"The Irishman" — Three and a Half Hours of a Classic People Will Keep Going Back To

Tired of endless sequels and prequels and assorted small nonsense, I finally got to Scorsese's "The Irishman." The script comes from Charles Brandt's book "I Heard You Paint Houses," in which Frank Sheeran confesses to the killings he carried out.

It didn't get a cinema release — you probably know it wasn't shown because of the standoff with Netflix, the two sides failing to agree on putting it online after a theatrical run, as this usually works. It's good it exists at all, even like this. They spent enormous money, de-aged Pacino and De Niro, shot 309 scenes across 117 locations, and for the first half hour the scale alone is dizzying.

It draws you in immediately, like an easy hand of cards. I missed the usual moment where you forgive the director everything, put it down to money and tiredness, and keep watching so as not to spoil your own evening. My cynical plan was interrupted by a perfectly built piece of work with no visible faults in it — though in fairness I wasn't looking hard.

Let me stop and try to describe calmly what I watched for three and a half hours. A long runtime for a film, and a whole life, in the course of which we make hundreds of choices and second-guess every one, with no way back. It works the same here: no sooner has De Niro's Frank Sheeran had a taste of working for the mob than it has him in its den and won't let go for a second. Step left or right and you're shot.

It doesn't occur to him to resist. He goes with the current, no days off, no lunch breaks. He's far enough in that he has no further use for a soul when deciding in anyone's favour; a simple set of actions covers it, one that has no room for attachment or love or friendship.

The world splits open when Jimmy Hoffa arrives in the shape of Al Pacino — splits, not breaks: there's no outrunning a bullet already fired.

I won't waste your time on enthusiasm. I'll just say we're watching a classic arrive, one people will keep going back to. And we'll keep being handed the same bleak diagnosis — will that ever change?