NEW YORK POST – ANDREA PEYSER
There are two kinds of people in this world: First, those who think “The Irishman” — the Martin Scorsese-directed, Al Pacino/Robert De Niro/Joe Pesci-starring, mega-mob opera released last week on Netflix — is the finest piece of cinema produced this century, or maybe of all time.
And then there are people like me: Those who think the movie — weighing in at an obscene 209 minutes, every one of them boring, ill-acted, poorly written and amateurishly directed, with CGI effects so demented, big-mouth De Niro, who is 76, looks 90 rather than the intended blue-eyed 35 — is a turkey.
Rarely has a film been so polarizing, drawing a crowd that loves it to pieces, and alienating a vast swath of viewers turned off by the joyless slog through the bowels of moviemaking.
I can tell that this flick, now available in homes to a vast audience through the magic of the internet, is of questionable quality because friends who defend it to the hilt are prone to suggesting that its many detractors — folks who’d rather stick pins in their eyeballs than submit to a second helping of this cinematic Hindenburg — are not too smart.
One guy friend even contended that it was a “male movie,” implying that we chicks, many of whom enjoyed the cheerful blood and guts of “Goodfellas” and “The Godfather” (Parts I and II), are biologically incapable of warming to a biopic about a dull sociopath, the Mafia hitman Frank Sheeran (played by a somnolent De Niro).