Family Reunion

Artwork by Michael DiMilo

After the Thanksgiving holiday, during our gastric recuperation period, my family and I sat down and watched Martin Scorsese’s new film, The Irishman, in its entirety. To say the film is epic is to abuse the term understatement; not only is the film’s running time three and one-half hours, but the storyline spans six decades of mob and union history. On top of all that, the movie features Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, and Joe Pesci, legendary icons of the American cinema. This film tells the story of—along with a myriad of other events—the circumstances leading to the demise of Teamster boss Jimmy Hoffa.

            The cast is epic: Pacino plays Hoffa brilliantly, while Pesci portrays Mafia kingpin Russell Bufalino with a calculated restraint, and DeNiro plays Frank Sheeran, the narrator and Bufalino’s right hand man, as a shrewdly compliant operative. Sheeran eventually goes to work for Hoffa as his bodyguard, eventually befriending him and his family. As he has previously done with former works like Goodfellas, Mean Streets, The Departed, and Casino, Scorsese explores the allure and aggrandizement of the mobster mythology while never abandoning his examinations of the human frailties of those who participate in it. These characters are for the most part family men and—aside from the fact that they steal and kill for their livings—are not that different from us. 

            Even so, this still begs the question of how these men, violent predators and parasites on our society, are such a beloved part of American culture. Productions like The Godfather saga, The Sopranos, Boardwalk Empire, Goodfellas, and The Departed, as well their precursors White Heat, Little Ceasar, and Bonnie and Clyde, have fascinated the American movie-going public for decades. The genre is lucrative, consistent, and a mainstay of Hollywood and the American psyche. Tony Soprano, Henry Hill, and Michael Corleone are modern day heroes: rebels and avatars of rugged individualists choosing to forge their own path through the world. 

            There is a deeply ingrained respect in American culture for those who defy authority—the outlaws—that goes all the way back to the American Revolution and the Old West. The maverick who will take the law into his own hands, who will stand up for what he believes in, and who exists outside the social mainstream is the essence of the American hero. 

In The Godfather, Don Vito Corleone chose to carve out his own system of law and order in order to protect his people as a traditional Italian patriarch. Tony Soprano is the head of both his families—Don and paterfamilia—encountering similar problems at home and in the workplace as most middle-class Americans. As a result, his life seems to be simultaneously mundane and exhilarating. Tony has problems coping with his children’s behavior, his spouse’s frustrations, and his associates’ incompetence, but he has the greatest difficulty dealing with himself, so much so that he has to see a psychiatrist. We like Tony despite the fact that he is a criminal, or even perhaps because he is one, but his greatest appeal is that he is human and full of frailties.

Empathetic as they are, what makes these mobsters so fascinating and beloved to us? They kill people, are wantonly violent, and corrupt many of our most revered institutions. But these sorts of criminals are predictable; we know who they are. We don’t (with the exception of the Dexter series) see many streaming series about serial killers. The heinous crimes of Ed Gein, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Ted Bundy may capture the morbid parts of our imaginations, but these killers do not earn the same affection or admiration that the organized gangsters do. So what’s the difference? 

Part of it might be identifiability. It’s much easier—in my mind, at least—to relate to Tony Soprano or Michael Corleone that it is to Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy. We know why Tony and Michael kill or maim; it’s business, and their business has rules that every player understands. Omerta, the Sicilian code of silence, is probably the most fundamental of these laws. If you rat out your family, your people, then you die. It’s that simple. This law, and this punishment, is irrevocable, and everybody involved understands it. 

In the world of psychotic serial murderers, however, the only rules are those that bounce around in the killers’ heads. And, of course, these psychopaths are not as readily identifiable as the mafioso; they look just like us. Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, and Ed Gein lived normal lives for years. Ted Bundy seemed to be an exceedingly intelligent and outgoing young man. These predators could be anyone, living anywhere amongst us, which is exactly what makes them much more frightening than organized crime figures. We do know these mafia guys are doing what they do for a reason and that they’re doing it according to their own rules. We understand them. We feel as if we know them.

As we were watching The Irishman, my wife and I kept pausing the video stream to ask, “Who is that guy?” Many of the actors (dozens of them in this saga) had appeared before in either one of Scorsese’s productions or in other mobster-related works. We saw the actors who portrayed Beansie, Charmaine, and Silvio Dante in The Sopranos, and Al Capone, Harrow, and Gip in Boardwalk Empire. In an odd way, it almost seemed like a family reunion. 

So we watch, fascinated, distanced far enough from the world of dons, families, caporegimes and extortion, hits, and protection to feel intrigued by it. If, however, we became targets of these men, our fascination would—I suspect—swiftly coalesce into fear and loathing.

 We might think we know these guys and have much in common with them, but the truth is that they are ruthless, calculating, and unfeeling predators. They take what they want and steal what they need. Lying is second nature to them. They live in a world where they make the rules, ignoring all traditional conventions, laws, and proprieties. All they seem to care about is themselves and money. And the family business. Sort of like the first family.