsese was working toward all along. – Stephanie Zacharek, Time Magazine

The Irishman  doesn’t fully engage until its second act. – Robert Daniels, 812filmreviews

[Steve] Zaillian’s messy script, an ambitious assemblage of timelines, takes its time to fully immerse the viewer into its world… the second half is more lively. – Jordan Ruimy, World of Reel

It’s a film that only gets further under your skin after you leave the theater (or close your Netflix browser, as the case may be). – Karen Han, Polygon

Does it need to be seen in a theater?

The film, by design, is episodic in a way that’s small-screen-friendly. – Owen Gleiberman, Variety

The movie’s self-indulgent running time of three-and-a-half hours will pose challenges for home-screen viewing. – David Rooney, Hollywood Reporter

It should go without saying but yes, if you can, definitely see a new Martin Scorsese movie on the big screen first. – Frazier Tharpe, Complex

What about the film’s female characters?

If one fault could be found with Scorsese’s latest work, it’s the waste of intriguing women characters. – Robert Daniels, 812filmreviews

For much of  The Irishman , the women are at the margins — wives and daughters, always around, rarely saying anything. This isn’t atypical in Scorsese’s work, which rarely centers on women. – Alissa Wilkinson, Vox

The movie lacks a strong female voice but such limitations speak to Sheeran’s character flaws more than those of The Irishman . – Eric Kohn, IndieWire

It’s a shoo-in for the Oscars, though, isn’t it?

In terms of the Oscar race,  The Irishman  is what we thought it was, a likely Best Picture contender with a chance at a truckload of nominations. – Gregory Ellwood, The Playlist

If the Best Supporting Actor Oscar came down to Pacino and Pesci, I have no idea who I’d support. Both performances are transcendently good. – Brett Arnold, Consequence of Sound

The Irishman  opens in limited release on November 1 and releases on Netflix on November 27.

The Irishman (2019) 95%

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‘The Irishman’ Review: Scorsese’s Goodbye to Goodfellas

By Peter Travers

Peter Travers

After decades apart, director Martin Scorsese is back conducting Mob business with Robert De Niro (the two haven’t worked together since 1995’s Casino ). Add Joe Pesci, Harvey Keitel, and Al Pacino to the mix, and prepare for fireworks. Can you believe Scorsese and the Scarface star have never joined forces? Now this director and these actors — all past their mid-seventies — make every minute count.

With The Irishman, America’s greatest living director creates his late-career masterpiece, a deeply felt addition that vibrantly sums up every landmark in his crime-cinema arsenal, from 1973’s Mean Streets through Goodfellas, Casino, Gangs of New York, and the Oscar-
winning The Departed. But his latest is also a response, written in fever, blood, and poignant regret, to accusations that his films are Mob recruitment posters. No one can accuse this film of that.

This time, Scorsese tackles the most vicious killer of all: advancing age. Yes, mobsters also die by the gun. No sooner is a gangster introduced than a caption appears citing grisly details such as “shot four times in the face in his kitchen.” So much for the glamorous life. But what of the hoods and wiseguys who outlive their sins?

Meet Frank Sheeran (De Niro), a real-life Mob soldier we encounter at a Philadelphia-area nursing home shortly before cancer brought him down in 2003 at 83. As the soundtrack swells with the Five Satins crooning “In the Still of the Night,” the camera tracks a feeble, wheelchair-bound Sheeran ready to keel over like Michael Corleone in Godfather III. All alone — his family keep their distance — Sheeran fills us in on his career as the “Irishman” in the last half of the 20th century. It’s a time, the film theorizes, when history-making moments like hits on the Kennedys and the Cuban invasion may have links to the Mafia.

That’s the movie, a never-boring three-and-a-half-hour epic about a history of American violence, artfully shot by Rodrigo Prieto and with genius editing by Thelma Schoonmaker. Steve Zaillian’s probing script allows Scorsese to blend blistering action and comic takes on Mob rituals with raw emotion. It’s the shreds of humanity in monsters that scare us because they make us see ourselves in them.

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Sheeran’s Mob baptism begins when the film flashes back to him in his thirties. De Niro plays him by way of a digital de-aging process that could hamper lesser actors. But these aren’t lesser actors. De Niro is monumental in one of his best roles, nailing every nuance as a World War II combat veteran whose killing skills find a home with the local criminal bigwigs. The “house painter” hits paydirt when he meets Philly capo Russell Bufalino, played by Pesci. (Watching these two actors spark against each other once more is a dream come true.) The actor’s Goodfellas showboating is replaced by a quiet intensity that’s even more chilling. Bufalino doesn’t moralize about betrayal. 
”It is what it is,” he says, treating Sheeran like an adopted son he can cajole into committing murder.

It’s Bufalino who connects Sheeran to crime boss Angelo Bruno (Keitel) — and, most crucially, to Jimmy Hoffa (Pacino), the powerful president of the Teamsters Union. Pacino looms like a colossus in a tour de force that 
can be both hilarious and horrifying, as when Hoffa insists that being more than 10 minutes late for a meeting is code for “fuck you.” He also excels in tender scenes with Sheeran’s daughter Peggy, played as a child by Lucy Gallina and later by Anna Paquin, whose mute awareness of Sheeran’s misdeeds speaks volumes.

Did Frank Sheeran kill Hoffa in 1975 on orders from Bufalino? The film, like Charles Brandt’s biography of Sheeran, I Heard You Paint Houses, says yes. Some of the incidents have been discredited; Hoffa’s remains have never been found. But Scorsese is more focused on these criminal lions in winter, their bodies in disrepair, their deeds and names forgotten, their hearts and minds leveled by the march of time. Whether you catch The Irishman in theaters or on Netflix (it starts streaming on November 27th), you’ll be watching Scorsese at the peak of his powers directing giants. It’s unmissable.

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The Irishman Is Martin Scorsese’s Most Satisfying Film in Decades

A version of this review originally ran during the New York Film Festival earlier this year. It has since been updated.

