From Mean Streets to The Irishman | A WOMANS LOVE LETTER TO SCORSESE’S UNDERWORLD (Pt 1)
(This piece has been swimming around in my mind for about a year, and started when I read this article that went viral a number of years back, written by a spectacular asshole - which you can read here (though just be prepared to lose a few IQ points). This wound up becoming so much more than a "fuck you" to that little twerp however. Being able to revisit what Scorsese means to me has meant the world during such a chaotic time. Pt2 is complete and will be published soon and covers Casino and The Irishman).
In the meantime, here is to all the other women (or NB's) who like me, love awesome films, and the men who love sharing that passion with us too.)
I remember when The Irishman was released in 2019, I felt a rush of nostalgia and excitement at the same time. In the 20 years since its release, Scorsese had said Casino was his final statement on that world, so news of another gangster movie set in the world of the Italian American mafia came as a surprise. I saw the trailer, then I watched the introduction to the round table discussion in which Pacino, Scorsese, Pesci and DeNiro all talked about this collaboration, ten years in the making. The sight of these particular men finally doing a project together, the genuine warmth and mutual respect they carried for one another over the last 50 years, it collided with my love of their films growing up... and I genuinely started crying in front of my T.V. I don't mean a tasteful silver lining of the eyes, I mean enough emotion that my dog gave me a look that said "babe….. you actually need to get out more".
Back home years ago...
My introduction to that cinematic world was in the form of Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas at age 14. I was with my two best friends at the time, twins Emma and Felicity. The boys we hung out with after school had made this flippant comment insisting we wouldn't like the same movies they did because we were girls. Being more than a little defiant, that Friday we went to the nearest video rental store and hired Goodfellas and Scarface. In addition to being a "get the fuck outtah here" to the guys we went to school with, it introduced me to Scorsese and Brian De Palma (and led to my discovery of Tarantino, Guy Ritchie, Tony Scott, Spike Lee, among others), and sparked a lifelong love affair with film that has remained with me to this day. So, in between devouring every indie movie made between 1990 and 2005 and repeated viewings of The Lord of The Rings (extended editions, always), the twins and I made our way through the classics. These included Reservoir Dogs, The Godfather trilogy, Heat, every movie Scorsese ever made (which included my personal favourite - Casino). We also experienced Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, The Untouchables, Snatch, Jackie Brown which is my favourite female led Tarantino film, Get Carter, the original Scarface, Pulp Fiction, Donnie Brasco, Rumble Fish, Boys N' The Hood and Once Upon A Time in America (its unforgivable that the full 4 hour cut of Sergio Leone's final film wasn't made available until 2012).
Overall, I have these movies to thank for inspiring a love of film that remains with me even now, 20 years later. Us girls didn't go on to share our movie nights with the boys, we had discovered something far more special between us. Soon, we were quoting lines lifted from movies that the guys hadn't even seen yet, much to their annoyance (pretty much any line uttered by Joe Pesci became a catchphrase we shared with fangirl glee). On the surface, it's a very masculine world. But it's also a very human world, where brutal codes of loyalty are adhered to until it's no longer convenient, and where power and family are carefully crafted and cultivated, only to be obliterated by paranoia and greed. Though I have no doubt my obsession with true crime played a part in wanting to see these stories unfold, it was my adoration of cinema that saw them cemented as something I deeply admired. When the genre was done right, it brought together everything vital to cinematic storytelling. Casting, performances, tone, set design, story, wardrobe, cinematography, music, mood, editing and of course directing, all working together in perfect unison, not one facet neglected.
“You don’t make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets. You do it at home. All the rest is BS and you know it.”
And so Scorsese opens the world of Mean Streets (1973) in a voiceover spoken over black. We feel these words in every scene, in every moment. They reflect his own conflict over losing his religion, over his struggle to reconcile the realities of human nature with the church, an institution meting out condemnation while sitting beyond judgement or consequence. The world of Mean Streets was spawned from the streets of Little Italy, where Scorsese's first two films are set. The grit and rawness of the film ages beautifully, and I find myself loving it more in my 30's as my appreciation of 1970's cinema only grows. As Tarantino once pointed out in reference to the decade, there was no self-censorship that would characterise mainstream film of the 1980's. Characters (whether male, female, or LGBTQ) were morally complex and richly written, stories left unresolved and redemption not a foregone conclusion. The story of Mean Streets centres around Charlie (Harvey Keitel) and his need for absolution. His life is entwined with the dregs of the underworld, low lives, wannabe gangsters and loan sharks that hunt out debts and vermin to feed off in the red-lit bars, rain slicked streets and filthy alleyways of Little Italy (which is a cleverly disguised L.A). We also meet Teresa, who is ostracised by her Mafioso father who sees her epilepsy as madness, as she carries out a secret affair with her cousin Charlie. Scorsese is always mindful to imbue a feminine presence in the toxic and violent Mafia world he witnessed growing up - ensuring they are not passive players in the narrative. Teresa's character adds weight and accountability, drawing into sharp focus the fate of women in this world. The men surrounding her may be oblivious to their ugliness, but the stark harsh realities of her everyday life ensure that we, the audience, are fully aware of that these men aren't truly honourable. It's a purpose that would be echoed in Karen in Goodfellas, Ginger in Casino and much later, Peggy in The Irishman.
