A Personal Journey: The Films of Martin Scorsese

by Anna, Ari, John, Lons, Scott, and Yuki

"My whole life has been movies and religion. That's it. Nothing else."

Part 2: 1978 - 1990

The Last Waltz (1978)
by Scott

I should start out by saying that I barely knew anything about The Band going into this film. I was negative seven years old when their final performance (the subject of this film) took place. Despite the fact that I consider myself to be relatively knowledgeable about all kinds of rock and roll, they're one of those classic rock groups that I suppose I just hadn't gotten around to discovering until now. I knew they were responsible for the songs "The Weight" and "Look Out Cleveland", the latter of which only came to be known by me because I was born and raised in Cleveland. The only other information I had was that Scorsese directed a concert film about them.. So, the fact that I can achieve such a high level of enjoyment from viewing a documentary of this important moment in rock history is a real testament to the power of direct cinema.

The premise is quite basic. In 1978, The Band decided to call it quits after playing together for about 16 years. In one of the best efforts to go out in style that I've ever seen, they assembled a delightfully celebratory farewell performance including a staggering amount of legendary guests such as Van Morrison, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Muddy Waters, Bob Dylan, and more. Martin Scorsese, who was at the time more or less a legend in the making after Taxi Driver, showed up with his crew to document the event. The principal cinematographer was Michael Chapman (Raging Bull, Taxi Driver), who was aided by other fantastic DP's such as Laslo Kovacs and Vilmos Zsigmond. Even today, their footage of the concert ranks up there with the best and is absolutely wonderful to watch. In between performances, Scorsese interviews members of The Band as they share insightful reflections about their careers and the tough, yet rewarding times spent on the road.

All members of The Band play with such flawless precision and passion throughout the show that one truly gets the sense that they are playing like there is no tomorrow. Their special guests seem to feed off of that energy as well, leaving us with some memorable performances. When everyone comes back on stage at the end to perform a mind-blowing rendition of Dylan's "I Shall Be Released," it's a surprisingly resonant climax, a joyously hopeful swan song to The Band's career.

I never thought I would get this much out of a concert film, especially one in which I knew so little about the music act going in. Scorsese manages to find something much deeper and more transcendent in the material than one would expect. This might be mildly far-fetched, but I believe that the film finds a way to work as a depiction of what one should aspire to accomplish in life. Do something that you love and do it with all the passion that you can. Play that "instrument" as if there isn't going to be another day left to play it. Surround yourself with people who share that passion with you and are just as inspiring to you as you are to them. Do this for as long as you can before it gets to you, then go out in a blaze of glory.

Raging Bull (1980)
by Anna Pulley
 
“So gimme a stage
Where this bull here can rage
And though I can fight
I’d much rather recite.
That’s entertainment.”
--Jake La Motta
 
Never has the eroticization of violence as the crux of masculinity been more prevalent than in the male boxing film. Shot in black and white so that it would stand out from the eight other boxing films that hit Hollywood in 1980, Scorsese’s Raging Bull is a testament to the rise and cataclysmic fall of world middleweight boxing champion Jake La Motta, played by Robert De Niro. Almost stoic in its brutality, Raging Bull offers a glimpse into the world of a first-generation, Italian-American whose fixation with violence and jealousy, both in and out of the ring, ultimately lead to his destruction. The inception of the film began when Scorsese was recovering from a cocaine addiction, which makes La Motta’s story, his battle scars and injurious inclinations, particularly relevant to Scorsese’s own struggles.

