| When it comes to Martin Scorsese, Lifestyle Editor Jon Bonné and Movies Editor Paige Newman just couldn't agree; so they decided to battle it out with their picks. | | Jon's picks | Paige's picks | "Goodfellas," 1990
 Here was the pinnacle of the vision Scorsese had been perfecting since 1973’s "Mean Streets" — the American Dream, writ violent. Scorsese took upbringing and downfall of wannabe made-guy Henry Hill (Ray Liotta) and made it into a coke-addled "Godfather" with a Stones backbeat. Not only did it solidify several careers (Joe Pesci’s, notably), it proved that the gangster film is the template on which modern tragedy unfolds — in this case, on the tree-lined streets of Queens. "Mean Streets" was the template, but "Goodfellas" is the flawless work of a master in his prime. | "Raging Bull," 1980
 Attention all directors: This is how you make a biopic. There’s no early childhood scene that explains boxer Jake La Motta’s (Robert De Niro) later actions. Scorsese adheres to that old but true creative writing chestnut: Show, don’t tell. And he tells the story of La Motta’s rise and fall in vivid black and white, making the film feel more immediate, especially the brutal fight scenes. De Niro is at the absolute peak of his powers, showing La Motta’s weakness (his jealously and insecurity about his young wife, played by Cathy Moriarty) at the same time he shows his ferocity in the ring. And no one has more chemistry than he and Joe Pesci, as La Motta’s brother. A masterpiece. | "Taxi Driver," 1976
 Scorsese’s perverse love letter to New York shows the city at its most grimy ‘70s nadir. Insomniac cabbie Travis Bickle (Robert DeNiro) is totally psychotic, yes, but that doesn’t prevent him from enforcing a subjective morality, whether it means saving teen whore Iris (Jodie Foster) or gunning for a presidential candidate (Leonard Harris). "Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets," he says, and he arms himself for the task. His rage at the crumbling, grim city around him resonates, and in the end his lunatic antiheroism makes him one of the most compelling movie characters — ever. Yes, Travis, we’re looking at you. | "Goodfellas," 1990
 There’s an electricity in a Scorsese film that can’t be matched. The audience becomes a co-conspirator — in on all the inner workings of the main characters. This is never truer than in this film about a mobster (Ray Liotta) on the rise, who, ultimately, finds himself in a downward spiral of drugs and failed plans. It’s one of the few films where voiceover works because Liotta’s always trying to convince us of something, as if we, the audience, were his ultimate jury. The stunning moment when Joe Pesci realizes he may not be a made man after all is just part of what won him a best-supporting actor Oscar. Kevin Costner owes Scorsese a best-director statue.
| "Kundun," 1997
 Anyone who doubts that Scorsese is the greatest lyrical filmmaker of his generation need look no further than this sparse, haunting Dalai Lama biopic. With a minimum of dialogue, the largely Tibetan cast does much of their work with their faces, and Scorsese weaves together this near-epic tale as a series of small, symbolic moments and grand gestures. The talents of his longtime editor, Thelma Schoonmaker, have never been on better display. When Philip Glass’ heartbreaking score swells, and the camera pulls back on the young Lama standing amid a human mandala of massacred monks, it is a supremely powerful moment.
| "Taxi Driver," 1976
 This story of a man (Robert De Niro) so utterly alone that he fixates on a woman (Cybill Shepherd) and decides, seemingly on a whim, to assassinate the candidate she supports, is a study in loneliness. "I'm God's lonely man," Travis Bickle says. The only character he actually connects with is a teenage hooker (Jodie Foster) who he decides he can save. As an audience we are trapped in Bickle’s consciousness. We see New York as he sees it: the scum, the dirt, the darkness. Scorsese’s mastery is that he puts the audience on Travis’ side — the world itself, in which a pimp and a politician become interchangeable, is the only adversary.
| "Raging Bull," 1980
What’s black and white and bruised all over? Robert DeNiro’s depiction of fading-away middleweight Jake La Motta is a portrait in pain, and Scorsese strips his often frenetic filmmaking down to the bare essentials, with fight scenes that have a flinch-inducing realism. Sports films depict winners and their toils (see "Rocky," notably) but here’s a study of a champ’s slow decline into loserdom. That extends beyond the ring — La Motta saw all the wrong roads to take, and took most of them. It makes for a stunning tragedy.
| "After Hours," 1985
 If you think Scorsese can’t do comedy, just check out this film about a guy (Griffin Dunne) who meets a girl, goes to see her in SoHo and is unable to get home no matter how hard he tries. This is "The Wizard of Oz" on crack. From mysterious plaster of Paris bagel-and-cream-cheese sculptures to a waitress (Teri Garr) with a beehive hairdo to Cheech and Chong, Scorsese traps Dunne a bohemian funhouse — and it is oh so fun to watch him squirm. It’s not as if fish-out-water films are a new idea, but you’ve never seen a fish helplessly wriggle like this one.
| "Cape Fear," 1991
 Scorsese is a relentless movie lover, and this was a chance to pay tribute. Again, it’s DeNiro at center stage, reprising Robert Mitchum’s role as crafty rapist/stalker Max Cady in J. Lee Thompson’s 1961 original. DeNiro’s buff, tattooed Cady is at once pious and treacherous. Nick Nolte is masterful as Sam Bowden, the moral wreck of a lawyer who helped land Cady behind bars and now fears for his family when Cady is out. As Bowden’s daughter, Juliette Lewis offers a compelling blend of innocent and corruptible (she’s since worn it out in other roles). "Fear" was a chance for Scorsese to get out of his New York confines, and it turns out Southern noir suits him.
| "Mean Streets," 1973
 Almost all of Scorsese’s great films can be traced back to this early work about a small-time hood (Harvey Keitel) being pulled in all directions, especially by loose cannon Johnny Boy (Robert De Niro). Scorsese’s use of music to drive the drama forward, his attention to detail, seemingly random brutal violence contrasted with faith and family — all can be found here. The movie’s power is in its immediacy and the feeling that anyone could be killed; no one’s safe. Keitel’s Charlie tries so hard to do the right thing that he winds up accomplishing nothing. And Johnny Boy, who blows up mailboxes for fun and is drowning in debt, is the beginning of greatness for De Niro. |
| |
Hotmail
Messenger
My MSN
MSN Directory