Martin Scorsese ranges toward extremes, which is why he’ll be a manic showboater in one movie and practice scrupulous self-abnegation in the next. But his gingerly paced, three-and-a-half-hour The Irishman is something new: a work of self-abnegation set where Scorsese normally showboats — the gangster dens of various crime hubs, among bosses, lackeys, and their families real and “made.” Cast with aging Scorsese vets Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci, and Harvey Keitel, plus a guest star from the other landmark gangster film of the director’s era, Al Pacino, this is an old man’s movie, narrated by the elderly title character, sometime hit man Frank Sheeran (De Niro), from a wheelchair in a Catholic convalescent home. It’s steeped in regret, not so much for things that were done as for things that were done but not felt. This is the first Scorsese movie in which the images don’t seem unified either by fever or by the kind of hard, rigorous focus that is fever’s opposite. It may be the 76-year-old director’s most stylishly daring work: one that’s pointedly sapped of style.

Consider the violence. Shaped around the 1975 killing of Teamsters president Jimmy Hoffa (Pacino), The Irishman has no flashy set-pieces, no whip-pans to carnage. Before a hit in a barbershop, the camera starts on the killers as they step from an elevator and follows them only as far as a flower stand, their gunshots heard but not seen. (What we see are flowers.) It’s strange to experience this kind of detachment in a Scorsese movie — first baffling, then stunning, as we come to realize that this lack of feeling precisely evokes Sheeran’s inner world. The “Irishman” fought in some of the grisliest, most protracted battles in World War II’s European theater (122 days in Anzio) and came home to America numb. We don’t get De Niro the mythic executioner who vaulted over rooftops in The Godfather: Part II or embodied the dark soul of urban paranoia in Taxi Driver. Scorsese stages Sheeran’s kills as arrhythmic, ungainly — pop-pop-pop from behind, and that’s it. It is what it is. A job, like house painting.

The Irishman is, in fact, closely based on Charles Brandt’s I Heard You Paint Houses: Frank “The Irishman” Sheeran & Closing the Case on Jimmy Hoffa. It’s a sprawling, messy book that further dispels (for at least one reader) the fantasy that JFK was assassinated by a lone nut who was then spontaneously taken out by a grieving nightclub owner. (I mean, really, folks.) The paint is blood, the patois representative of how gangsters talk in Steven Zaillian’s slyly garrulous screenplay. Even the most bloodcurdling figures, like Tony Salerno (Domenick Lombardozzi), speak in euphemism and metaphor, not because they’re poets but because they’re disconnected from the horror they perpetrate. Pacino’s Hoffa earns the bosses’ wrath not only for taking control of the Teamsters’ pension fund but for being blunt, unmannerly — maybe even for caring too much. Hoffa’s passion is why he takes root in Sheeran’s mind.

The movie may be framed by Sheeran’s final days, but it’s largely a flashback with its own flashbacks. The main thread is a long but mundane 1975 road trip to a wedding with Sheeran at the wheel, his sometime boss and patron Russell Bufalino (Pesci) in the passenger seat, and the men’s wives in the back. The vibe is eerily flat. Why are we watching so uneventful a journey unless something terrible is coming? Along the way, Sheeran tells us how he first met Bufalino (cute, in a gas station), how he made his bones stealing sides of meat, and how he began to blow up cars and warehouses and finally people for the likes of Russ and Angelo Bruno (a brusque, chill Keitel) and Felix “Skinny Razor” DiTullio (Bobby Cannavale). Sheeran goes to work for Hoffa at Bufalino’s request, as an aide, a bodyguard, and a spy.

The union’s chief antagonist early on is President John F. Kennedy and his brother, Bobby, the attorney general, who launches a campaign against organized crime that organized criminals find inexplicable given their help in securing Kennedy the presidency. The scenes in which RFK grills Hoffa are rich in period detail, but the movie is not designed as a historical epic like The Aviator. It’s a film of faces. Odd faces, at times. Faces that — thanks to computer “de-aging” — don’t always match the voices and bodies. When Bufalino phones Hoffa to recommend “that kid I was talkin’ to you about,” it takes a moment to register that the kid is De Niro — this CG time machine can travel only so far back. But a case could be made that the partial “de-aging” gives the film its poignancy . These actors are ghosts of their former selves.

After years of doing anything and everything and not seeming fully invested, De Niro is once more driven to test himself. His Sheeran feels nothing specific yet is in evident pain, which sometimes manifests itself in a toothless grimace (he looks like Bela Lugosi) but more often translates into stammers that signal inner panic. He has no stature until he attains tragic stature, another in the long line of Judases and Brutuses in Scorsese’s films, men who betray their friends actively (by turning them in) or passively (by not warning them of danger). The turncoat in GoodFellas, Henry Hill, misses only the rush — the fun — of being a gangster, but for Sheeran it’s age and aloneness that turn his gaze to his past.

In any case, who can resist seeing De Niro across from Keitel and Pesci? Pacino has gotten most of the raves for The Irishman, but it’s Pesci who thrilled me to the core. A pop-top in Raging Bull and, especially, GoodFellas and Casino , he plays Bufalino as supernaturally watchful, hypersensitive to other peoples’ rhythms. Who could imagine Pesci triumphing as a man who looks for equilibrium, who seeks to modulate every encounter, who accepts murder as inevitable but, sadly, sees in it a sign of failure? I thank the gods of acting that he came out of retirement to do this.

As for Pacino, Scorsese nudges him out of his familiar rhythms, evidently refusing to let him do the kind of freestyle acting that he fancies is bebop but is more often ham. This is a “head” Pacino performance, not a cojones one. On the stump, this Hoffa’s shoulders go stiff, and he jerks in the manner of Richard Nixon — derivative but plausible, since Nixon’s manner might well have rubbed off on the real Hoffa. Zaillian’s firm dramatic beats keep Pacino in the moment, and it’s a joy to see him go eye to eye with the superb Stephen Graham as the febrile Anthony Provenzano (“Tony Pro”), each man staring daggers that seem an instant away from materializing. Most of all, Pacino lets you feel Hoffa’s relish for the job, which is partly legitimate, partly based on patronage and bribes and occasional rough stuff.