 
Part of Scorsese’s brilliance and originality in the genre of the male boxing film lies in his critique of the dominant structures of masculinity and the devastating effects of their abuses. In the end, the Raging Bull is reduced to a pathetic, overweight womanizer reciting bad poetry in a nightclub. As Judith Halberstam notes in Female Masculinity, “The power of the punch has been replaced by the power of the punch line, and for the male fighter, that is no power at all” (275). In excruciating, slow-motion sequences and close-range blows, Scorsese deconstructs the masochism inherent in our cultural conceptions of masculinity, portraying the annihilated male body as spectacle and as a locus for vulnerability. Though La Motta tries to project his masculinity as impenetrable, his humanity comes through only when he allows himself to be vulnerable. This is illustrated in the scene where he throws a fight and is crying in his manager’s arms, in his constant obsession with his weight and appearance (a stereotypically feminine trait) and when he tries to reconcile his relationship with Joey, who remains unforgiving. These are some of the only instances where La Motta can be seen as sympathetic and human, which is also paralleled by the fact that he is consistently referred to as an “animal” by both his friends and enemies. In the prison scene, after he beats himself into a frenzy, he repeats “I’m not an animal. I’m not an animal” between bouts of uncontrollable sobs.  
 
The boxing scenes, which were filmed entirely inside the ring, capture the sometimes claustrophobic, sometimes expansive view of the ring as both a chamber of execution and redemption. Scorsese used larger and smaller boxing rings as a character impetus that visually depicts La Motta’s formidable wrath in the beginning and retreating despair toward the end of his career.
 
Most of the fighting, however, occurs outside of the ring, with his wife Vickie (Cathy Moriarty) and brother Joey (Joe Pesci) taking the brunt of his ferocity and feelings of inadequacy. Moriarty, who was nineteen at the time of filming, does a remarkable job of illustrating a young woman shrouded in domestic violence, and portraying a sexuality so powerful that a harmless comment about one of La Motta’s opponent’s good-looks causes him to pulverize the man’s face until he is unrecognizable. The threat of female sexuality for La Motta is possibly the most destructive force in the film and his own paranoia and insecurity make him an undefeatable opponent in his own life. While priding himself on never getting knocked down in the ring, La Motta is annihilated in every other aspect of his life, and Scorsese uses his example to capture the potential and weaknesses of white masculinity in ways that no other male boxing film ever has.

The King of Comedy (1983)
by Anna Pulley
 
The King of Comedy takes the media industry, celebrity and the psychotic fans that it produces as its main objects of ridicule in this dark comedy. Rupert Pupkin (Robert De Niro) is a struggling stand-up comedian who, though utterly convinced of his supreme talent, has never actually performed anywhere except to cardboard cutouts of celebrities in his mother’s basement. Preferring instead to hunt down autographs of celebrities, particularly Jerry Langford, (Jerry Lewis) whose talk show is modeled after Johnny Carson’s, Rupert is convinced that a “friendship” with Jerry is his ticket to fame. Rupert spends equal parts of his time vying for a ten minute spot on Jerry’s show and having elaborate fantasies where all the people in his life who doubted him, including his high school principal, apologize and applaud him. Rupert’s fantasies are so integral to the film that in the end when Rupert does achieve super stardom, one wonders if the book deals, the television show, and instant success aren’t also manifestations of his delusions of grandeur.

 
When all of Rupert’s hopes of getting on Jerry’s show are dashed, he decides to kidnap his idol with the help of sexual terrorist and equally obsessive Masha (Sandra Bernhard) whose imagined courtship with Jerry makes her one of the funniest additions to the film, particularly when she monologues about making love on the kitchen table while Jerry sits mummified in masking tape from the neck down. “Let’s be crazy!” she screams and knocks a set of dishware and burning candles to the floor.  
 
Rupert Pupkin, whose name alone is a testament to his geekdom, is a desperate, whiny man with a comb-over who lives with his mother (played by Scorsese’s mother). It was refreshing to see De Niro, especially after watching Raging Bull, outside of his usual role as the supremely masculine, misogynistic, violent type. As Rupert, De Niro’s versatility really shines through, as well as his ability to add complexity to an anxious celebrity whore. After being hyped up the whole movie in regards to Rupert’s hilarity, we finally get to see his monologue, which consists of weak one-liners interspersed with self-deprecating humor about his troubled childhood. Rupert’s life is tragic in a campy sense and watching his hopeless persistence and humiliation time and again definitely make one uncomfortable, especially when Rupert brings his would-be girlfriend (a former high school cheerleader turned barmaid) to Jerry’s mansion unannounced. Another aspect of squeamishness comes from Bernhard’s manic, unrequited energy, which is as terrifying as it is comical. She’s as gleeful holding a gun to Jerry’s head as she is making him model a half-finished sweater that she has knitted and one can only guess how deep her neurosis truly is.
 
