So what do you do when you have defined the genre, sealed it tight, preserved with time that keeps mining excelsior from it. You open the bottle, says Marty.
The director Martin Scorsese tells his story, his perspective, his unbiased take visually. He is one of the few directors alive and working passionately, hungrily(!)- You’d think that maturity over the years would decay his obsession, but he is latched onto that young man’s game like any other new filmmaker trying to make his or her mark.- and sophisticatedly that brought the “catalyst” element into the TO-DO list of a director. I mean, think about it, his films spend more time on slow motion shots,- in this said-overly-long-but-you-don’t-actually-want-shorter runtime the slow motion takes are basically the front page cover that comes in like fliers in such biographies- elaborated jokes and dead silence where Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci and Al Pacino alike dicey actors chews the script paper, the rest of the blah-blah historical events are fast forwarded with long physical sequences. Now if you look into those thousands and thousands of storyboards, Marty though not writing the script; the screenwriter Steven Zaillian did a fabulous job, is in control of the film more than you’d imagine. Never have I seen his film, where a footage falls short or the displayed images fall flat. Everything hits the sweet spot right into your heart. And this one, the most. Especially for me. The Irishman is a surprisingly satisfying and oddly a perfect end; if he makes it his last of the gangster genre, to all the films that he has piled upon his desk. The show that is placed so delicately in front of us, is neither an answer to escape nor salvation nor payback nor some bloodlusted revenge. It is exactly what Marty did, does. Remembering those times, simply that. The final act is one of the finest things I have experienced in recent times.