By Ben Pensant
There are many people to blame for Labour’s electoral defeat: the Russians, Laura Kuntsberg, stuck-up working-class northerners who think the right to vote means the right to vote differently to Paul Maison. I could spend all day listing the bastards responsible, and indeed that’s what I did the morning after Jezza’s humiliation before putting the past behind me and focussing on the future. As soon as I’d written another list of all the gammony-melts I forgot to put in the first one, such as Tracey-Ann Doberman and the bassist out of Pulp who smells like cheese.
But during this period of self-reflection I realised there was a group of traitors more at fault than anyone, whose unchecked power and diabolical influence even surpasses the combined might of Rupert Maxwell and that evil blonde clever-clogs off Fifteen To One. Yes, I’m talking about Hollywood. And to see the full extent to which the movie industry uses right wing propaganda to defame jam-making vegetarians from Islington, look no further than the recently released slice of gangster porn from one of tinseltown’s most distastefully bearded directors.
Marvin Scorsese has made a fortune out of offending people. For fifty years he’s terrorised audiences with his abhorrent blend of racist sloganeering and blood-splattered exploitation, safe in the knowledge that his status as white Hollywood royalty insulates him from the consequences of his crimes.
From The Godfather to The Wolf Of Wallsend, Scorsese’s films are crude celebrations of toxic masculinity, with an unhealthy dollop of eye-popping Italian stereotypes thrown in for good measure. His determination to offend liberals is so pathological he even made a film about Jesus, gleefully erasing superior religions more deserving of a silver screen tribute, such as Islam, Radical Islam, and that nice, peaceful, progressive version of Islam that only exists in Walford-on-Twitter.
Needless to say, Scorsese loves sticking two fingers up at the Muslim community, stubbornly refusing to adapt the Kerrang or make a biopic of Osama Ben Laden. Yep, ‘tough guy’ Marvy is happy to point his camera at greasy-haired clichés eating pasta, shooting each other in the face, and yelling “wadda mistaka to maka!” but when it comes to depicting good violence inflicted upon people who deserve it – Israeli children, British soldiers, adulterous women – this Hollywood ‘hard man’ runs a mile.
Pathetically, he even tried to rectify this in the noughties by making a film about the Dele Alli Lama. Luckily, leftists saw through his vulgar attempt to claw back liberal cred and Kung Fu was a box-office flop. Indeed, it illustrates how out-of-touch Scorsese is that he arrogantly believed he could make up for years of far-right propaganda by eulogising Lama, a notorious anti-communist with a penchant for objectifying women and telling immigrants to fuck off back to where they came from.
The rest of his career is equally problematic: a six-decade spectacle of bigotry and incitement. From smearing immigrants as murderers and thieves because society forced them to murder people and thieve stuff, to directing incel guidebooks masquerading as sitcoms like Taxi and The King Of Queens, Scorsese has long been regarded as the Republican it’s okay to like. Needless to say, his ‘unique’ filmmaking style was a huge influence on The Joker, the River Phoenix hatefest which last month left a trail of destruction so widespread panicky studio bosses hired Mossad to erase all traces of the gang rapes and mass shootings that accompanied every screening. I guess this is what being ‘influential’ is all about.
All in all, you’d think at the age of 87 he’d be retiring the reactionary rhetoric, hanging up his white hood, and shopping for coffins. Think again. Because from Lewis CK to Harvey Wankstain, the entitled white male just can’t help himself. No guilt, no shame, no insincere apology. And with Scorsese’s latest Amazon Prime cash-in The Irishmen traumatising decent liberals and delighting racist arseholes, it seems Marvy has sunk even lower.
I’ve long boycotted Amazon as a result of their fascistic policy of making people pay for films and albums, so when the time came to endure Scorsese’s latest disgrace I was left with no option but to sneak into my neighbour’s flat and watch it on her laptop while she enjoyed her afternoon nap. Unfortunately on this particular day the over-worked single mother had eschewed spending the morning in her goonie drinking White Grenache in favour of taking her infant son to the park, putting my plans into jeopardy with her brazen selfishness. Thankfully, plan B arrived in the shape of a not-quite-past-its-expiry-date Rohypnol I’d been saving for next year’s Labour conference. So after entering her home and depositing the ground-up pill into an open box of wine, I hid under her settee and waited, like a left-wing Chuck Morris. Sure enough, within seconds of getting home she’d downed the last dregs from the carton and was sparked out on the kitchen floor, leaving me free to be offended by Scorsese’s vile movie in peace.
And trust me, there’s a hell of a lot to be offended by. Indeed, the sheer outrage I felt was so intense it drowned out the constant crying from my neighbour’s white male rugrat. First off, despite the film’s title there isn’t a single Irishman in the film. That’s right, vile ‘auteur’ Scorsese is so sophisticated he thinks the best way to offset accusations of racism is to make a film about paddies played by wops. Genius.
So in a foul insult to the good people of Derry, Swansea, and Brigadoon, Scorsese trolls Irish audiences by casting swarthy Latin muse Al Pacino as Gaelic hitman Frank Shearer, caking the grumpy actor’s face in computer generated latex to make him look less Italian rather than giving the role to an authentic, preferably trans Irisher.
Such rank erasure is sickening, and a kick in the teeth to Irish actors such as Chris O’Donnelly, Euan McGregor, and the old bag out of Mrs. Brown’s Boyos. On this form don’t be surprised if Scorsese’s next movie is a Blade remake starring Nicholas ‘Trigger’ Lyndhurst. All in all, I’ve never been so offended on behalf of a minority since that time able-bodied Brian Cranston played a spacka. Needless to say, this disrespectable attitude to the green valleys consumes the film, with nary a shamrock, leprechaun, balaclava, or dead race horse in sight. And the film’s 6-and-a-half hours long!