The King of Comedy critiques the American mania for celebrity and “fifteen minutes of fame” at the same time that it forces viewers to sympathize with the Ruperts and Mashas of the world. It’s darkly satirical and unapologetic, which is possibly why it remains one of Scorsese’s least popular films.

After Hours (1985)
by John

After Hours, Martin Scorsese's 1985 black comedy which bears the distinction of being the first Scorsese film not to feature Robert DeNiro in a decade, features all of the director's stylistic flourishes and thematic concerns, but unfortunately lacks the good writing necessary to make it a memorable film. Although the film takes place in New York (SoHo specifically), features a neurotic protagonist driven to near-insanity, and has plenty of dynamic Scorsese direction, it still feels like an uncharacteristic film for the director. This may result from the massive contrivances in the film's tiresomely convoluted plot.

Perhaps the best way to illustrate this last point is to simply provide a synopsis of the film's plot. The story opens with mild-mannered Paul Hackett (Griffin Dunne), a word-processing consultant who leads a quiet, private life. When he meets Marcy (Rosanna Arquette) at a diner, Paul hopes to perhaps spice up his existence with a date, but quickly becomes ensnared by the escalating eccentricities of the people he meets as a result of his date with her. Like an insect struggling in a spider's web, his every effort to flee his bizarre predicaments lead to situations that are even more troubling, and eventually, life-threatening.

During his hellish nighttime journey through New York, he encounters Marcy's vaguely flirtatious apartment mate and sculptress Kiki (Linda Fiorentino) and discovers that Marcy has major psychological problems. He clumsily wriggles free of his date, but because all his money flew out the window of a taxi cab earlier, he is unable to pay the raised subway fare back to his Upper East Side apartment. He takes refuge from a rainstorm in a bar, and exchanges apartment keys with friendly bartender Tom (John Heard) so that he can lend him money for the subway fare, as the cash register won't open.

On the way back he notices one of Kiki's sculptures apparently being stolen by two burglars. He brings the sculpture back to Kiki and Marci's apartment, only to eventually discover that Marci has committed suicide. After calling the police, he rushes back to Tom's bar, only to discover that it's closed. He agrees to wait in an apartment owned by the bar's waitress, Julie (Teri Garr), and barely wriggles free from another potential damaged-goods date.

When Tom returns, they exchange keys, but he gets a phone call informing him that his girlfriend has committed suicide: it's Marci. This prevents him from lending any money to Paul, who angers the waiting Julie when he leaves her once again. Now determined to find a ride home, he tries to make phone calls at the apartments of two separate people, Gail (Catherine O'Hara) and Alex (Robert Plunket), but is thwarted in both attempts.

To make matters worse, Gail mistakes Paul for the man responsible for a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood, thanks to Julie Xeroxing a drawing of his face she made that labels him as the burglar, and posting these signs all over SoHo. This forces Paul into hiding, who takes refuge literally in a paper-maiche sculpture thanks to a woman he meets at a club. The real burglars steal the sculpture, with Paul trapped in it, and when the truck they're driving in goes over a curb, Paul is dumped right in front of his office, ready for work the next morning.

What is most puzzling about this incredibly haphazard storyline is how many times Paul needlessly bumbles into many of the disasters himself, almost like a hapless Inspector Clouseau. He's an easily likable protagonist, but often makes irrational decisions that don't stem from his personality or built-in character humor, but seem to be written into the story merely to allow for outlandish predicaments.

It's a flaw in the screenplay that is only magnified with each succeeding plot development. Granted, it's a black comedy and not meant to be taken too seriously, but it's simply too easy to construct a story built almost exclusively on contrivances. When the screenwriter puts in a scene of somebody getting shot just so Paul can watch the murder and say, "I'll probably get blamed for that", it's not funny, just an example of desperate screenwriting.