The Irishman doesn’t fully earn its epic running time, and a subplot featuring Sheeran’s attentive daughter, Peggy (Lucy Gallina as a girl, Anna Paquin grown up), isn’t woven gracefully into the narrative. She’s his conscience, and the device sticks out. But if the movie is overlong, it’s not overscaled. When Scorsese sets out to make an epic like The Aviator or Gangs of New York, he often loses the pulse or goes to too-flamboyant lengths to speed it up. His whoosh was sometimes a little suspect, much of it born of real filmmaking fervor but some of it spurious, suggesting a chef who snorts a line of coke and dances around a kitchen yelling, “Can I cook!” In Scorsese’s self-effacement here, there’s a suggestion that he regrets at least some of those pyrotechnics, that he knows he sacrificed depth for momentum. The slowing-down in The Irishman is radical, and it pays off in the long final section, in which the characters are too old to move as they once did. They can’t hide inside motion, so Scorsese won’t let himself, either. The upshot is his most satisfying film in decades.

*A version of this article appears in the October 28, 2019, issue of  New York Magazine. Subscribe Now!

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Netflix's The Irishman Review

A contemplative martin scorsese keeps the genre he helped define in check., best reviewed movies of 2019.

Martin Scorsese’s revisionist take on the gangster genre he helped define is a story of epic proportions that benefits from subtly brilliant special effects and three knock-out performances from Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci, and Al Pacino. The master filmmaker has made an introspective, thoughtful, even somber film that manages to be just as entertaining as his classics, even while diving deep into the darkest souls and finding some semblance of a heart.

In This Article

The Irishman Review: Another Scorsese Mob Classic

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The Irishman Review

08 Nov 2019

The Irishman

If you know anything about The Irishman , you’ll know two things: CGI ageing technology has made Robert De Niro , Al Pacino and Joe Pesci look like young bucks, and it’s really long (three-and-a-half hours). Well, it’s the genius of Martin Scorsese ’s film, based on Charles Brandt’s book about Mob foot soldier Frank Sheeran I Heard You Paint Houses (a euphemism for splattering the walls with blood), that neither really come into play. For Scorsese, helped by terrific performances across the board, replaces curiosity about technical trickery (you get over it so quickly) with fascination with a man’s life. While it delivers all the Scorsese-ness you want (you’ll lose count of how many times someone gets shot in the face), this is Marty in mature mode, a compelling meditation on time, ageing, connections and guilt that reaches the parts other gangster films only dream of.

If you want to see how The Irishman departs from Goodfellas , it’s present and correct in the very first shot. If the latter once saw the camera snaking behind Henry Hill parading his new girl through the Copa, The Irishman opens with a slow deliberate move through a Catholic OAP home, past orderlies and wheel-chaired patients, to land on an ageing Frank Sheeran (De Niro) recounting his story to an off-screen interviewer (a nurse? A priest?). After the serious, spiritually minded Silence , the first hour is Scorsese having fun in the old neighbourhood. A World War II Vet stationed in Italy (this is how he learns to speak Italian and kill people comfortably), Frank meets Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci), the elegant, sinister boss of the Pennsylvania-based Bufalino crime family. The pair hit it off and what follows is vintage Marty. There are scams with steaks, characters talking to camera like a mobster Fleabag, colourful gangster nicknames (Whispers, Sally Bugs, Tony 3 Fingers, Pete The Greek), almost documentary like details into gangster M.O. (Sheeran points a spot in a river where hit men drop their weapons leaving “enough guns to arm a small country”) and oodles of dry, wise-guy wit. We also get glimpses of Sheeran’s homelife. When daughter Peggy (Lucy Gallina) tells him her employer shoved her, Sheeran marches around to the grocery store and gives him an almighty beating. It’s a character trait — a desire to protect his family but with no real idea how — that comes to reverberate in the third act.

De Niro is equally dialled down, a man at the centre of the action but always removed from it. It’s his best work in years.

Of course, part of the joy of all this is seeing De Niro and Pesci back on their bullshit. Pesci’s Bufalino is a fantastic creation, a polar opposite of the livewires he has previously played for Scorsese. He is a polite non-smoker (there is a running gag about women lighting up in his car) and on the surface likeable, but Pesci imbues him with a quiet, frightening quality. Pesci remains precise and measured. His scenes with De Niro crackle with chemistry but also go off into some unexpected places: a discussion about family — Peggy is terrified of Bufalino and it carries an interesting thread through the movie — at a bowling alley has a tenderness surprising giving the actors and milieu. De Niro is equally dialled down, a man at the centre of the action but always removed from it. It’s his best work in years.

As Frank gains Bufalino’s trust, he rises up the ranks and is given an important assignment: to babysit Jimmy Hoffa (Pacino), the volatile leader of the Mob-sponsored Teamsters union, the second-most powerful man in America and currently under investigation by big business and the government. The Irishman is the first time Scorsese and Pacino have worked together, and they couldn’t have found a better fit. A huge, colourful character, Hoffa lets Pacino organically let rip, the histrionic outbursts that have become part of his acting persona — whatever the role — feel right and just here. Best of all are his run-ins with Stephen Graham ’s New Jersey crime boss Tony Pro; one fist-fight which starts over wearing shorts to a meeting and what constitutes being late is one for the ages. There’s a fantastic moment where, on the day JFK is shot, Hoffa sees his union HQ has lowered the stars and stripes to half mast and forces them to raise it. But Hoffa never becomes a clown: he is cunning, a control freak (he doesn’t drink alcohol so his underlings inject booze into watermelon to get their fix) and intelligent, and Pacino plays it to the hilt.

It’s in this middle stretch where the film slightly loses its focus. In his ambition, Scorsese tries to broaden the story into a history lesson, intercutting newsreel footage of the Kennedy and Nixon years, but never really makes the connection between the underworld and politics substantial and satisfying (that feels like another film). The film also misses the spiky female presence of a Lorraine Bracco ( GoodFellas ) or Sharon Stone ( Casino ), but Anna Paquin , as a grown-up Peggy, gives it something else, adding another chill to the film’s cold heart with limited screen time.

The film is better when it sticks to the dynamics between the characters and it picks up superbly as the various conflicts come together. But what lifts The Irishman head and shoulders above every other recent crime film is that it doesn’t end when the bodies are buried and the gangsters are locked up. Instead it becomes a powerful, painful study of regret, but not remorse. “You don’t know how fast time goes by ’til you get there,” says Frank towards the end as the film becomes about counting the cost of a life of crime. Sheeran is emotionally unintelligent — a call to a widow trying to express his sympathy is excruciating for him and us — but there is little time in all the ‘painting houses’ to consider and reflect. Scorsese and writer Steve Zaillian give him that epiphany towards the end and its heartbreaking — a man who has killed so many people has also murdered his ability to feel. There is little in the gangster canon (perhaps the end of The Godfather Part II ) or Scorsese’s back-catalogue to match the surprise or emotional wallop of the ending. The result is a master working at the top of his game.

