This time around I was just struck by three things:

1. The work of Thelma Schoonmaker. She truly is one of the greatest of all time—cutting together moments that have no business being together, and composing Scorsese’s haphazard continuity (that poor script supervisor) into actual works of electric genius. The cut when Jo turns on her cars ignition is absolute magic.

2. The decision to cast not just the titular Irishman, but literal Jimmy Hoffa with the most Italian motherfuckers who ever lived still astounds me. The problem stands thusly: you need to believe that Hoffa has real animosity toward the Italians, which is hard when Pacino’s the one calling Stephen Graham a WOP. At first viewing I actually completely forgot Hoffa was Irish and thought Tony Pro was supposed to be Cuban or something. Also, Sheeran’s loyalty to Hoffa is meant to be compounded by their aligning ethnic identities—a casting caveat that isn’t as important given Sheeran’s functional adoption by the Italian clan. This racial component would have added an interesting wrinkle to Peggy’s affinity to Hoffa though. And yet, who the fuck else would be able to do what Pacino does here? A quick google search for “Irish American Actors” would recommend Tom Cruise, George Clooney, Matt Damon, or Mel Gibson, but come on. Who else has this alchemistic combo of Movie Star Charisma and Status, Electric Character Actor Scene Chewery, and likeability that makes you believe he is both the smartest person in the room, the dumbest person in the room, and still evoke this much tragic pathos?

3. Frank Sheeran’s breakdown when given the order to kill Hoffa is not an emotional one, but one of conflicting loyalties. He made two different promises. He has no friends, he has bosses. He has no children, he has responsibilities. He is not a man, he is a soldier. But what the fuck is a man anyway? The answer doesn’t become any clearer as he’s shopping for a grave.