Scorsese's signature stylistic flourishes, however, are immediately recognizable and serve the erratic story well. Rushing and gliding cameras, sped-up film, intense close-ups, fast-paced edits, the sound of ticking clocks all highlight Paul's increasingly rattled nerves and descent into near-insanity. Once again, the director shows he is highly skilled at narrating the deconstruction of characters, and it is this skill that carries the better scenes of the movie.

This hellish black comedy is undercut by its forced humor and predicaments, testing our ability to care about Paul. A movie can sustain its absurdity for so long without the audience losing its connection with the protagonist. However, Scorsese's direction doesn't hold back, and that at least provides for some intermittently enjoyable moments in After Hours.

The Color of Money (1986)
by John

The 1961 film The Hustler, directed by Robert Rossen, is a marvel of intelligent screenwriting, electrifying performances, and concise direction. It's simply one of the very best dramatic American films ever made, a taught story about winning, losing, and what it takes to gain character.

In the film, Bert Gordon (George C. Scott) teaches harsh lessons to Fast Eddie Felson (Paul Newman) about character-building as he faces off with Minnesota Fats (Jackie Gleason) and others in a succession of intense pool matches. Not only is the drama pitch-perfect, but Rossen also captures a precise portrayal of the seedy, fast-paced underworld of pool playing in 1960s America.

These were the inevitably high standards that Martin Scorsese was up against when he decided to direct the film adaptation to The Color of Money, which looks at the character of Fast Eddie Felson some 20 years later. In the film, Felson, still played by Newman, no longer plays pool but makes money by dealing in alcohol. He notices the untamed skill of young hotshot pool player Vincent (Tom Cruise), and enlists his girlfriend Carmen (Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio) in helping him become a better pool player.

It seems that Felson has inherited the role that Gordon played in his own youth, as he sees the brash naivety in Vincent as a crippling lack of character. This character flaw, coupled with Felson's own surfacing insecurities about his chances at winning pool as an older man, constantly puts Felson and Vincent at loggerheads, impeding Felson's strained tutelage.

Scorsese certainly handles this storyline deftly. He makes sure he captures details of the pool-playing underworld of the 1980s, and this pays off throughout the film. In fact, the very act of playing pool itself is perfectly suited to Scorsese's dynamic visual style. Plenty of quickly edited shots of pool balls smashing into each other, rolling across the pool table, or darting left and right, stylishly energize the film.

Perhaps the most memorable shot in the movie is a sweeping crane panning across row after row of bright green pool tables—with intentionally operatic church music on the soundtrack—which then cuts to a tight close-up of Newman's face. They're a dynamic pair of shots that makes a clear, effective point about how Felson treats pool: it's his religion, and he'd probably die for it too, even if he's past his playing prime.

Curiously, the typical Scorsese obsessions don't show up very prominently in this film. Like The Hustler, the dynamism in this film is purely character-driven, not punctuated by physical violence, nor underpinned by self-conflicted spiritual or moral conflicts weighed down by guilt. Although thematically the film may be uncharacteristic for Scorsese, it retains his great ability to harness memorable performances and highly intense scenes between characters, not to mention dynamic visual set pieces.

In trying to be cut from the same cloth as The Hustler, the film's writing presents itself with a formidable challenge, but succeeds reasonably well. The dialogue is often crackling, and Felson's characterization is compelling, as is Newman's acting. However, the character of Vincent does not crawl much beyond the confines of a symbolic hotshot youth, and both the character Mastrantonio plays and her performance seems lost in the story. The film loses dramatic steam when the action shifts to Atlantic City, when a showdown between Felson and Vincent is not only predictable, but simply goes through the motions when it happens.

It may just have been a foolish task to essentially make a sequel to one of the finest American dramas. The uneven script in The Color of Money has its moments, but fails in its own right in delivering a consistently compelling storyline. Scorsese, however, pulls off some particularly memorable directorial touches that are sure to please admirers of his work, despite it ultimately being one of his lesser accomplishments. For those just looking for a stellar, character-driven and expertly constructed film about pool, The Color of Money doesn't quite cut it; there's only one film to recommend for that.

