Goodfellas and Casino were glamorously visceral depictions of gangster life. The Irishman, following the rise of mob fixer Frank Sheeran, might seem like a companion piece. But it has more in common with Scorsese’s recent movie, Silence. It’s not so much about the actions of evil men as the reasons for them. What price morality, spirituality? Why gain the whole world only to forfeit your soul? It’s like a Bosch painting come to life.

Framed in multiple flashbacks, the aged, wheel-chair bound Frank Sheeran (Robert de Niro) is finally telling his story after years of keeping schtum. Spooling back and forth from the 50s to the 70s, we see Frank’s encounter with his gangster mentor, Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci), and his transition from handler to hitman to trade union honcho. But who’s Frank’s better friend, Russ or the charismatic union bigshot Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino)?

At three hours twenty minutes, The Irishman is a big ask. Netflix gave Scorsese a greater running time than cinemas would usually tolerate. And it’s entirely appropriate to the film. Taking time to let the relationships build and brew heightens what’s at stake. A multi-threaded tapestry is woven together, then slowly, tensely unpicked.

De Niro. Pacino. Pesci. It’s a killer cast. Pesci is quietly menacing, less keenly frightening than in Goodfellas, but Frank’s young daughter senses the evil in him from the off. De Niro is suitably inscrutable, a closed book. But it’s Pacino who burns the screen with a wildfire performance, possibly the best of his career. Every movement and word rings true. His word-play face-offs with rival union-mobster Tony Provenzano (Stephen Graham) are also fabulously funny. “How come every mobster’s called Tony?”, cracks Hoffa.

Scorsese has always found the comedy-of-the-absurd in the gangster world. And the editing, as much as De Niro’s voiceover and the script from Steve Zaillian (Schindler’s List, Moneyball), is laugh-out-loud in places. Soon as a mobster appears, titles pop up telling us when he was offed and how. Rival car blow-ups are like Laurel and Hardy’s Tit for Tat.

Reactions, not actions, are at the core of it. Frank’s daughter (luminous Lucy Gallina, Boardwalk Empire) witnesses her father’s explosive violence when a shopkeeper lays his hand on her. Her silent moral judgement is like a splinter in the soul for Frank. Particular when the grown-up Peggy (Anna Paquin, True Blood) refuses to speak to him. And shuts her bank kiosk when a frail Frank pretends to be a customer just to see her.

Some cite silence in female characters as downplaying their agency. Not here. Cordelia-like, Peggy’s eyes and looks carry the heart of the movie. Even to her admiration for Hoffa. Like a Jacobean play, Scorsese imbues The Irishman with the pervasive sense of goodness, conscience and judgement, even as the main players deal in death and dirty tricks, stitching-up the country, each other and, ultimately, themselves.

A cinema movie? Certainly. Netflix watchers breaking it into bits will forfeit the immersive experience of the serpentine plotting and pressure-cooker pay-off. Tough on the body, it’s salve for the soul.

Martin Scorsese is back with a sprawling, engrossing and, in its final moments, devastating crime epic. The Irishman is a mix of the very familiar (a cast packed with the titans of the genre) and new (de-aging technology that makes its story possible) in a way that makes it a truly compelling look at post-war America.

Scorsese's return to the gangster genre tells the story of the rise and fall of the Irish mafia in post-World War II America. It focuses in on Frank Sheeran, a mob hitman who becomes friends with the charismatic Jimmy Hoffa. Through twists and turns the two become mired in the death and destruction that defines the mafia over the course of 219 richly crafted minutes.

Where The Irishman stands out is in the ensemble Scorsese puts together. A cavalcade of talent take small supporting turns, with the likes of Jesse Plemons, Bobby Cannavale, Ray Ramona and Stephen Graham each getting individual moments to shine. But the film belongs to a quartet of seasoned pros (De Niro, Pacino, Pesci, Keitel), on the kind of form they've not achieved for a long time. There is a last hurrah quality to the film, particularly with Pesci returning from retirement for his role. Where The Irishman falls down, following many of Scorsese's efforts before it, is finding room in its narrative for a compelling female character. The closest the film gets is with Anna Paquin as Frank's daughter, whose eventual rejection of her father tees up the devastating finale Scorsese builds towards. The director is not alone in this weakness, but it has to be noted for as far as he progresses the gangster genre here, he still can't find compelling material for his female characters.

On a technical level The Irishman is truly remarkable. The film relies heavily on CGI-powered de-aging technology to tell its multi-decade-spanning story and it is the element that could make or break proceedings. Yet where other films have fallen down, The Irishman rises to the challenge. Some initial discomfort with the visuals washes away as the CGI magic quietly does its thing. It works effectively with Rodrigo Prieto's cinematography and well-judged era details in terms of costume and set, so that the whole experience is like being transported back several decades. The fact that this is likely Scorsese's best film since Goodfellas speaks so highly of what he achieves here.

And truthfully, the film's real impact lies in its last thirty minutes. The journey to this point is masterful, if never quite as much fun as you want it to be (certainly the point). But in its final moments The Irishman becomes a powerful meditation on time and the impact it has on all of us. Scorsese successfully manages to thread his more soulful side (seen in the likes of Silence, Hugo and any number of his rock documentaries) into his more sprightly crime-filled work. What a masterful work it is, a cinematic delicacy not to be missed.