‘Made Men’ Review: ‘How Am I Funny?’

Mob epics would never be the same. Films from “Pulp Fiction” (1994) to “Donnie Brasco” (1997) might not have been made without the precedent of “Goodfellas,” while HBO’s “The Sopranos” confirmed that the juxtaposition of the monstrous and the monotonous could sustain a long-running series. Mr. Scorsese himself returned to shorn-of-glamour crime stories in “Casino” (1995) and “The Irishman” (2019).

In “Made Men: The Story of Goodfellas,” the film critic Glenn Kenny does not so much reflect on the film as re-create it with a shot-by-shot breakdown of granular specificity. Proceeding one scene at a time, he alternates between descriptions of on-camera action with copious behind-the-scenes details about the principal players.

For example, when Tommy, played by Joe Pesci, vociferously objects to being described as funny by Henry (Ray Liotta), Mr. Kenny reminds us that “the conflict lasts for less than a minute, but seems a lifetime, and the relief that it does not end in gunfire is physically palpable.” The author tells us that it was Mr. Pesci who came up with the idea for the scene; he was familiar with the milieu, having “kicked around the New Jersey/New York nightclub/restaurant/lounge scene” prior to his film career.
The author also recounts the strenuous research done by Robert De Niro—who, in preparing to play Jimmy, jotted down notations in his script about the attire of a midcentury mobster (“green suit . . . snake skin belt . . . black shoes”)—and how genuine criminals were cast as background extras in the movie. The film’s fans will be tickled by Mr. Kenny’s trying out Henry’s ziti-with-meat-sauce recipe for himself.

Diligently documented here are the contributions of executive producer Barbara De Fina, who is presented as an unsung force in bringing the film to life; cinematographer Michael Ballhaus, who added unplanned twists and turns to the immortal shot of Henry and his date snaking through the innards of the Copacabana; and film editor Thelma Schoonmaker, who prioritized the movie’s performances to such an extent that she would tolerate continuity errors. Mr. Kenny has something to say about every aspect of the film, including its secondary (and tertiary) cast. “There are no bit players in ‘Goodfellas,’ ” he writes, “just as there are no bit players in ‘Casablanca.’ ”

Where he gets bogged down is in the minutiae. Mr. Kenny’s constant evocations of specific shots—“the camera makes a sharp right turn and swoops over the bar again”—cry out for illustrative stills. Similarly, his breathless plot-point summaries have the flavor of a film novelization. This rigorous approach seems intended for those who have never seen the film, yet who but diehard fans would find such details engaging?

There is lots of useful information here—from background details on the real-life Henry Hill to a thorough accounting of the film’s brilliant use of music—but it quickly overwhelms. A few words about the title designers are fine, but multiple paragraphs on what are fairly ordinary opening titles are a bit much. Nor does it add to our appreciation of Lorraine Bracco, cast as Henry’s wife, to be reminded that she was once in a relationship with Scorsese stalwart Harvey Keitel, or that they had resided in the same apartment complex as Mr. De Niro.

Any book devoted to a single work of art prompts the question of whether that work warrants such in-depth treatment. Despite the film’s sacred-cow status, Mr. Kenny summarizes the positive but sometimes guarded reviews of several major critics, including the New Yorker’s Pauline Kael, who said it wasn’t a great movie but nevertheless a “triumphant piece of filmmaking.” The verdict of the New Republic’s film critic Stanley Kauffmann, unmentioned here, resonates: “Possibly there is a limited amount of enlightenment to be found in scenes of a man being shot in the head from behind so that his blood splatters his bed.”

Even Mr. Scorsese, in a recent interview with Mr. Kenny quoted at length in the book, suggests that “Goodfellas” had not been his top priority next to his passion project, “The Last Temptation of Christ” (1988), and his abortive version of “Schindler’s List,” ultimately directed by Steven Spielberg. Having already plotted out “Goodfellas,” Mr. Scorsese went ahead anyway. “And in a sense I approached it as an unfinished work, unfinished business, just got to get [it] done,” the filmmaker said. “And we got it done. We got it shot, we got it edited.” Earlier, it is implied that Mr. Scorsese, following a rough patch in the 1980s, saw the project as a gateway to renewed relevance in Hollywood, which indeed it was.

“Made Men” feels curiously soulless—it’s lively and overstuffed, but one suspects that had Mr. Kenny applied his labors to one of Mr. Scorsese’s more deeply felt films, such as “The Last Temptation of Christ,” the results would have been more focused and forceful. Then again, “Goodfellas” at least has unanimity on its side: It’s everybody’s favorite Mafia movie, and doubtless its many partisans will crack open this book the next time they watch the film.

Mr. Tonguette is the author of “Picturing Peter Bogdanovich: My Conversations With the New Hollywood Director.”