The Last Temptation of Christ (1988)
by John

"The dual substance of Christ–the yearning, so human, so superhuman, of man to attain God...has always been a deep inscrutable mystery to me. My principle anguish and source of all my joys and sorrows from my youth onward has been the incessant, merciless battle between the spirit and the flesh..and my soul is the arena where these two armies have clashed and met."
– Nikos Kazantzakis, from the book The Last Temptation of Christ

These words are the first images to scroll silently down the screen at the start of Martin Scorsese's 1988 The Last Temptation of Christ, based on the 1955 work by Nikos Kazantzakis of the same name. At the film's end, a flurry of rapidly shifting color and sound bring the film to an uplifting, redemptive conclusion.

In between those two segments, a truly unorthodox retelling of the adult life of Jesus Christ is portrayed, one that stirred up intense religious controversy prior, during and after its release, not unlike Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. The key difference here that make these films near-polar opposites is that while Gibson's take on Christ was literal and narrowly focused, Scorsese's version is highly intellectual and original.

Those condemning Last Temptation regarded the film as a blasphemous perversion on Christian doctrine, while others praised the film as an imaginative and literate character study dealing with man's perceived battle between spirit and flesh that Kazantzakis references. Both evaluations of the film focus on the obvious radical changes from Christianity's account of Jesus' life, a self-doubting and cowardly man who only becomes aware of the full meaning of his divinity as he suffers on the cross, after a torturous and indecisive struggle that culminates in an imagined relationship as a husband and father.

It's true that the film treats Christ more as a literary device, a character that is symbolic of man's (dualistic) struggle between the spirit and the flesh. However, it's here that Scorsese's retelling flourishes. Never before, nor since, has the director confronted his lingering spiritual issues on film so directly as he does in Last Temptation, which takes a highly personal road to affirm what Christ's suffering means to Scorsese. Specifically, the film shows how Scorsese needed a personal Jesus, one which he, and thus audiences, could relate to on an accessible level. The result is a highly compelling, dramatically focused story that ranks among Scorsese's best films.

Scorsese's Jesus:

The movie opens with a frail and terrified Jesus, played simultaneously with sensitivity and power by the gifted Willem Dafoe. Jesus is aware of the fact that he has been destined for greater purpose, though he is unsure as to what this purpose could be. He is severely self-critical; he admits he has sinned, and for the times that he does not sin, he does so out of fear, not out of a desire to do good.

He leaves his home in Nazareth and sets out to discover God's plan for him. He first visits Mary Magdalene, whom he faults for not choosing to settle down with her, leading her to become a prostitute. Her anger towards him only feeds this self-blame. In the meantime, his friend Judas, a zealot in fierce opposition to Roman rule, believes that Jesus should be a political leader to unite the Jews against their oppressors, but is severely disappointed in Jesus for not taking this challenge.

After meditating in the desert, Jesus feels compelled that God's plan for him is to preach a message of peace and love. Judas, still unwilling to lose faith in his friend, agrees to stick around and see where preaching takes Jesus. After being baptized by John the Baptist, who tells him that he should be squelching injustice through violence, and after receiving several visions in the desert, Jesus relents and begins a fiery crusade against the Romans, much to Judas' delight.

Then, Jesus receives another vision, and now realizes that his true mission is not love or the sword, but become a sacrifice for God. He urges a conflicted Judas to betray him in order to help Jesus accomplish this mission, and it nearly succeeds, until Jesus sees a little girl who claims to be an angel of God. Telling him that his mission is over, she convinces Jesus to lead the life of a husband and father. Jesus lives to be an old man, and during the destruction of Jerusalem, he is confronted by an angry Judas, who feels betrayed by his master for not following through with his self-sacrificial mission. He reveals that the angelic girl was, in fact, Satan.

Jesus repents his lapse into leading an earthly life, and totally commits himself to God. He then finds himself back on the cross, his last temptation in actuality being only a vision, and dies, only aware of his own divinity at the last minute.

A Dualistic Portrayal:

The film depicts a philosophy much closer to Gnosticism than Christian spirituality. The Gnostics believed first and foremost as the attainment of gnosis, or knowledge, as the key to salvation. Gnostic dualism in particular emphasizes a total separation between the physical and spiritual realms, with the physical rejected as punishment that totally obstructs, and is in opposition against, the spiritual.