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Screen Rant

The irishman review: scorsese's latest captivating crime epic, the irishman is another outstanding cinematic accomplishment from scorsese, featuring a talented cast and crew firing on all cylinders..

Legendary director Martin Scorsese spent a long time developing crime epic  The Irishman ; talk of the director reuniting with his old muse Robert De Niro for the project was happening as far back as 2010. It was until a few years ago the film finally took real steps forward, but even then it wasn't an easy process. Paramount passed on  The Irishman due to concerns over the rising production budget, so Scorsese and company turned to Netflix to realize their vision. Bolstered by last year's Oscar-winning success of  Roma , Netflix is hoping the latest from Scorsese can be an awards contender, and it certainly is.  The Irishman is another outstanding cinematic accomplishment from Scorsese, featuring a talented cast and crew firing on all cylinders.

De Niro stars in  The Irishman as Frank Sheeran, a mob hitman who recounts his experiences working for Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci). Through that connection, Frank eventually meets and befriends labor union head Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino), and the two become very close with each other over the years. But as tensions rise between the volatile Hoffa and the Bufalino crime family, Frank finds himself in a precarious situation that threatens to keep escalating until one side makes a move on the other.

Decades into his career, Scorsese remains at the top of his game as a master craftsman.  The Irishman , featuring Rodrigo Preito's beautiful cinematography and Bob Shaw's immersive production design (among other aspects), demands to be seen on the big screen if viewers can find showings in their area. From its opening moments, viewers are sucked into its world and become a part of it, going along for the (long) ride as a willing passenger. And Scorsese's visual effects team deserves a tremendous amount of credit for handling the heavily-publicized digital de-aging of the veteran cast. Though the CGI does take a moment or two to get used to, the technology works very well and is never really distracting.  The Irishman is a great illustration of how far this process has come, proving Scorsese had the right idea going in this direction.

Also rising up to the challenge is the amazing ensemble cast, headlined by the dynamic trio of De Niro, Pesci, and Pacino. In his first collaboration with Scorsese, Pacino is an absolute joy to watch as Hoffa, channeling his trademark flair and gusto to play a larger than life figure. Pesci, who's portrayed some of Scorsese's most violent hotheads, showcases a new side of his range as Bufalino, with a performance that's low-key and reserved. Even though the role doesn't give Pesci a chance to have outbursts a la Tommy DeVito, the actor is still able to make Russell an intimidating presence throughout. But De Niro is the glue that holds the whole picture together, carrying the marathon film and perfectly inhabiting the character of Frank. He's not just rehashing prior mobsters he's played; De Niro does a great job exploring Frank's layers, crafting a performance that's equal parts entertaining and heartbreaking. The rest of the cast is a revolving door of famous faces and character actors (including Ray Romano, Anna Paquin, Harvey Keitel, and Jesse Plemons) who are all able to leave an impression even if they have minimal screen time.

The Irishman clocks in at 209 minutes, and because of that there are going to be viewers who opt to pass on the considerable time investment. But the film makes the most of its protracted runtime, weaving between multiple story threads and subplots that are as developed and effective as they are because the audience sees so much of Frank's life. Scorsese and screenwriter Steve Zaillian are almost deconstructing the myth of the movie mobster, staging a striking and realistic portrayal of a life in crime - one that doesn't shy away from the serious consequences of that path. The approach is what differentiates  The Irishman from Scorsese's other forays into the genre, helping it stand out and play as a contemplative and poignant tale (though there's still plenty of Scorsese's dark comedy). There's also a meta element to the movie, as it can feel Scorsese himself is commenting on his own legacy. That metaphor mercifully never hits the audience over the head, but it's there for those familiar with the man's filmography.

Dating back to the 1970s, Scorsese has always been an ambitious filmmaker, but there was a risk  The Irishman would be the time where even his grasp exceeded his reach. Fortunately,  The Irishman is another reminder that Scorsese remains one of the finest American directors; it's truly impressive that at 77 years old, he's still as passionate and enthusiastic about his work as he was when he made  Taxi Driver and  Raging Bull , continuing to find ways to captivate an audience.  The Irishman is most definitely the home run Netflix was hoping for when they put up the big bucks, and odds are cinephiles will be seeing plenty of it come Oscar time.

The Irishman is now playing in select U.S. theaters and streaming on Netflix. It runs 209 minutes and is rated R for pervasive language and strong violence.

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The irishman.

Liam Neeson Plays an Irish Assassin in a Movie You’ll Probably Watch on a Plane

PARTICULAR SKILLS

The veteran actor gets to flex his Irishness in a reasonably watchable (if politically dubious) hitman thriller “In the Land of Saints and Sinners.”

Siddhant Adlakha

RagBag Features

In the Land of Saints and Sinners opens on a busy pub, but its introductory text spells trouble: “Northern Ireland, 1974.” A bombing attempt goes awry, sending its IRA perpetrators—led by the ruthless liberationist Doireann McCann ( Kerry Condon )—on the run from Belfast to a coastal town in Donegal, just south of the border. They decide to lay low, but this quaint village in the Republic of Ireland happens to be the home of hitman Finbar Murphy ( Liam Neeson ), whose path they eventually cross, resulting in a consistently watchable (if politically disengaged) drama about regret.

The film is an Irish production, but American filmmaker Robert Lorenz imbues it with a distinctly Western vibe. The opening notes of its score by siblings Diego, Nora, and Lionel Baldenweg sound distinctly inspired by Ennio Morricone, albeit with the occasional use of Irish folk instruments. These settings may not mix on the surface, but Lorenz’s Wild West approach to Troubles Ireland is less about flash and more about introspective mood.

It also feels inspired by Lorenz’s longtime collaborator, Clint Eastwood . Despite its use of echoing, Morricone-esque flutes and harmonicas in its score—reminiscent of Sergio Leone’s The Good, the Bad, and The Ugly , which starred Eastwood—the movie takes more after Unforgiven , a deconstructive neo-Western. Like Paul Munny, Eastwood’s character in that movie, Neeson’s Finbar is a widowered former assassin. Unlike Munny, his bounty-hunting days aren’t quite so far in his rearview.

