Martin Scorsese has such stellar cred, deservedly so, that “The Irishman” was always going to captivate true fans. Think about it. The gritty tale of a New York mob fixer and hitman, entwined around the famous disappearance of unionist Jimmy Hoffa … De Niro perfectly cast as the American-irish mobster … Pacino as Hoffa … dialogue and violence the drivers … a sinuous assemblage of scenes composed as Scorsese can … how can this not be a late masterpiece of the master? And I admit “The Irishman” is so, so watchable. Time vanishes. The only trouble is, the story is vacuous, offering neither any conclusion nor any reflection. It’s just a life and we know biopics are the dullest of cinematic fare. I sat glued to the screen but then walked off, wishing Scorsese had used his moral compass and imagination to turn this eye-and-ear candy into something imbued with meaning.
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