It is this severe opposition between the physical and spiritual, a clear product of gnostic dualism, that is the underpinning of Scorsese' personal vision of Christ's story. Last Temptation establishes this dilemma immediately, with Kazantzakis' quote opening the film presenting the concept of the "merciless battle between the spirit and the flesh."

In the film's narrative itself, this concept is first reaffirmed most visibly with the scene in which a Jewish master living in the desert is buried. One of the members of the community in which he had lived, eulogizes at his burial: "The master's soul has gone to heaven. His body's work is completed. They walked under the sun and the moon, over sand and stone, sinned, felt pain, yearned for heaven. We command his remains to our God. Flesh the master no longer needs."

Soul and body are viewed in complete separation from one another, trapped together on Earth, both "yearning for heaven" so that the flesh, an instrument that the soul is practically coerced into using, can be finally discarded. In essence, the body is viewed as a crude tool that is beneath the spirit. In another scene, Jesus' mother Mary approaches Jesus, to which he replies, "Who are you?...I don't have a mother. I don't have a family. I have a father, in heaven." Here, Jesus rejects his mother, this physical parent, so to speak; yet, he only acknowledges God as his spiritual parent. It's another example of a strict separation between the physical and spiritual, compounded with a rejection of the physical.

The concept of the physical and spiritual being two distinct realms, in which one must be seen as better than the other, is also specifically illustrated. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prays and says, "Father in Heaven, father on Earth, the world that you've created that we can see is beautiful. But the world that you've created that we can't see is beautiful too. I don't know, I'm sorry Father; I don't know which is more beautiful."

Here, even though Jesus says that the world is beautiful, the perception of both is presented only through a choice, through a decision that judges the merit or value of one over the other. One is supposed to be more beautiful than the other, and in Jesus' case, as Scorsese sees, is he must make the decision that the physical world is the one to reject in favor of the spiritual world. Jesus' impending sacrifice is perceived as this very decision.

The Last Temptations:

One pivotal scene that determines the thematic course of the rest of the movie, however, most directly exhibits this perspective of Gnostic dualism. Jesus camps out in the desert and has three visions of Satan. The first, a snake, speaks to him in the voice of Mary Magdalene, and implores him not to attempt to "save the world," but "find love" with Mary so that "we'll be in my bed together," at which point Jesus is wracked with sobbing. Then, a second visitation appears, in the form of a lion, congratulating him with the voice of Judas of passing "the temptations of a woman and a family," and that he is "bigger than that."

Here, the Gnostic dualism founded in a negative perception of the physical world is reestablished, this time more pervasively. The film presents a central choice to its fictionalized Jesus: either accept a duty to save mankind, or lapse into the temptations and earthy pleasures associated with being a family man. Once again, as before, the body is subverted below the greater concept of the spirit; somehow, expressing love through marrying and raising a family is sinful, and antithetical to embracing a healthy and sincere spiritual life.

When Jesus is later tempted by Satan again, this time while on the cross, we see him consummate his love for Mary Magdalene, and for other women as well, living to a ripe old age with many children. Here, through a vision, Jesus gives into this temptation of man, exhibiting a complete disconnect with the spiritual searching's he had manifested before. Apparently, by being a family man, he can no longer continue his spiritual investigations. This shows, again, the dualistic view: the spiritual and physical cannot live in harmony, nourishing each other. It is a struggle between a higher spiritual need and a baser physical desire that can never be reconciled, only conquered by the defeat of one by the other. Including a woman and family, primarily because of its physical, sexual aspect, is an outright temptation that cannot coexist with a full spiritual life.

Since Jesus is presented as a symbol for mankind's struggle in the film, this lends the viewer a clear insight into how Scorsese feels about his own spirituality, and how he has struggled to express it in all of his films. Scorsese is attempting to grasp with a point of view that allows for no possible marriage between the physical and the spiritual; the struggle, as presented in the film's opening quote and developed by the ensuing narrative, is presented as a constant battle where only one side can win.

