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A version of this review originally ran during the New York Film Festival earlier this year.
It has since been updated.
It may be the 76-year-old directors most stylishly daring work: one thats pointedly sapped of style.
(What we see are flowers.)
It is what it is.
A job, like house painting.
(I mean, really, folks.)
The paint is blood, the patois representative of how gangsters talk in Steven Zaillians slyly garrulous screenplay.
Hoffas passion is why he takes root in Sheerans mind.
The movie may be framed by Sheerans final days, but its largely a flashback with its own flashbacks.
The vibe is eerily flat.
Why are we watching so uneventful a journey unless something terrible is coming?
Odd faces, at times.
Faces that thanks to computer de-aging dont always match the voices and bodies.
But a case could be made that the partial de-aginggives the film its poignancy.
These actors are ghosts of their former selves.
In any case, who can resist seeing De Niro across from Keitel and Pesci?
Pacino has gotten most of the raves forThe Irishman,but its Pesci who thrilled me to the core.
I thank the gods of acting that he came out of retirement to do this.
This is a head Pacino performance, not a cojones one.
Shes his conscience, and the gear sticks out.
But if the movie is overlong, its not overscaled.
They cant hide inside motion, so Scorsese wont let himself, either.
The upshot is his most satisfying film in decades.
