Does It Matter How You Watch THE IRISHMAN?
MonospaceIt is a common occurrence for cinephiles and even the occasional critic to start an – often controversial – opinion with "[movie] is good, but . . . " Often, it is a method of deflection in order to either, justifiably, pre-empt criticism they believe they will receive from others or to soothe themselves into thinking their take is more valid. In the case of The Irishman, however, it rings genuinely true; the near-innate performative excellence, formal coalescence and impressively sustained cinematic rhythm that we expect from Scorsese all add up to an almost undeniable, baseline 'good'. In other words, he could whiff in pretty much any other department and still create what would be generally recognised as a good movie. However it may be that, on an individual level, the qualities which make a 'good' movie vary with different priorities and different weighting from person to person. Scorsese hits enough of these tenets of filmmaking that very few – with exceptions, of course – consider any of his movies outright bad, even if significantly more people would not enjoy or even go as far as to avoid his work.
This discrepancy is fascinating. Almost nobody argues that Scorsese makes bad films, yet fewer people actually watch them and, on occasion, this extends to the film community itself. This begs the question: what is driving this wedge?
To answer, it may be useful to divulge my own viewing experience – at the possible expense of any ongoing ability, in the eyes of some of the most avid film fans – to ever label myself a cinephile again. I watched exactly the first ninety minutes of The Irishman over a year ago, and, ashamedly, abandoned it out of disinterest until very recently. Even more egregiously, I did something that would make Spielberg balk: I broke up the remainder of the film into multiple sittings across about as many Netflix-enabled devices. The Irishman hits all of the aforementioned Scorsese hallmarks – crucially, largely it isn't even boring – so my disinterest partway through and disappointed apathy toward it after finishing surely must have had a distinguishable reason.
The easiest target is the runtime, and so this will be the focus. The Irishman is very long, a whisker away from three and a half hours flat; however, bizarrely, this is by far felt the most during the first hour and a half. It consists – admittedly, highly subjectively – of an interminable and entirely forgettable first act which one can pretty much skip over and still understand nearly anything that comes after. More than an entire percent of my life – almost certainly more, but let's not get carried away here – came between my first and second sittings of the film and not once did I feel like I needed to re-watch what is almost the first entire half of an already very long film, or even to peep a cursory glance at the Wikipedia page to understand anything after it.
Does this render the first act entirely redundant? To suggest viewers skip a feature-length segment of the film is unideal at best. Indeed, even if many scenes from this first act are not critical in the long run, they still provide characterisation and context. But if the alternative is viewers losing the will to continue watching in droves and having a worse experience because of it, is it really that sacrilegious to do so? Conversely, whilst mileages may vary as to what counts as elitism regarding the cinematic experience, it’s easy to sympathise with those whose kneejerk reaction might be to wrinkle their noses at the notion that the best way to watch a new acclaimed motion picture, by one of the most revered cinematic legends, no less, is . . . by not watching half of it. Further, it’s easy to extrapolate from or get caught up in the methods and opinions of the global film circle, but the fact is that those passionate enough about film to take umbrage with certain viewing methods are unlikely to share much commonality with the larger viewing populace, who are already more likely to be paying less attention, watching on their phones or any other similar activity almost intrinsically designed to offend the sensibilities of the readership of Sight & Sound.
A more digestible – and frequently suggested – solution, therefore, may be to watch the movie as a miniseries, although this is often posited more as a could-have-been on Scorsese’s part in the production process rather than something viewers should take into their own hands. Scorsese himself has dismissed this: “Absolutely no. I’ve never even thought of it. Because the point of this picture is the accumulation of detail. It’s an accumulated cumulative effect by the end of the movie – which means you get to see from beginning to end [in one sitting] if you’re so inclined.” Given his aversion to a miniseries format for The Irishman, it could follow that Scorsese would definitely fume if people were abbreviating viewings of the movie into shorter segments, but he seems more libertarian in that respect, with his phrasing of “if you’re so inclined” hinting at an appreciation of the reality that swathes of his viewership did not do so.
