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It is difficult to find the precise argument of 'The Irish' presented this Thursday in London after his time at the New York Festival . It is basically the story of a hitman and, nevertheless, his way of acting keeps him at a distance from the mythology associated with the character. Neither does he impart justice where Justice does not arrive, nor does that breath between epic and only strangeness that defines the misfits stand up. It is a film about the mafia, like so many others in the director's filmography, and it has nothing to do with the adrenaline-free brand of 'One of ours' or with the rough and impressionistic dirt of 'Bad streets' . Nor is the idea to analyze how the stigma of power and sin seeps into the depths of the soul as if it were a new installment of the 'Godfather' . And yet, all that is present.
But what matters is barely seen or fit in the synopsis. What counts goes through each frame as an electric current until the entire film is transformed into almost a state of the soul. Time is relevant. Suddenly, Scorsese is related to spirit contemporaries such as Tarkovski and realizes that old aspiration to make the cinematographic image not only live in time, but also time live in it. That is, the fundamental thing is not the way in which events flow but the form and the meaning of that flow.
The film starts in the halls of a nursing home. The camera roams the search for a man in a wheelchair. An inner voice rushes to confess a whole life. And about the voice without an owner, that of the character himself interpreted with a majesty unrelated to mannerisms by a larger than ever Robert De Niro . It would be said that we attended the same inaugural ceremony of 'Once Upon a Time in America' by Leone. What follows is not so much the repentance of a man as the explanation of his sentence.
Scorsese arranges the film in a maze of times that dialogue with each other and span three decades. Or 60 years, if the starting point of the old man who remembers is included as a reference. It is not about 'flash-backs', since none of the time segments is designated as a priority. The trip of De Niro and his boss, Joe Pesci , with their respective ladies already matured would be the backbone. They are supposed to go to a wedding, but, in reality, they walk towards their destination. The murderer must do his last job: finish off his mentor and friend, the all-powerful trade unionist Jimmy Hoffa , who is incarnated by the always disproportionate Al Pacino .
'The Irishman' tells the story of a World War II soldier who went from killing Nazis in the front to "painting houses" (because of the fired blood that smears the walls) in a convulsed United States. First as a hitman of an Italian partner with influences and then as the right hand of the aforementioned Jimmy Hoffa. Politics and crime are associated in a magma that no one escapes: not the Kennedys. Through the protagonist, according to the millimetrated script by Steven Zaillian , the recent history of a country that speaks of ambition, power, corruption, greed and cruelty is read. What is glimpsed is not so much the transformation of the character, but also, its full and perfect coherence. He acts moved by friendship, wisdom, logic and the defense of his family. And he does it with the tools he has at hand. There's no more.
The director graduates with an already unusual precision what could be called his most calculated, geometric and even perfect masterpiece. Far from any stridency, everything works to the beat of a soul that is diluted. The film's own length plays in favor. It does not matter so much the development of the action as its perfect suspension in a story that seems armored against any interference. The film herself creates her own concept of time .
The actors are allowed to modify the face by the technology that apparently has brought production to 150 million dollars. You can not talk about perfection (in fact, the first time he shows his face De Niro as a young man scares. By quirky), but it does make sense. 'The Irish' creates its internal coherence between the faces that change and metamorphose with a wisdom never seen in the indiscriminate use of digital effects.
And in the middle, a De Niro, a Pesci and an Al Pacino (we could add even Stephen Graham and Anna Paquin ) endless. Far from the excesses to which Scorsese's actors are accustomed, everything now runs inside. The idea is to move just the transformed faces. Or, otherwise, restore their spirit. And faith that succeeds. Especially shocking is the work of the protagonist locked in a deep self-absorption as a wandering figure and missing herself.
If you want, and it can't be a coincidence, the film meets the same journey that directors like Cuarón did in 'Roma' , Almodóvar in 'Dolor y gloria' or Tarantino in 'Once upon a time in ... Hollywood '. In all cases, the filmmakers speak with their past, with the cinema that formed them and with its ability to build memory. Every artist has some ruthless killer determined to catch the very essence of time. But, of course, time does not decompose without risking its own existence.
De Niro roams the memories of his life trying to understand why his loneliness is so much and so much contempt for his daughter. And in his wandering he turns time into a common space (of absolutely everyone) for remorse, heartbreak and repentance by force impossible. All they have left are their bodies. Nothing else. This was what it was about.
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