Scorsese Misses His Own Point

Rating: 4/10 (8 April 2020)

Critic love Martin Scorsese, Hollywood, not so much. That has cause the former to over-compensate, as if they could shout an Oscar into being. Nice try. Scorsese clearly intended a loving and fond farewell to the great days of the Mafia, when organized crime at east had, within its own ghastly context, some class, some honor, some style. (Can you imagine the Mexican drug cartels inspiring anything like 'The Godfather'? Surely not.) The nostalgia-laden closing scenes make that clear (I half- expected 'Those Were the Days, My Friend' to be in the score at that point). But the result is 189 minutes of slow-moving, dreary brutality by a character who seems chosen to demonstrate the banality of it all. Then there's the documentary tone that creeps in via expository scenes, complete with captions, that explain long-forgotten mob episodes. (Keep in mind that a central conflict-between the mob and Teamsters Union boss Jimmy Hoffa-dates to the 1970s. That resonates with what percentage of today's audience-10, maybe? The mob vs. JFK goes back to the early 1960s. Hell, why not throw in Judge Crater? The Irishman himself is a dullard-boss points finger, Irishman pulls trigger: no thoughts or feelings intrude. His brutal beat-down of a storekeeper in the presence of his young daughter is an hommage to 'The Sopranos,' but extended as the source of her lifelong alienation, it's close to theft. The acting was fine, if overpraised, and I though Al Pacino s Hoffa misread his main line "It's my union" by stressing the noun instead of the possessive pronoun. In short, critical unanimity should always be suspected.