Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman (2019) is a film that simmers with regret, loyalty, and the slow erosion of legacy over time. Based on the book I Heard You Paint Houses by Charles Brandt, and adapted for the screen by Steven Zaillian, this three-and-a-half-hour epic trades the kinetic energy of Scorsese’s earlier mob films (Goodfellas, Casino) for a more somber, meditative tone. It’s a tale not just of organized crime, but of aging, mortality, and the story we leave behind—or fail to.
For screenwriters and storytellers, The Irishman offers a masterclass in character development, nonlinear structure, and thematic resonance. It’s a movie deeply concerned with time—not just in narrative scope, but in existential impact.
Aging as a Narrative Device
At its core, The Irishman is a film about aging—not just in terms of its characters, but in the cinematic language it employs. The story spans decades, following Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro) from his early days as a truck driver to his final years in a nursing home. This passage of time isn’t just background texture—it is the story.
In screenwriting, aging is often handled through time jumps or character exposition. Zaillian’s script goes beyond that. The age of the characters isn’t just a fact; it’s a pressure, a ticking clock. We’re constantly reminded of the weight of years, not only through digital de-aging effects but through pacing, mood, and dialogue. Characters frequently speak in ways that underscore the burden of memory. Consider how Frank often tells his story with a sense of detachment, as if recounting events that happened to someone else.
The decision to frame the narrative through Frank’s elderly perspective—often speaking directly to the camera—gives the film an elegiac tone. As writers, this is a valuable technique to study. It allows for reflection and commentary without spoon-feeding the audience. We’re not just seeing events; we’re watching a man grapple with the meaning of his past choices.
The Structure: A Fractured Reflection
From a structural standpoint, The Irishman is a slow burn. It eschews the classic three-act structure in favor of a more literary, mosaic form. The narrative shifts fluidly between time periods, creating a cumulative emotional weight that mirrors the disorientation of old age.
Zaillian’s screenplay builds tension not through external conflict but through moral erosion. We watch Frank make decision after decision, each seemingly small, but adding up to a life defined more by obedience than agency. This mirrors the way memory works—not in clean arcs, but in fragments and regrets.
Writers can take a lot from this. It’s a reminder that structure doesn’t need to be rigid. A nonlinear approach, when tied to character psychology, can deepen thematic impact. In The Irishman, the fragmented timeline reinforces the idea that Frank’s life is a collection of disconnected moments that don’t quite add up to a legacy.
Character as Theme: The Tragedy of Frank Sheeran
Frank Sheeran is not a tragic hero in the classical sense—he’s not noble, and his downfall isn’t caused by a fatal flaw in the traditional way. But in screenwriting terms, he is a prime example of a protagonist whose internal conflict defines the narrative.
His arc is subtle and slow. He begins as a man who “follows orders,” a loyal soldier in a corrupt system. By the end, he’s alone, abandoned by family and haunted by the execution of his closest friend, Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino). The tragedy lies in the realization that loyalty, when unchecked, can become complicity. Frank’s life wasn’t led so much as surrendered.
Zaillian’s script is careful never to make Frank too reflective too early. He doesn’t express remorse in overt ways. Instead, his guilt is expressed through silence, through the small hesitation before he speaks, or the long pauses after he recounts a killing. For writers, this is a reminder of the power of subtext. Often what a character doesn’t say speaks louder than what they do.
Jimmy Hoffa and the Illusion of Immortality
If Frank is a character defined by passive loyalty, Jimmy Hoffa is his opposite—a man of passion, ego, and relentless control. Al Pacino’s performance brings energy and charisma to the film, but also pathos. Hoffa is a man who believes in his own myth, convinced he’s untouchable because of his contributions to the labor movement.
In many ways, Hoffa represents a different kind of legacy—the kind people try to build actively. He fights for his name, for his reputation, for permanence. But as history shows, legacy isn’t always something we can shape. It’s subject to forces beyond our control—politics, betrayal, time itself.
In screenwriting terms, Hoffa serves as a foil to Frank. Where Frank is reactive, Hoffa is proactive. Their dynamic creates rich dramatic tension, and their friendship becomes the emotional spine of the film. Their eventual rupture—culminating in Hoffa’s murder at Frank’s hands—is devastating not just for its brutality, but for its emotional betrayal.
Writers can learn here about dual-character dynamics: how contrasting desires and values can drive conflict and deepen theme. Frank and Hoffa are two sides of the same coin—men caught in systems larger than themselves, trying to matter in a world that moves on without sentiment.
The Final Act: A Study in Stillness
Perhaps the most surprising—and courageous—choice in The Irishman is how it handles its final act. Rather than ending with a violent climax or dramatic confrontation, the film fades into stillness. Frank doesn’t die on screen. He lingers.
These final scenes are a masterclass in restraint. We see Frank buying his own coffin. He’s left alone in a care facility, trying to reconcile with his estranged daughter, Peggy (Anna Paquin), and failing. The camera lingers. The pace slows. The energy drains, mirroring the slow fade of a man who once had power but now has only time.
For screenwriters, this is where form meets function. The ending isn’t about resolution—it’s about consequence. The choice not to redeem Frank or offer closure is a stark, bold move. It respects the intelligence of the audience and the integrity of the story. Sometimes, the most powerful endings are not climactic but quiet.
Legacy on the Page and Screen
One of The Irishman’s most compelling themes is the futility of legacy. Frank’s life is a trail of dead bodies, broken relationships, and forgotten service. He wants someone to remember him, to understand him—but no one does, or wants to. Even the priest at the end offers little comfort.
In screenwriting, legacy often comes in the form of message: What does this story leave behind? What emotional imprint does it make? In The Irishman, Zaillian and Scorsese craft a story that doesn’t just tell us about loss—it embodies it. Frank’s story doesn’t resonate because he was a great man. It resonates because he wasn’t. Because he was a man who lived long enough to realize the emptiness of the life he built.
This is a valuable lens for writers: What does your character believe they’re leaving behind? And what is the truth of their impact? That tension—between self-perception and reality—can form the emotional engine of a screenplay.
Final Thoughts: The Writer’s Lesson
The Irishman is not a film for everyone. Its length, pacing, and meditative tone demand patience. But for writers, it offers a profound study in long-form storytelling, subtle character arcs, and the delicate craft of writing about time.
Zaillian’s screenplay—unflashy, deliberate, and deeply human—reminds us that some of the most powerful stories are not about glory or redemption, but about reflection and regret. In a culture obsessed with youth and velocity, The Irishman is a rare film that dares to sit with the consequences of a life lived in moral compromise.
If you’re writing a story about legacy—about what remains after everything else has faded—The Irishman is essential viewing. And if you’re writing about aging, it’s a masterclass in using time not just as backdrop, but as a character in itself.
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