In an amusing coincidence, Finbar—who moonlights as a book salesman—happens to retire from his life of crime the very same day that Doireann and her crew arrive. With Neeson in the role, it’s a pleasure to see his cold-hearted determination slip and transform into remorse in real time. His raspy delivery of “I have a very particular set of skills” in Taken is iconic, but the way he stews and reflects in silence is infinitely more powerful. (See also: Joe Carnahan’s survivalist thriller The Grey . ) Lorenz knows exactly how to deploy Neeson’s gifts; his dialogue, especially his chummy bickering with cop friend Vinnie (Ciarán Hinds), is a pleasant front to conceal lurid secrets.

For all the moral murkiness of its backdrop, In the Land of Saints and Sinners is surprisingly straightforward in that department. Finbar’s life as a button man may weigh heavy on his heart, but he rarely actually reckons with his actions. The film practically establishes up front that killing people who have it coming, in some fashion, is a-okay. Finbar is a murderer with a heart of gold, who shows kindness to a neighborhood girl just trying to bring groceries home to her family. So when he discovers that one of the IRA bombers has been hurting the young lass, well, the solution isn’t complicated.

A cat and mouse game ensues, as Finbar plays mentor to Kevin, an overbearing novice hitman played with delightful flair by Game of Thrones ’ Jack Gleeson. Only there’s an ideological void where the movie’s subtext ought to be. In the Land of Saints and Sinners may be set during the Troubles, and some of its dialogue may gesture towards political metaphor—Finbar refers to being locked in a cycle of vengeance with Doireann, though it seldom feels that way—but the film is completely disengaged from any political perspective, beyond presenting its IRA quartet as ruthless, two-dimensional killers.

At least the leads are consistently captivating. The film may have dispiritingly little to say about Doireann, but Condon makes a meal out of these scant ingredients. She’s utterly terrifying at times. Meanwhile, Neeson—whose career pivoted to these sort of burdened roles after a family tragedy in 2009—proves yet again that his face is the perfect canvas for anyone hoping to paint the tale of a man afflicted by death. (He also plays a widowed assassin in Lorenz’s The Marksman ).

The filmmaking is largely unobtrusive, with the kind of broad, straightforward blocking and dramatic presentation that allows the actors to do all the talking. Except for a key scene that ramps up the tension near the end, the camera rarely enhances any of the performances, but it also rarely needs to. Lorenz knows just when to get out of the way, and in the process, he crafts an enjoyable airplane movie. That may seem like a backhanded compliment—the film has plenty of flaws when it comes to political optics—but when a “turn your brain off” movie works, it works like a charm.

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‘In the Land of Saints and Sinners’ Review: Liam Neeson and Kerry Condon Fight to the Death in a Handsome but Hacky Irish Western

David ehrlich.

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At some point during the first act of Robert Lorenz’s handsome but egregiously hackneyed “ In the Land of Saints and Sinners ,” which is maybe the 900th Liam Neeson movie about a weary hitman/rancher/fixer/truck driver/ex-cop/very tall person who decides to take matters into his own hands when some bad guys step over the line, the prolific Irish actor turns to one of his scene partners and sighs: “There’s more to me than this, and I’d like folks to see it.”

Needless to say, the first part of that sentence is much easier to believe than the second. 

When Neeson warned some kidnappers that he had “a particular set of skills,” he didn’t have to enumerate what those skills were for people to accept that he wasn’t lying about them. And when “In the Land of Saints and Sinners” protagonist Finbar Murphy insists that he isn’t just a killer, we take him at his word, even if the dog-eared copy of “Crime and Punishment” he carries around with him is the best evidence we get of his buried dimensions. 

As for Neeson, well, he couldn’t possibly be less interested in showing us a side of himself that we haven’t seen before. 

At least the scenery is different this time, as the emerald green hills of Neeson’s homeland are a refreshing change of pace from the anonymous stretches of middle America where most of his recent thrillers have been set. A longtime producer who previously directed Neeson in 2021’s “The Marksman,” Lorenz will probably never abandon his aesthetic fealty to frequent collaborator Clint Eastwood, but the coastlines of County Donegal allow him to disguise that devotion under a layer of Fordian drag; cinematographer Tom Stern works to ensure that the (real) village of Gleann Cholm Cille is almost as charming here as the (fake) hamlet of Inisherin was in the Martin McDonagh film that put it on the map. “In the Land of Saints and Sinners” is often so lush to look at it that it could almost be confused for the kind of movies that Neeson used to make. 

But things have to go sideways in Belfast before this story can make its way out to the countryside. It’s there, in the heart of Northern Ireland, where an IRA firebrand called Doireann (“The Banshees of Inisherin” star Kerry Condon, smoke coming out of her nostrils in every scene) causes a bit more chaos than she means to with her latest car bombing when a mother and her children stumble into the blast radius at the last second. Doireann tries her best to move the kids out of the way before they become collateral damage (she’s not a complete monster), but she doesn’t seek forgiveness when things go sideways, only a safe place to lie low for a little while. 

Nothing bad would have happened if not for Finbar’s abrupt decision to do some good. The hitman’s moral awakening is triggered when his latest victim, on his knees in the forest where he’s just been forced to dig his own grave, sings a few bars of a soul-piercing tune. That’s all it takes for Finbar to realize “the world turned me into somebody I didn’t recognize” after he came home from the war. Well, that, and the head-shaking disgust he feels whenever he looks at the next generation of Irish hitmen, embodied here by a young sociopath named Kevin (“Game of Thrones” actor Jack Gleeson, totally unrecognizable and fully self-possessed despite revisiting the archetype that made him famous). 

But anyone who’s ever seen a movie before knows that a hired gun can’t just walk away from their past — they have to shoot their way out of it, and that’s exactly what Finbar decides to do when he discovers that Doireann’s slimy brother is abusing the local bartender’s nine-year-old daughter. Killing people isn’t the problem, it’s just that Finbar has been killing the wrong ones. Alas, that moral arithmetic doesn’t sit very well with Doireann, and she becomes determined to exact revenge on Finbar with extreme prejudice, even if she has to come out of hiding in order to do so. 