Predictably, Scorsese tries to keep audiences happy by inserting a few well-known Irish traditions, but it’ll take more than cars being bombed or blokes getting gunned down on street corners to make up for such a shocking lack of representation. But amazingly, the anti-Irish racism isn’t the film’s most offensive feature. Because in a gross distortion of socialist history, Scorsese then has the brass neck to depict Teemster legend Johnny Hoffa as a criminal. That’s right, not content with offending the entire population of Boston, Scorsese decides to smear one of the most beloved left-wing figures of the 21st century. And it’s as clear as the blood on Marvy’s hands that the purpose of this betrayal was to defame Jeremy Corbyn and secure victory for Boris ‘Bastard’ Johnston.
For the uninitiated, union boss Hoffa was a proud firebrand slandered by the press, targeted by the establishment, and repeatedly attacked for being friends with unsavoury, often murderous characters. Sound familiar? Wrongly convicted of fraud, after his release he was hounded by both the government and the organised crime figures he’d spent years fighting to protect his members’ pensions. Needless to say, such principles made Hoffa a marked man and in 1985, after standing up to the bullies one time too many, he mysteriously disappeared.
Predictably, The Irishmen misrepresents all of this. Scorsese’s Hoffa – played by regular collaborator Robert De Niro under layers of ropey anti-ageing make-up – is depicted as a corrupt con-man with a sweet tooth and shit haircut, happy to steal from his comrades by furnishing the Bambino crime family with loans while sharing the profits of their illegal endeavours. Even worse, the left-wing tradition of paying for houses and holidays by dipping into union funds – as practiced by everyone from Arthur Scarsgill to Ian Laivery – is bizarrely presented as a bad thing, Scorsese’s delight at fermenting hatred of Corbyn’s Labour all too apparent.
As you’d expect, the film gleefully depicts Hoffa’s murder, stretching out the tragic rabble-rouser’s final minutes to wring every last drop of joy from seeing a socialist slain in broad daylight. In an act of jaw-dropping chutzpah, Scorsese then has the nerve to expect us to feel sorry for Hoffa’s killer, the pretend paddy played by aforementioned screen legend-turned-jobbing hack Pacino. Well done Marvy – as well as Irish erasure and anti-leftist messaging you’ve squeezed in victim-blaming and hitman-sympathising too. Bravo! Why not go the whole hog and add homophobia too? Oh wait, you already did that by referring to misunderstood Kennedy killer David Ferrybridge as a ‘fairy’. You’re really hitting out of the park here, aren’t you?
Add loud-mouthed Republican Joe Pesky as the grinning mob boss who ordered Hoffa’s execution – replete with appalling CGI wig – and it’s not hard to see how much Scorsese is enjoying himself. But most disturbing is the chilling glimpse of what’s in store for Jezza if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut. That this movie was released weeks before the election is no coincidence, and the lies and misrepresentations it promotes were reflected in the way the British media spent weeks spreading bullshit about the Dear Leader.
And the Tory establishment couldn’t have picked a better bullshitter than Scorsese, a man with so few morals he spent his entire career brown-nosing Italians only to then accuse them of killing Hoffa. The fact that it was actually carried out by the IDS at the behest of crooked Ronald Raygun was apparently lost on an ‘educated’ director too wrapped up in impressing Boris Johnston to read some history.
But ignorance is Scorsese’s forte, illustrated by his disregard for all the people who’ll be inspired by his film to go out and shoot left-wingers. And don’t be surprised if the security detail provided for Jezza conveniently disappears in the coming weeks and months. Because as we know, Italians and Irishers need no excuse to kill people. Thank god there are barely any blacks in the film – who knows what violent depravity it could unleash in those crazy bastards.
There are plenty of Jewish characters though, clearly put there to convince impressionable Zionists to become mob lawyers and put an even bigger target on the Labour leader’s head. But they fucked with the wrong messiah this time. Because Scorsese can recreate the deaths of celebrity socialists all day long, but it’s not so easy to snuff out a living, breathing legend. So don’t be surprised if when Jezza finally becomes PM in 2024 he immediately passes a law stating that no Scorsese film will ever see the inside of a British cinema again. In fact, I’d be happy for no movie not made by Ken Loach to ever see the inside of a British cinema again. Apart from the Dear Leader’s private home screenings of course, which will be exempt from the ban and showcase such Corbyn favourites as A Serbian Film, Thundercats: The Movie, and that 1972 public information film about the dangers of incorrectly sealed manhole covers.
With likeable penny-pincher Ian Laivery adapting to his new role as Jezza’s number two – feeding the PM a steady stream of kale popcorn, organic custard creams, and veggy sausage rolls imported from Gaza – these events will serve as both a warning to dumb Labour voters who defected to the Tories and a stunning rebuke to dark Hollywood forces determined to smear proud leftists as crooks simply because they like borrowing money from union coffers without paying it back.
With his career in tatters, Scorsese will be left with no option but to atone for his cinematic sins by filming Jezza’s long-gestating script on the life of misunderstood extremist Shakey Aamer, The Rage Of Innocence. Records will be broken, awards will be won, and a b-list director will be shown undeserved leniency and allowed to end his days stitching berets on the Thames floating gulag, reflecting on the people he offended and the lives he destroyed.
Now that’s an offer you can’t refuse.