An artist starts out being his own man. He develops a style, a voice, a signature, and it is very good. He finds an audience who are astonished at his gift. Again and again and again.
And then he fails them.
He tries to wander away from his formula, and the audience, expecting the formula, resist. Even worse, he now has a new audience who never really liked his own, original work, but they know that a number of astute fans and critics do, so they join them, and lo it was good, and they did esteem each other’s good taste.
So Scorsese is back, trying to look like “Taxi Driver” and “Goodfellas”. And a lot of critics and pundits who didn’t understand what was so original about “Taxi Driver” in the first place, but know it is one of the most esteemed films in American history, are falling over themselves to praise what they think is the next classic. By golly, I think Scorsese is finally going to get an Oscar. If he does, as is Hollywood tradition, he will receive it for an inferior work, one that possibly stinks. [Scorsese did indeed win an Oscar for “The Departed”]
“The Departed” is Scorsese imitating Tarantino imitating Scorsese. He is imitating himself. He’s looking for scenes and passages that resemble scenes and passages from other movies that people thought were pretty cool. He references himself, instead of reality. All of the anguish in Billy’s heart must be expressed with writhing and moaning and curses, because Scorsese has forgotten– or doesn’t care– how to make it come from inside.
This is the same virus “Gangs of New York” suffered from: violence so gratuitous and pointless, it all becomes comical and ridiculous. There is a sequence in “The Departed” where betrayers betray each other and themselves, like dominoes. It doesn’t play as clever as it might sound.
The problems are thus: we are asked to believe an undercover cop would improve his chances by declaring loudly and insistently, “Yoo hoo– I am not the cop.”
We are asked to believe that a police department psychiatrist would feel some odd compulsion to put up with an abusive client beyond all reason, probably because she’s attracted to the big whiny lug. Scorsese, in this long, long movie, doesn’t have time to build this relationship. You must absorb attraction in a couple of brief scenes, and then she’s possibly having his baby and going to his funeral. How can she possibly miss him? All they’ve done is twist their own arms: why should I be your patient– you’re probably an idiot. I hate you. I hate it that you make me talk to you, again and again… Well I hate you, but I feel this odd compulsion to sit here and let you continue to abuse me so I can fall in love with you, you big whiney lug…
The worst defect in pseudo-serious Hollywood movies is this trope in which a character is compelled to expose his soul, bitching and whining the whole time, to a psychiatrist, or lover, or buddy, and he or she cares about you so much that she or he will continue to demand that you allow them to pay attention to you no matter how much your pretend you don’t want their attention. It’s sophomoric.
“Reign Over Me” anyone?
We love this because there is nothing more self-gratifying than the idea that someone would still love us even if we resisted. The option to discard knowing that she or he will never let you go.
And then there is the prince, Jack Nicholson. Does he even think he’s acting anymore? He just makes personal appearances, as the Joker this time. The last time he had to think while acting was “About Schmidt”, when he suddenly realized he didn’t have caricature of himself to fall back on. Just his own empty shell. Waiting, like Scorsese, to receive awards that are actually for work he did a long, long time ago for which he didn’t receive the deserved recognition.