Perhaps that’s because this story isn’t rooted in the north of Ireland so much as it is in the American West. The vaguely Catholic overtone is the lone trope here that doesn’t feel like it’s been exported from overseas, and even that only brings itself to bear in the scene where a gunshot victim crawls into a nearby church to die (cue: a thousand flickering votive candles and a gust of choral chanting). The only dissonance in Diego Baldenweg’s sweet and jangly score is owed to the fact that it doesn’t play out over wide shots of Monument Valley, while the script’s hoariest choices — which include a smiling African refugee who came to County Donegal in an ironic bid to escape his unspecified war torn homeland — feel out of place without a lovably racist Clint Eastwood character around to lend them some grizzled moral context. 

But the unrepentant movie-ness of “In the Land of Saints and Sinners” can also be part of its charm, especially when it comes to the cast members whose performances aren’t as stale as their parts. Condon was this close to being typecast as a tough beauty with a heart of gold, but she embodies Doireann with enough piss and vinegar to put the devil to shame; Condon brings so much snarl to the role that she’s able to mine a full-bodied character from a string of empty threats. 

A Samuel Goldwyn Films release, “In the Land of Saints and Sinners” is now playing in theaters.

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Stream It Or Skip It: ‘The Miracle Club’ on Netflix, an Irish Dramedy Powered by a Talented Cast

Where to stream:.

• The Miracle Club
• Laura Linney

Is ‘Suncoast’ Based on a True Story? What to Know About Max Kenneth Chinn and The Infamous Terri Schiavo Case

Stream it or skip it: ‘suncoast’ on hulu, an uneven indie dramedy enlivened by a terrific nico parker, ’suncoast’s devastating hospital scene proves nico parker is more than just thandiwe’s newton daughter , laura linney’s oscar campaign for hulu’s ‘suncoast’ starts now.

The Miracle Club (now on Netflix) finds three heavyweights convening for a lightweight dramedy: Laura Linney, Kathy Bates and Maggie Smith. You’d think there’d be a dozen Oscars among them, but there’s only three, which seems almost criminal – and almost as criminal as casting them in a lightweight dramedy that doesn’t demand much from them. But even though the principals are punching under their weight class doesn’t mean the film isn’t without its charms; the question is whether it delivers enough laughs and pathos to justify committing 90 minutes of your life to it.

THE MIRACLE CLUB : STREAM IT OR SKIP IT?

The Gist: The SUFFOCATING AURA OF DEATH hovers over a hardscrabble housing development in Dublin. Maureen, a beloved neighbor, has passed, leaving her closest friends to mourn: Lily (Smith), Eileen (Bates) and Dolly (Agnes O’Casey). Weirdly, the three women don matching, rainbow-patterned dresses for the service – although it’s not really a funeral service, it’s a church talent show Maureen organized, and our protags hop on stage to sing a spirited number, hoping to win tickets for a trip to Lourdes, France, to visit the holy basilica and baths. The actual service in the actual church is therefore occurring unattended, save for Chrissie (Linney), Maureen’s long-estranged daughter, fresh from America with Pan Am tags still hanging from her luggage. 

And here is where we learn that Chrissie has quite the Fraught Past with Lily and Eileen. The latter are shocked to see Chrissie turn up out of the blue after decades, and their reception ranges from chilly (Lily refuses Chrissie’s attempt to pay for the funeral flowers) to hostile (Eileen stares daggers into her, with Bates channeling the tiniest bit of Misery into the moment). It’s barely worth noting how they end up taking the pilgrimage to Lourdes – the singing ladies don’t win the talent contest, but the angel-voiced boy who does gives the tickets to them – although such a spiritually enriching endeavor sure seems like the perfect opportunity to bury some old rusty hatchets. To no one’s surprise, the men in their lives (Stephen Rea is most notable among them, playing Eileen’s lesser half) aren’t happy that their wives won’t be around for a few days to cook and clean and change diapers, but they’ll just have to figure it out, the louts. They don’t understand why it’s important for these women to work through the guilt on the way to forgiveness, and do all that Catholic stuff. 

But that might take one of those, whaddaya call ’em, miracles . If you’re not aware, Lourdes is a place for such things – Holy Mary Mother of God Herself was allegedly spotted there in the mid-19th century, prompting believers to trek there to bathe in the spring waters in hopes of healing their ailments. It’s especially poignant for these women: Lily still aches from the loss of her son, who drowned in the ocean 40 years prior. Eileen has a lump on her breast, but hasn’t told anyone about it. Dolly hopes the waters will cure her son’s inability – unwillingness? – to speak. And Chrissie just needs the trip, hopefully to achieve some closure about What Happened during the Fraught Past. And at this point I’m thinking, if this doesn’t end with crying and hugs, I’m gonna riot.

What Movies Will It Remind You Of?: The Miracle Club is a significantly flimsier take on themes explored in Judi Dench vehicle Philomena ; it’s also infinitely preferable to grating American female-bonding comedies like 80 for Brady or Book Club: The Next Chapter . 

Performance Worth Watching: Bates goes too broad, and Linney isn’t given nearly enough to do. But Smith is in typically fine form as the wise grandmotherly type who keeps the group from indulging too much bitterness. 

Memorable Dialogue: Smith delivers the movie’s two best lines in what’s surely a heavily rehearsed Irish brogue:

The serious one, as they approach the Lourdes baths: “Now be strong, whatever you might see. The heartbreak of the world is upon us.”

And the funny one, as she dismisses her codependent husband who doesn’t want her to leave: “Go back to bed, Tommy – you’ll be safe there.”

Sex and Skin: None.

Our Take: Appropriately, for all its depictions of bathing in Lourdes’ freezing waters and discussions of prompting miscarriages in a boiling hot tub (!), The Miracle Club feels like a lukewarm bath. Its comedy is gentle and predictable, and its drama is, well, gentle and predictable. Smith, Bates and Linney – and O’Casey, who shows she at the very least can hang with three of the greats – make something modestly substantive out of a thin stew. Its revelations aren’t particularly revelatory, but if any cast can find some delicate poignancy in a handful of scenes and turn up a little bit of spiritual angst, therefore rendering a bland movie watchable, it’s this one.