We also see the moral ambiguity of Mean Streets conveyed through Charlie's hypocrisy. He feels shame for his sexuality, seeking out penance in the form of flame, as though the fire may burn away the impurities of soul and mind. And yet - he comfortably exists in the underworld, his moral justification lying in the words "it's just business". This paradigm is interwoven throughout the script itself - even the young Scorsese is exacting in the scenes of contrast and world-building that comprise each frame. Charlie is forbidden to see the lost souls he loves most, desperate to hold on to the family he came from while trying to rise up in the family he longs to be a part of.
At one point in the film, Charlie, Johnny Boy and an associate go to collect money from a pool bar owner. Discussions, cheerful banter and negotiations are underway, however Johnny Boy (as enticed by chaos as ever) continues to insult the men who owe. This all culminates in one of my favourite fight scenes of all time - started when the word "mook" gets thrown around, and the offence felt by these men runs deep, in spite of no-one seeming to know what the fuck "mook" means (dim-witted, for those playing at home). Once these men start fighting, they have no grace or coordination, they grapple and flail with one another in disorganised chaos. Punches are sluggish and with little finesse as a handheld camera follows the various fights breaking out through the bar. Johnny Boy is never far from our sights as he runs directly into as many fights as he can, Charlie implores to be left out of it only to get punched in the face before the camera immediately moves on, while other players spend entire shots evading punches altogether because they don't want to ruin their only suit. Additionally, the scene isn't set to some dark, moody volatile score - but the song Mr Postman by The Marvelettes. The combination of these elements deliver a sequence that is genuinely hysterical. It's the first time we see Scorsese’s gift in drawing out the natural comedy from the absurdities and degenerates of human nature (incidentally Tarantino would go on to create an entirely new genre out of that very concept 20 years later with Pulp Fiction).
The underlying social commentary of Mean Streets is subtle, yet poignant. The metonym for abuse, power, inherent inequality and hypocrisy is summated in Charlie's rambling confession to indifferent exotic dancer Maria, and is worth noting as it would be an ideology echoed throughout Scorsese's best work for the next 50 years:
"Like, looking at my uncle back there... like... man outside the law. On the other hand, instead of a breakdown of order there is a creation of order and instead of the breakdown of law, there s the creation of law... In this society which needs new law because ' what's a crowbar compared to a share of stock. What's the robbing of a bank compared to the founding of one and what's the murder of a man to the gainful employment of that man. 'Do not think that I have come to destroy the prophets. I have not come to destroy but to fulfil.'"
A true bromance.
"As far back as I remember, I always wanted to be a gangster..."
The thematic groundwork laid down in Mean Streets is elevated in every way within Scorsese's Goodfellas (1990), more specifically the work of its editor and Martin's lifelong collaborator Thelma Schoonmaker (incidentally, Tarantino's ground-breaking work was also made possible by a woman's editing eye, the wonderful late Sally Menke). In the first act, we witness long sweeping panoramas, crooning songs and romantic operas and stylised scenes such as the infamous Steadicam one-shot, an uninterrupted three minute scene in which Henry Hill takes his date Karen through the back door of the Copacabana, his sheer familiarity and ease signifying his influence, cementing our understanding of the seductiveness of that world through Karen’s eyes. Then, in the second act, the romance has faded. Shots are efficient - cold and clipped and to the point, the soundtrack shifting to classic rock of the late 60’s. The sheen is gone, lighting harsher. Conversations entailing confrontation are left uninterrupted, as we are made to sit with the silence and awkwardness, knowing things could turn violent.. only to be granted reprieve as the characters break the tension and the scene moves on. All of this leads up to the turning point of the film - the murder of made man Billy Batts. “Now go home and get your fucking shine box" is one insult from Batts too many, and Tommy, Jimmy and a caught off guard Henry Hill jump Billy after close later that night - bringing us back full circle to that opening scene. We knew it was coming, knew the romance was short lived, but understanding the weight of this moment just wouldn’t have hit-home without it also opening the film, a perfect deployment of non-linear storytelling.
The third act leads into the notorious Lufthansa Heist, or rather Jimmy’s casual murder of everyone involved through sheer greed and paranoia. It would have been too easy to see Jimmy stare down and intimidate his crew, as scenes frantically cut from one act of murder to the next. Instead after the murder of Morrie, we are simply left to observe a trail of carnage. Children pausing their game as a pink Cadillac captures their attention - as the shot steadily pans across to what lies within the car. Inside, are the two bodies we recognise from earlier scenes as Johnny Roastbeef and his wife, as the closing notes of Layla by Derek and The Dominos begin to play (an ingenious song choice). Then the camera slowly glides over the bodies as they are uncovered in garbage trucks, a truck meat locker (cleverly revealed as the camera swims through the hanging meat before landing on Corbone). “It made him sick to have to turn over the money to the guys that stole it. He would rather whack em'... for months after the robbery they were finding bodies all over.” Henry nonchalantly explains in his voiceover. The shots are edited in exactly the same way as the scenes romanticising Henry’s world, only now the contrast of brutality renders the technique perverse.
