Directing: B+
Acting: B+
Writing: B
Cinematography: B
Editing: B-

It’s been widely reported that The Irishman runs three and a half hours long, so there’s a good chance you already know it, but it bears repeating. Be warned: this movie is a bit of an endurance test. I do have recommendations for how to deal with it, however. First, don’t drink any fluids for at least six hours before seeing it in a theater. But, if you can’t get out of having to use the bathroom, then I recommend seeing it at Seattle’s Cinerama theatre. Not only is it the best movie screen in town, but they also play the live sound from the movie playing over the speakers in the bathrooms, so at the very least you don’t miss out on what might be critical dialogue.

That is, it’s what I can recommend or the next week, which is the extent of this film’s theatrical release. It plays at Cinerama through Wednesday 11/20; it plays at the Landmark Crest Theater in Shoreline (which is far cheaper; $17 at Cinerama vs. $4 at the Crest) through Thursday 11/21. This has also been the subject of much media coverage regarding this movie, because it will be available streaming on Netflix very shortly thereafter, on Wednesday, November 27, the day before Thanksgiving.

Thus, the biggest burning question is: Is it worth finding a movie theater to see it in? And having seen it, I can tell you definitively—no, not really. That is, unless you are a cinephile or cinema purist, which I kind of am. It’s why I went out of my way to see it at Cinerama: I knew director Martin Scorsese preferred it be seen in a theater, and I personally prefer the cinematic experience broadly. But, you know what? Although The Irishman is a fine movie, it’s short on action and long on a uniquely meditative tone. Honestly, you might as well deal with that at home.

It’s not like it’s some grand achievement in cinematography, either. This movie is told almost entirely in flashback, with Robert De Niro as the title character (or, Frank Sheeran) narrating. The story unfolds over decades, from the forties through the seventies, in blue collar neighborhoods run by mobsters, in environments with pretty muted colors, with the occasional exception of things like a brief excursion to Florida. Still, none of the visual language of this films demands to be seen on a large screen. The Irishman is much more an actors’ showcase, and a very, very long one at that. This is therefore a rare example of a movie’s brief theatrical release having value only in terms of qualifying for Academy Awards, as opposed to a brief window of opportunity to see film as it was originally intended. This is one movie that will work fine, maybe even better, on your TV screen.

And real emphasis should be put on it as a showcase for actors—specifically, male ones. The cast here is a massive reunion of Scorsese favorites, including Harvey Keitel in a surprisingly small role as the most powerful mobster; Al Pacino as Jimmy Hoffa; and most notably, Joe Pesci as crime boss Russell Bufalino, Frank Sheeran’s longtime mentor. Other familiar faces fill out the supporting cast, including Ray Romano as Russell’s cousin Bill; Bobby Cannavale as hitman Felix “Skinny Razor” DeTullio; and Jesse Plemons as Jimmy Hoffa’s son Chuckie.

But, at the risk of sounding insufferably “woke,” you would think a movie three and a half hours long would find at least some quality time for the women in these men’s lives. It’s genuinely striking, how much screen time women in this film get just to be speechless window dressing. Just because I feel bad for them, I feel like naming the key actors who played these roles: Welker White as Jimmy’s wife, Josephine Hoffa (who gets the most lines of all the women, and it’s still only a few); Aleksa Palladino and Stephanie Kurtzuba as Mary and Irene, Frank’s respective first and second wives; and most notably, Anna Paquin as Frank’s eldest daughter Peggy. Peggy actually figures in as a key part of Frank’s story, and still, Anna Paquin appears in several scenes with no dialogue at all, until maybe two scenes with limited dialogue near the end. In short, The Irishman goes out of its way to waste the ample talents of its female supporting cast, while simultaneously squandering ample potential for character development.

Now, okay, yes, to be fair, this is Frank’s story, and his story revolves around his relationship with crime bosses. De Niro, Pacino and Pesci—who came out of retirement for this role, not having been in a feature film in nine years—all give fantastic, arguably award-worthy performances. But it’s still possible to put the focus on these characters without giving so many women such blatant short shrift, with not so much as dialogue in scene after scene. (I’m certainly not the only one who noticed.)

That aside—and, frankly, it’s a difficult thing to set aside—The Irishman remains a surprisingly engaging film considering how long it is, the longest mainstream film released in two decades. The final ninety minutes or so are certainly the most pertinent, and they are only thus because of the time spent on the story that led up to it. The film ends with Frank as an old man, reckoning with the long-term consequences of his past. It’s a larger-than-life life, which ends with a bit of whimper. And, much like Pedro Almodóvar’s Pain and Glory, there is greater context to consider: it’s a longtime director using a film as a storytelling tool to reckon with his own past. A meditation on a life lived, achievements and mistakes in all; a bit of a theme in the world of film in 2019. Is it a journey worth going on with them? Sure it is, especially if you are already a fan of the director’s other work. Is it an essential part of his body of work? That part remains up for debate.

*So are we just going to keep talking for 209 minutes, then?*

Overall: B