Director Thaddeus O’Sullivan clearly isn’t trying to do more than fulfill the cliches of a well-trod, well-meaning formula: Women are the backbone of the community; their attempts to spiritually better themselves are met by the harrumphing of the men for whom they thanklessly toil; they have their families, but they wouldn’t be themselves without each other. There’s an undeniable warmth to films of this ilk, which at the very least are mostly character-driven, and flirt with eccentricity even if they never truly indulge it. It’s tempting to dismiss The Miracle Club as toothless, quasi-feminist piffle, but you have to admire how it connects the collective feminine ache of these characters with that of the Virgin Mary, who, for the pious at least, is ground zero for such things. That’s fairly audacious – and as audacious as The Miracle Club gets. 

Our Call: The Miracle Club is far from miraculous, but Linney, Smith and Bates share just enough chemistry to justify a watch, especially for admirers of their work. STREAM IT.

John Serba is a freelance writer and film critic based in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

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'In the Land of Saints and Sinners' Review — Liam Neeson Has Still Got It

• Dynamic performances from Liam Neeson, Kerry Condon, Ciarán Hinds, and Jack Gleeson drive 'In the Land of Saints and Sinner's thrilling character-based narrative.
• Director Robert Lorenz showcases stunning North Ireland locations, delivering a beautiful cinematic experience.
• The film is an engaging throwback that successfully blends drama, thriller, and action elements.

Are you a person who complains on Twitter (sorry, I mean X) that not enough mid-budget, story-driven films starring real, classically trained actors get made anymore? Or maybe you were a big fan of 2022's The Banshees of Inisherin because of its intoxicating accents and lush Irish landscapes, but thought Martin McDonagh 's morality play got a little too weird once the donkey died? If your answer is yes to one or both of these questions then, boy, do I have the movie for you. Set and filmed in North Ireland, Robert Lorenz 's In the Land of Saints and Sinners , which stars Liam Neeson and Kerry Condon as two very different kinds of killers, is a gripping, character-based crime thriller that makes great use of its beautiful location and knockout cast.

In the Land of Saints and Sinners

In a remote Irish village, a damaged father is forced to fight for redemption after a lifetime of sins, but what price is he willing to pay? In the land of saints and sinners, some sins can't be buried.

Release Date March 29, 2024

Director Robert Lorenz

Cast Ciarn Hinds, Liam Neeson, Kerry Condon, Jack Gleeson

Main Genre Thriller

What is 'In the Land of Saints and Sinners' About?

In 1974, four IRA gang members led by Doireann (Condon) blow up a bar, accidentally killing a couple of kids and revealing themselves in the process, which sends them fleeing to a small village in the North Irish countryside. In that same town, a man named Finbar (Neeson), a long-time contract killer, has decided to retire to a quiet life of gardening. ("There's more to me than this," he says. "I'd like folks to see it.") When Doireann's idiot brother starts abusing a young village girl, Finbar decides to take matters into his own hands. And while chaos does follow, it's less of the Taken variety and more of a satisfying slow burn . Yes, things eventually turn violent, but the film allows for a fair amount of absorbing character study along the way.

While Neeson and Condon are clearly on a collision course throughout the film, they never share a scene until its final act . Until that point, we see them interacting with a colorful cast of supporting players, which includes Ciarán Hinds ' friendly neighborhood police officer, Colm Meaney as Finbar's handler, and a young assassin named Kevin who looks up to Finbar and is played by Jack Gleeson . Yes, that Jack Gleeson. As in Joffrey from Game of Thrones . He's again playing a psychotic little shit here, but he gets to give a much more dynamic performance than he ever did on HBO's flagship fantasy show. He's quite good in this. So are Neeson and Hinds. They're two of our most reliable actors, each contributing typically appealing performances here. Neeson can convey both regret and, once the story calls for it, a formidable single-mindedness with that gravelly voice of his. Hinds' work exposes more layers once it becomes clear that he's a better detective than he might first appear.

But it may not surprise you that the film's true standout is Condon , who's making it tough to not just want to put her in all the movies . Just like in The Banshees of Inisherin , she does a lot with what's really a supporting role, turning in a performance that's fierce, complex, a bit terrifying, and riveting for every single second she's on screen. Without Condon, Saints and Sinners would be a solid enough watch. With her, it becomes something that more closely approaches appointment viewing. At this point, she really should be getting leading roles thrown at her from all directions.

'In the Land of Saints and Sinners' Makes Good Use of Its Irish Location

Lorenz really shows a deft hand here, balancing rising tension, quieter character beats, and Ireland's real-life violent past to the point where none feel at odds with the rest. Though the film opens with a bombing and then quickly moves to Finbar forcing a target to dig his own grave in a boggy patch, some of its strongest moments involve characters merely chatting along the roadside or at the local pub . Finbar has a sweet relationship with a woman who lives next door played by Niamh Cusack , and Neeson and Cusack play it just perfectly. And while In the Land of Saints and Sinners isn't the first movie to use beautiful Irish vistas for its benefit , it's still tough not to be wowed by its stunning and perfectly framed natural locations. (The film was primarily shot in County Donegal, where it's also set.) Add to that a melodic and Irish-tinged score by Diego Baldenweg (with Nora Baldenweg & Lionel Baldenweg ), and, well, it starts to be tough for me to be anything but on board with this movie.

Ultimately, Saints and Sinners feels like a bit of a throwback . The movie relies on classic, screw-turning conventions rather than any type of high concept and then peppers the whole thing with a multitude of interesting, lived-in characters. Again, it's not a non-stop actioner with a high body count, so Neeson fans hoping for the next one of those may not find quite what they're looking for here. But, honestly, those more straightforward action movies can feel a bit disposable, whereas Saints and Sinners is a more textured affair that's equal parts drama, thriller, and action film. It's really a credit to the film that it excels at all of them.

In the Land of Saints and Sinners is a thoughtful crime drama that features good performances from Liam Neeson and Ciarn Hinds, as well as another standout turn from Kerry Condon.

• There's no weak link here, as Liam Neeson, Kerry Condon, Ciarn Hinds, and Jack Gleeson all give compelling and textured performances.
• Director Robert Lorenz makes good use of the North Ireland setting, crafting a film that's as beautiful as it is thrilling.
• 'In the Land of Saints and Sinners' feels like a film that could have been made 30 years ago ... and that's meant as a compliment.
• 'Taken' superfans hoping to see Neeson rack up a high body count may end up a bit disappointed.

