Dec. 10: Brothers over 80

The Irishman is surely the most tragic movie of Martin Scorsese's career.

It follows the same trajectory as his other beloved films Goodfellas, Casino, and Wolf of Wall Street. In all of those movies, a criminal's life comes crashing down. In Goodfellas, Ray Liotta's Henry Hill aspires to be a gangster, only to have to betray his mob brothers in the end to avoid a lengthy prison sentence. In Casino, a wannabe enforcer is beaten to death with a baseball bat while his colleague loses his family and winds up a lonely man. In Wolf of Wall Street, a dishonest wall street stockbroker loses his trophy wife and winds up having to betray the very people he helped set up so he can stay out of jail.

But in all of the above tales, everyone gets a slice of the good life, at least for a little while. They do copious amounts of drugs, have sex with all kinds of women, and earn a whole lot of money in the process. In the end, they have nothing, but at least there's a mountain in a life that ended in a valley.

That doesn't happen in The Irishman where Robert DeNiro's Frank Sheeran never has the good life. He's always a working joe, living in his working class home, doing the will of mob boss Russell Buffalino (which eventually includes murdering Jimmy Hoffa.) Sheeran and Buffalino become mob brothers for life, ending up in the geriatric ward of a prison, spending their last days playing bocce in the cold and dipping bread in grape juice (gumming in down in one case after Buffalino loses his teeth.) Sheeran is sprung after a while and spends much of his time left trying to reconcile with his estranged daughter, who resents him because of the murders he has done. In the end, Sheeran is all alone in a nursing home, the only one who respects him is a priest who comes to visit him once a week.

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My dad, who gave me this title, likely wasn't thinking about the Martin Scorsese movie when he gave me this title. He was likely thinking of himself and his own brother, both of whom are now over 80. My dad celebrated his 80th birthday this summer at his and my mom's house in southwest Calgary. There were a whole lot of people there but the only people who feted him were his wife and three kids. My dad's brother, my Uncle Den, was absent and I think that my dad felt his absence, but nothing was mentioned. I never asked. If I had more money, I would have flown my Uncle Den down to Calgary.

Uncle Den, by the way, did fly to Calgary for my dad's 50th birthday party, which took place in the family's living room. I'm sure I was present for dad's 60th because I was living in Stettler at the time. I know I wasn't there for his 70th. That's because I was a new dad and couldn't afford to go anywhere. If it's any consolation, the very best picture ever taken of me with my son just happened to be taken on my dad's 70th. Here it is:

 

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My dad and my uncle used to talk on the phone a lot. Sometimes they would get into heated political discussions; my dad is a conservative and my uncle is a liberal. Mostly, they just laugh about stupid things they remember from being kids.

Here is my favourite story. My Uncle Den told it at my dad's 50th.

When they were kids, one of their favourite things was to go a restaurant somewhere and get a cone of fries. I've never seen that being offered, but it sounds delectable. Anyway they would get the cone of fries and cover the fries in salt and vinegar and then they would eat the fries together. At the end, a bunch of crisp salty vinegar-soaked residue would gather at the bottom of the cone. This residue was delicious, the best thing about the cone of fries, and, the way the story was told, it was always Uncle Den's turn to eat the residue. My dad's turn never came up.

Big brothers are arseholes. I was an arsehole to my siblings. My Uncle Den was an arsehole to my dad.

And my dad taught me that arsehole is not a dirty word. Asshole is. I don't understand that logic. I guess it's just not something Generation X understands.