The Irishman

Martin Scorsese’s 2019 film withholds its own name. On screen is the title of Charles Brandt’s 2004 book, I Heard You Paint Houses; The Irishman appears only in end credits. Not a flourish: the film rests on how much of Frank Sheeran’s confession to believe. Bill Tonelli set out to dismantle it; De Niro answered that they tell their story, not the actual one. De-aging was applied to faces alone. Industrial Light and Magic, under Pablo Helman, built a custom three camera rig, and Scorsese and De Niro ruled out tracking markers, helmets and face cameras. Rodrigo Prieto has confirmed the eyes on screen are the actors’ own. The cost is visible: faces get younger, bodies do not. The grocery store beating in front of his daughter shows it most. Photography ran 108 days, from 18 September 2017 to 5 March 2018, Al Pacino’s first time with Scorsese. Thelma Schoonmaker has said the aim was the banality of the violence, victims dying instantly in plain wide shots. Big chains refused Netflix’s four week window, so the release peaked near five hundred screens. A good fit if you want 209 minutes ending on a nursing home door left ajar rather than a reckoning. Less so if Anna Paquin’s nearly wordless adult Peggy reads as a gap in the story.