After watching Martin Scorsese’s “The Irishman” at its New York City premiere in late September, I knew how immense the whole thing was. I knew what I had witnessed was some-kind-of masterpiece. And yet, it felt cold and distant, a sort of eulogy to a bygone era. I now know that my initial emotional impressions were actually just confirming what the film was about. It’s titular protagonist, Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro), is a depressing and underwhelming person who is undeserving of hoopla or admiration and who deserves unadorned grievous dismissal. At its climax, some cracks in his inhumanity finally threaten the psychopathic rationale he’s been carrying with him for close to four decades — however, it is too little too late for Sheeran. He’s left in his geriatric home, waiting for the Devil to claim his soul and drag his pathetic ass straight to Hell.
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