Damn - that look. Chills every time. Stupid Morrie - he should have taken the hint.
Another powerful driving force of the story are the performances. First there is Joe Pesci's brilliant turn as Tommy DeVito - the volatile, violent and "funny" mobster whose rage fuelled lunacy leads to his downfall as Jimmy and Henry follow him right over the edge. In Tommy’s anger, we don't feel the cold, calculating psychosis that we associate with Jimmy, but rather a shift in the energy of a scene to this terseness and anxiety. Even though we understand that payback is ruthless and exacting in this world and it will eventually come for him, the moment of Tommy’s reckoning ("ohh no-") still takes both Tommy and us by shock and surprise. Robert DeNiro gives the best performance of his career as Jimmy Conway - the quiet brutality he embodies, his ease in murdering anyone deemed a threat, in contradiction with the genuine warmth he displays to those in his circle, means we are left nervous in his presence, uncertain when a character has crossed an invisible line and forfeited their own lives. His menace is utterly chilling. There is one moment in particular we feel this - Karen, in a perfect performance by Lorraine Bracco, is unsure of her husband Henry's standing with Jimmy after a series of missteps and visits him at a warehouse. Jimmy is warm and on the surface everything appears fine, but the way the scene is filmed, the way silence is used, something feels... off. She is told by Jimmy that there are some coats in a warehouse down the street that she is welcome to help herself to. He gives directions from afar, and the camera moves with Karen down the street, capturing the doubt and and fear on her face as she looks back to Jimmy for confirmation. We not only feel her anxiety but understand it, and breathe a sigh of relief when she rushes to her car and races out of there promising to come back later.
After a stint in jail in which several of the main characters are sentenced to a decade in prison (once again it’s a testament to the editing that the story doesn’t feel slowed down here - or at any point in the 25 years it spans), the downfall starts with Henry casually disregarding Paulie’s strict orders to stay away from drugs, getting deeply involved in dealing cocaine with Jimmy (as well as consistently getting high on his own supply). Ray Liotta is utterly brilliant in this film, carrying the story home in the final act, giving his entire self over to the deterioration of Henry Hill and his world (there is a particularly moving moment where a disgraced Henry Hill asks Paulie for a bail out, and breaks down in tears as Paulie says goodbye for good, his eyes conveying his deep disappointment and hurt). Lorraine Bracco as Karen Hill meets Liotta there in another career-best performance - from her very first scene she holds her own with ease, her intelligence, self-awareness, strength and intensity render her a force to be reckoned with. She is just as addicted to that life as Henry and eagerly walks through that violent, wild world alongside him. Every moment, every decision we have bared witness to from Henry and his associates, all culminate in a final sequence that breaks every editing rule and that can only be described as a set piece in its own right.
May 11th 1980 - 6.55am. It starts with Henry Hill in the kitchen, as family busy themselves around him. It's a scene familiar to any one of us - the kitchen bustling with familial love and the energy of impending guests. Here we see the world of Henry unravelling, as he attempts to placate every element of his life as they collide around him. He drives between one demand and the next, all the while fuelling his paranoia and nervous erratic energy with his own endless supply of cocaine. The camera zooms back and forth on objects of focus, the patience and slow, steady pacing of the earlier shots abandoned entirely. The sauce needs stirring, the guns need to be sold, the coke suppliers paid, the mistress must be satisfied, Lois needs her damn "lucky" hat. Jimmy is still waiting, the drug dealer called - those helicopters flying over ahead, wait are they really following him? Karen sees them too, or are they both so coked up that we the audience can no longer discern their madness from our own rationality? The music choices are nothing short of genius, the standout track being Jump Into the Fire by Harry Nilsson as the high energy and rhythmic bass serve as fuel to the rapid pace of those climactic scenes (only Tarantino and Edgar Wright share Scorsese's gift in flawlessly marrying image and song in innovative ways).
We see how far our characters have fallen, the shadows under their eyes permanent, their complexion pallid and wan, movements twitchy. Henry calls Lois to ensure the sauce is cooking as planned, and to remind her that they are being watched, to avoid revealing any plans to move the drugs directly over the phone. She disregards this entirely, and we know that this pivotal moment is the final thread of their undoing. She gives the authorities everything in that phone call. The energy of each scene is erratic, nervous, the pace frenzied, unrelenting. Finally, it ends with the inevitable arrest of Henry, his wife and his crew. Later, when Jimmy greets him calmly at a diner asking him for his help for a hit upstate, we know (even before Henry confirms) that his only option is witness protection and cooperation. The same man that had been his friend and mentor for over 20 years has no qualms in taking Henry out now that he is a true liability. And so the final piece of that seductive and dangerous world he dedicated his life to slips through his grasp forever, as though it never even was. The energy of Goodfellas leaves its mark, shadowing our thoughts and feelings for days and leaving our nerves frayed at the edges... and yet, just like Henry, we can't wait to take that ride all over again.
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