‘Mr. Scorsese’ Review: A Comprehensive Portrait of a Cinematic Legend (Apple TV+)

A five-episode, nearly five-hour documentary about Martin Scorsese’s life and career might seem excessive—too long, too much, or perhaps just right for most film fans. But for those of us who have followed his work from the very beginning, it almost feels too short. The sheer number of films, stories, anecdotes, ideas, and lives that Taxi Driver and beyond have encompassed may never be fully captured. And for that, there are books, interviews, biographies, and countless analyses circulating worldwide. Mr. Scorsese cannot be everything, but it achieves what it sets out to do: create a largely complete, intelligent, and even daring portrait of one of the most important directors in the history of cinema.

Rebecca Miller does not attempt to reinvent the genre here. What she does do is dig deeply into Scorsese’s archives, exploring his childhood, family, friends, moves, and health (he is asthmatic, and his love of cinema grew partly from his inability to participate in physical activities) before moving through his long and intense career, full of highs and lows, successes and failures, departures and returns. The documentary also takes a personal look at his most difficult areas: his stormy marriages, his role as a father, his struggles with addiction, his often apparent flirtation with violence, and the guilt that accompanies it all.

Scorsese receives an honest treatment here, much like his films, one that doesn’t shy away from the darker corners of his life, doesn’t hand everything to the viewer, and explores the contradictory world at the heart of his cinema—the space where he stages all those tensions. The documentary features interviews, both contemporary and archival, with his closest collaborators (Robert De Niro, Thelma Schoonmaker, Leonardo DiCaprio, Paul Schrader, Nicholas Pileggi, Jay Cocks, Daniel Day-Lewis), directors who are friends or admirers (Steven Spielberg, Brian De Palma, Ari Aster, Spike Lee, the Safdie brothers), and actors who have worked with him, like Joe Pesci, Sharon Stone, and many more. Perhaps the most striking are Scorsese’s childhood and teenage friends, who feel like they could have stepped straight out of the casting of one of his gangster films.

The series touches on nearly all his films (aside from most of his recent documentaries and Hugo), spending more time on some than others, but it takes the time to analyze them cinematically, situate them in Hollywood’s context, and, above all, consider their place in film history. It is a saga of escalating intensity—of nerves, studio battles, reunions, passion, and controversies. Because of the unvarnished, “unprocessed” nature of his cinema, his films have always existed in the midst of cultural chaos—from Taxi Driver to The Wolf of Wall Street, through The King of Comedy, Goodfellas, Casino, and especially The Last Temptation of Christ.

Scorsese’s films are accessible but not easy, not for the faint of heart or for those who want clearly defined heroes and villains, right and wrong. He anticipated cultural phenomena that are now common and problematic: the world is filled with potential imitators of Travis Bickle, Rupert Pupkin, or Jordan Belfort—people who mistake the worlds and personalities he depicts as something to emulate, when they rarely are. The “problem,” if it can be called that, is that Scorsese never judges or condemns: he trusts the intelligence of the viewer. And there’s always someone who interprets his work the way they want.

Scorsese has painted the B-side of American culture—a mix of saints and sinners—, changed the way cinema is made in his country (through editing, music, and camera movement), approached reality, and simultaneously explored the most profound territories of religion and mysticism. His six-decade-long endeavor has been an attempt to understand human nature and its relationship with a complex world, full of “temptations,” darkness, and moral gray zones. By the final episode, which focuses on his cinema in this century, the calm, wise man we know today emerges: attentive to his wife with Parkinson’s, posting on social media with his daughter, a kind of cinephile guru with white hair and brows. But it wasn’t always like that. The contrast between the frenzied Marty of 1970s Little Italy in Mean Streets and the elderly, smiling man of today mirrors the difference between the films of that era and The Irishman.

The series addresses his often-lost battles with the Oscars, the cruelty of Hollywood, his obsession and perfectionism, and, most importantly, the recurring themes of his work. It does not dwell as much on his cinephilia (one wonders how he found time to watch so many films while making his own) or on deeper critical analysis, but as a comprehensive documentary about a man who traversed six decades of cinema, it is extraordinary. New fans will satisfy their curiosity and explore the Scorsese films they haven’t yet seen. Longtime followers might discover fewer surprises, but they are left with a family album to cherish—an album in which, in one way or another, we all feel included.