In the Land of Saints and Sinners opens in theaters in the U.S. starting March 29. Click below for showtimes.

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‘Late Night With the Devil’ Review: Selling Your Soul for the Ratings

An occult-obsessed nation is nimbly captured in this found-footage horror film about a late night show gone horribly wrong.

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By Alissa Wilkinson

“Late Night With the Devil” is trimly effective horror of a rare sort: I found myself wishing, halfway through my screening, that I was watching it on my TV. Not because it doesn’t work in a theater — horror almost always benefits from being seen in a crowd — but because its writer-director duo, the brothers Colin and Cameron Cairnes, make shrewd use of some of the uniquely creepy things about television, especially its intimacy. The TV set is in your house, and you’re sitting six feet away from it, and especially in the wee hours of the night, whatever’s staring back at you can feel eerie, or impertinent. Over time, the late night TV host becomes your best friend, or a figure that haunts your fitful dreams.

That’s why people watch late night TV, of course: to laugh, to be entertained and to feel some kind of companionship when the rest of the world goes to bed. “Late Night With the Devil” twists that camaraderie around on itself, layering in familiar 1970s horror tropes about demonic possession, Satanism and the occult. The result is a nasty and delicious, unapologetic pastiche with a flair for menace. I had a blast.

The host of the movie’s invented late night talk and variety show is Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchian), a younger, snappier Johnny Carson who is desperate to climb to the top of the ratings. Framed as found footage wrapped in a pseudo-documentary, the film briefly fills us in on Delroy’s career trajectory hosting “Night Owls With Jack Delroy,” a show that can’t quite overtake its competitors. As narration informs us that Delroy is risking going down in history as an also-ran — always Emmy nominated, never the winner — we learn that we’re about to watch the night that “shocked a nation.”

On Halloween night, 1977, the first in the crucial sweeps week for “Night Owls,” Delroy and his producers come up with a desperate, last ditch idea to spike ratings: they design a show full of spectacle that will tap into the cultural craze for all things occult. The guest list that night includes a medium and a skeptic, plus a parapsychologist and the girl she’s been treating for demonic possession. The master tapes have been found, the narrator informs us, and that’s what we’re about to see. Buckle up.

All of these characters seem familiar. Carmichael the Conjurer (Ian Bliss), the film’s abrasive skeptic, seems based on James Randi , who appeared on “The Tonight Show” to debunk others’ claims to paranormal abilities, most notably the illusionist Uri Geller in 1973. Randi also confronted mediums on live TV (such as this film’s Christou, played by a hammy Fayssal Bazzi) and was an outspoken critic of parapsychology.

“Late Night With the Devil” also evokes “Michelle Remembers,” the now-discredited 1980 best seller by the psychiatrist Lawrence Pazder about his patient, Michelle Smith, who claimed to have been subjected to ritual satanic abuse. Here the doctor is a parapsychologist played by Laura Gordon, whose performance combines vulnerability and conviction in a fruitful counterbalance to some of the camp. She’s accompanied by her charge, Lilly (Ingrid Torelli), whose oscillation from dead-eyed to vibrant is devilishly disquieting. (If there’s one rule in horror, it’s that there’s nothing creepier than a little girl.)

The film moves a little slowly, unfolding at the speed of the “Night Owls” episode. That’s good. We’re forced to watch it all in real time, just as the audience at home would have, which more or less transforms us into those people in 1977, sitting on the couch in the middle of the night, by turns titillated, captivated and horrified by what’s unfolding on live television. Eventually they — we — are sucked into the whole illusion, an effect I can only imagine is enhanced if you’re watching it all unfold on your actual TV set. You aren’t watching a movie anymore; for a few minutes, you’re part of it.

All of this would have been completely seamless, but for one disappointing formal choice. We’re told the master tape we’re about to watch will be accompanied by previously unseen backstage footage shot during commercial breaks. Though it might have been interesting to leave those scenes out, it makes sense that they’re there — it keeps the film from getting too abstract by filling us in on what’s actually happening between segments.

However, the “footage” is shot in a more traditional shot/reverse shot format, like any film might be, which is weirdly inconsistent with the idea that some rogue cameraman was just hanging out backstage, accidentally capturing footage. Instead it feels scripted, like there were filmmakers present to document the unfolding panic. A more hand-held, one-camera approach might have helped to maintain the movie’s illusion — and made everything far more effectively creepy. (I have a similar quibble with a sequence near the film’s ending, though that feels more subject to the suspension of disbelief.)

But this is relatively minor, in the scheme of things. “Late Night With the Devil” reflects something that movies have often explored — the strangely queasy codependent nature of the live TV host and the audience — through an old trope, which suggests that while you might ask God to save your soul, only the devil will give you what your vanity requires. Invert that, refract it and drag it through sludgy, bloody mud, and you get “Late Night With the Devil”: diabolically good fun.

Late Night With the Devil Rated R: Demons, death and disgusting destruction. Running time: 1 hour 33 minutes. In theaters.

Alissa Wilkinson is a Times movie critic. She’s been writing about movies since 2005. More about Alissa Wilkinson

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Baltimore review – Imogen Poots excels as British aristocrat turned IRA volunteer Rose Dugdale

Irish directors Joe Lawlor and Christine Molloy’s biopic of the late rebel heiress is anchored by an expressive lead turn

I rish film-making team Joe Lawlor and Christine Molloy ( Helen , Rose Plays Julie ) bring their typically agile and unpredictable storytelling approach to the real-life tale of Rose Dugdale (Imogen Poots, excellent), who died last week. A British aristocrat and debutante, Dugdale was born into extreme wealth and privilege – a background she not only renounced but also weaponised when she became an active volunteer in the Irish republican movement in the 1970s. Essentially, it’s a pleasingly taut heist movie – Dugdale masterminded an ambitious art raid on a stately home, intending to barter the stolen paintings for the release of IRA prisoners. But the picture also doubles as a fascinating psychological study of fanaticism, with Poots’s expressive performance unpeeling the layers beneath Dugdale’s fervent belief in her cause.

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