This raises the issues of authorial intent. For many, this will be a sticking point; if an artist believes their work to be best consumed in a certain way, who are we to say otherwise? But is it really about that? When journalist Alexander Kardelo published his own guide telling viewers how they could ‘create’ their own miniseries by dividing the film into four ‘episodes’, the reaction from the movie community on Twitter was swift and ugly, begging the question of whether the most purist cinephiles actually cared about authorial intent and the cinematic experience as opposed to harbouring a simple, selfish sentiment of superiority. Indeed, the vitriol failed to subside even after said journalist revealed that they had in fact watched it in one sitting in the cinema, further calling into question the motives of these most abrasive crusaders of cinema. And even if it is about that, we have to place this argument into context. People have lives, and The Irishman is at least the runtime of a double feature – and still twenty minutes shorter than Grindhouse. If the masses are not inclined to sit in one place for 209 minutes, is it better for them just to not experience the movie at all? Such a simple line of reasoning undermines the entire argument of the singular sitting experience, as it is almost hypothetical. People will continue to consume a piece of entertainment however they like, given the opportunity, or, well, not at all. Many cinemagoers, completely fairly, would love to return to the period before the coronavirus epidemic where films would be given cinema exclusivity for a time before being snatched up by – or unceremoniously dumped onto – streaming services, but times have changed already, and a decade’s worth of progress, positive or negative, has been made in a tenth of the time. The phrase ‘vote with your wallet’ is commonplace, and makes sense in theory, but as long as enough people are willing to pay $30 to watch the new Disney movie on their phone, everyone else is at their mercy – and the density of cynical ‘in defence of Premier Access . . . ’ think-pieces increases by the day.
It is also important to distinguish this from the inherently subjective question of whether The Irishman deserves its runtime. This is much more adjacent to film criticism and the burden here lies with the filmmakers; indeed, it is upon the viewers to decide whether it is a burden at all. Whilst Scorsese has a clear, logical rationale behind his decision to release the feature at its mammoth runtime, it does not necessarily mean that it is the correct one. Scorsese may be correct that the accumulation of detail and emotional payoff in the third act would not be the same in a miniseries format, for instance, but it could equally be argued that viewers would pay more attention to scenes of importance near the end of the film had they not already been watching for such a long time. Thus, by the time the emotional core of the film reveals itself three hours in, viewers may be too exhausted to fully comprehend the magnitude of the film and emote in the way Scorsese intends. This is unlikely to be the sort of consideration a prospective viewer would take into account before watching, likely eschewing this in favour of practicality, but it is a consideration nonetheless.
Ultimately, though, the conversation regarding consumption of content in the digital era is unfortunately rather inconsequential. ‘Could’ and ‘should’ questions are fun to ponder, but until an argument so irrefutable and convincing can be made to push both consumers and studios into changing their behaviour, it simply does not matter how a piece of content is consumed. Even changing people’s minds is half the battle – consider the amount of people who order from Amazon versus those who actually agree with their business practices, labour violations, tax avoidance and so forth. The conversation, whilst largely over regarding this film, recalls similarly fruitless argument over whether Twin Peaks: The Return was television or film, a question where one’s answer would largely depend on how much credence one gives to context as opposed to convention.
Perhaps then, the reason these questions are so appealing is their hypotheticality and even theatricality. How much of the things we do or talk about really, truly make a difference? After a significant amount of time sitting with the titular question, it is perhaps telling that the best I can offer to answer it is a conclusory shrug. Does it matter to Netflix? No, at least not within the parameters they have set for their subscription base – and whatever they’re doing, it seems to be working for them. To Scorsese? To some extent, it must. The only impactful, effectual and productive question, at the end of the day, however, is one that only you can answer.
Does it matter to you?