Such tension personified by this version of Jesus, then, acts like a template for the neurotic, guilt-ridden characters that populate virtually all of Scorsese's films. With Last Temptation, we see the thematic roots of Scorsese's cinematic obsessions. On top of that, the film communicates them clearly and with confidence, no doubt in large part to Paul Schrader's excellent script. Jesus' personal journey in the film is one of the most compelling, if unorthodox, explorations of Jesus' life, as well as the dueling concepts of the spiritual and physical. The film is an artistic success for Scorsese that demands multiple viewings, should provoke deep reflection, and is not to be missed.

Goodfellas (1990)
by Ari

Ray Liotta is driving a car late at night with Robert De Niro in the passenger seat and Joe Pesci in the back. Noise and movement from the trunk comes to their attention. They stop the car on the side of the road and get out, open the trunk and reveal the bloody, beat-up body of an unknown man. Pesci pulls out a butcher knife, De Niro a pistol, and suddenly a ferocious sequence of brutality ensues, with Pesci violently stabbing the victim and De Niro unloading his pistol. It’s an unexpectedly vicious bit of violence, a shock to the system, and the unforgettable introduction to a major triumph in American filmmaking. The camera pans up and moves quickly towards Liotta as he closes the trunk, freezing on his close-up.

“As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster. To me, being a gangster was better than being President of the United States.” - Henry Hill.

So begins Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas, a dizzying odyssey into the culture and crime of Italian gangsters in New York City and based on the real-life accounts of Henry Hill, former gangster who eventually turned to the Witness Protection Program to save himself from getting whacked. Goodfellas is an epic stuffed with so much fascinating content it’s too overpowering to entirely take in on first viewing. This is the most exuberant and commanding film of Scorsese’s career, an enthralling journey of a man’s rise and fall through the uneasy and dangerous world of organized crime. Liotta’s narration introduces the many important characters who operate the business, from boss Paulie (Paul Sorvino) to Irish tough-guy Jimmy (De Niro). The constant voice-over provides every detail, enveloping the audience in the complexity of the organization and how crime and family and business and friendship are all connected, a circle of honor and loyalty that can never be threatened or questioned.

As Henry grows older, he naturally becomes more involved with his friends, including the particularly brutal and hot-headed Tommy (Pesci), the uncontrollable killer who causes so many problems. Scorsese takes you inside the life. These gangsters appear as energetic and personable men who enjoy their lives, the opportunities they’re provided and the wealth they obtain. When Henry takes his girlfriend and eventual wife Karen (Lorraine Bracco) to the Copacabana nightclub, it’s like entering a joyous new world where everything and everyone revolves around the man in charge, in this case, Henry. It’s exciting. It’s alive.

Henry unabashedly loves being a gangster. When things are good, he enjoys his wife, his friends, and his money, achieving his American dream of doing whatever he wants and living well because of it. When things are bad, like his time in prison, they’re still relatively good. In one of the best and most amusing sequences, Henry joins his boss and pals for a lovely and delicious Italian dinner in a prison cell that looks like a living room. No matter what hole they may appear to be stuck in, the gangsters are in control. That is, however, until they become too much of a wiseguy for their own good, react without considering the consequences, and push or kill the wrong person. This is a world where “Now go home and get your fuckin’ shinebox” changes everything for the worse, igniting a chain of events that send everyone, especially Henry, down a path of destructiveness. Goodfellas lovingly follows his rise to fortune and violently portrays his descent into drugs, paranoia, fear, and eventual betrayal.

Scorsese’s craft is awe-inspiring. The scope and emotion is breathtaking, and watching his bravado is something both inspiring and daring. Goodfellas is one of the most ferociously edited films I’ve seen, a feat he and editor Thelma Schoonmaker proudly display. Scorsese pushes the limits like no other American filmmaker has done in the past thirty years. This film demands and improves on subsequent viewing. Goodfellas is a movie to dissect and learn from, a dare and challenge posed to every self-respecting filmmaker (aspiring or professional) to deliver something of value and artistry. Scorsese shows you that cinema is still the most powerful form of artistic expression, something the best and most inspiring works should do.

PART III - COMING SOON