Rebecca

An early montage in Rebecca Miller‘s montage-heavy five-part documentary on Martin Scorsese focuses on the ways that friends, loved ones and collaborators address the Oscar-winning director. 

There are several “Martys” among the ultra-familiar, a lot of “Martins” among the respectfully familiar, and a few “Mr. Scorseses” among the familiar but deferential. (“Martin Scorsese” would be reserved for the respectfully distant and, of course, “Scorsese – Monster: The Martin Scorsese Story” for Ryan Murphy.)

Miller’s docuseries is titled Mr. Scorsese and that encapsulates her approach as well: This overview of Scorsese’s career is thorough, peppered with warmth and affection, but perhaps just a shade more conventional and, yes, deferential, than the subject matter might ideally require. Especially in its second half, Mr. Scorsese becomes a little bit of a laundry list, and its attempts to tie together aspects of Scorsese’s career feel a little rushed. But the series has enough wonky inside-baseball film conversation for serious fans — in its best moments, it could nearly be called Ms. Schoonmaker — and enough clips and colorful stories to inspire casual observers to seek out a couple more semi-obscure Scorsese titles.

Scorsese’s life and work, still ongoing thank heavens, have been given a rather simple five-act structure for purposes of the documentary. Miller starts with Scorsese’s early biography and his evolution from aspiring priest to student filmmaker to first-time feature director on the Roger Corman-produced Boxcar Bertha. Then it’s over to Mean Streets, Scorsese’s early Robert De Niro collaborations, cocaine and over-exertion. Then more cocaine, plus Raging Bull and the director’s mid-80s wandering in the cinematic desert. Then the series concludes with Last Temptation of Christ and Goodfellas, followed by the Leonardo DiCaprio years, resolving with pre-production on Killers of the Flower Moon.

For the most part, Miller has access to all of the people you need to tell Scorsese’s story — starting with Scorsese, who clearly sat for a lot of in-depth interviews in a variety of locations, including what appears to be a waterside vacation house; a cluttered urban office; and, best of all, several darkly lit restaurants, where he gets to gab with friends from childhood as they remember their rough-and-tumble upbringing with a mixture of candor and nostalgic romanticization. Miller sits down with all three of Scorsese’s daughters, ex-wife Isabella Rossellini, peers like Brian De Palma and Steven Spielberg, stars such as De Niro and DiCaprio (along with the likes of Miller’s husband Daniel Day-Lewis, Margot Robbie and Sharon Stone), and an assortment of regular collaborators, with longtime editor Thelma Schoonmaker and writing partners like Paul Schrader and Jay Cocks among key behind-the-scenes figures. 

Rounding out the documentary are younger directors following to varying degrees in Scorsese’s footsteps, like Spike Lee, Ari Aster and both Safdie brothers. Journalist/film scholar Mark Harris pops up late in the series to smooth some intellectual transitions. These relative outsiders offer some insight, but rarely feel as seamlessly integrated into Miller’s story as the people who were there.

The first two episodes, which lay the foundation for all of Scorsese’s fixations and themes, were my favorites, with Scorsese and his assortment of matured tough-guy pals steering anecdotes interspersed with storyboards drawn by a young Scorsese and footage from his acclaimed student films. Miller is never formally adventurous, though some of the art/artist parallels are illustrated in thoughtful split-screens. From the violence he witnessed in the streets to the escape offered by secure and air-conditioned movie theaters to the moral inquiry prompted by his immersion in Catholicism, this is Scorsese in a nutshell, delivered with the director’s trademark volubility that remains delightful even if most of the background was conveyed in documentaries like Italianamerican and A Personal Journey With Martin Scorsese Through American Movies. 

Martin Scorsese has always been an open book, a storyteller who has offered his autobiography freely and an auteur whose deepest philosophical themes have been recurring and explored in bold type. That he’s never been an “Oh, I’d prefer to let the work speak for itself” recluse is to Miller’s advantage. But she has to push to get different or deeper engagement, leaving many of her questions and conversational detours audible. 

Given that it could easily have become oversaturated with testosterone, it’s obvious that Mr. Scorsese benefits from being made by a director who isn’t simply a giddy fanboy. It’s in moments like Miller’s inquiry about the use of hands as a motif in The Age of Innocence that you can see Scorsese relax and embrace a topic that isn’t the usual gabbing about violence and Catholic guilt and whether or not he can be classified as a gangster filmmaker — not that those topics are excluded. 

Nothing is exactly off-limits, but one can sense Scorsese trying to de-sensationalize his drug use or the work-related obsessiveness that led to his many divorces so thoroughly that there’s nothing for Miller to dwell on. This makes the version of Scorsese’s life presented here follow a very familiar “Rise, slight fall, rise again” arc, along with a “Sexagenarian or septuagenarian gets another chance at fatherhood and corrects the mistakes he made the first time, much to his older children’s resignation/chagrin” formula that has become so common for documentaries about men of a certain age.

Scorsese’s big movies get the most extensive focus, and the truth is I could happily watch five hours of Scorsese and Schoonmaker breaking down tape on Raging Bull, Goodfellas and Mean Streets. But it’s often just as interesting when Scorsese goes somewhat deep on a less expected film, like the long-term dream project Gangs of New York, or a less universally adored project like Casino. 

Miller is so eager to at least touch on everything on Scorsese’s resumé that the few gaps stick out. I’m pretty sure, for example, that Scorsese’s only scripted feature not to get even a token mention is Hugo. Do I need a deep exploration of Hugo? Nah, but Scorsese’s ability to adapt to and evolve with cinematic technology is a big part of his venerability. Do I need deep dives into Boardwalk Empire or Vinyl? Probably not, but those HBO dramas, one a reasonably large success and the other a large failure, represent a not-insignificant portion of Scorsese’s output from the past 15 years. 

I’m also a bigger fan of Scorsese’s documentary work than Miller seems to be. While The Last Waltz gets ample attention, it’s odd that Mick Jagger is in the documentary for basically one quote about the way music is used in Casino, without mentioning the Rolling Stones concert film Shine a Light.

Again, though, what’s missing in Mr. Scorsese stands out because so much is present, and present in such solidly rendered ways. Scorsese is an always entertaining raconteur; the footage and outtakes from his films fuel an instant desire for a career retrospective binge; and his daughters (especially Francesca, whose social media posts with her dad have often gone viral) round out the character portrait beyond his normally fast-talking, excitedly curmudgeonly persona. I never wanted anything different, just slightly more, from the docuseries.