Trust Martin Scorsese. If he makes a 3 ½ hour film, he will have you by the throat, riveted and wondering where the time went. Such is The Irishman, his latest masterwork, which opened the New York Film Festival this week. Featuring a trifecta of characters in the personae of Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, Joe Pesci, adding Harvey Keitel for extra oomph, it’s a dream team tale with great work by Ray Romano, Bobby Cannavale, and Anna Paquin, but this is less a girl’s story than a picture of America at a pivotal moment when the historic violence of political assassinations –JFK to name one–echoed the small mayhem of mob vendettas.

Framed on this large canvas by an old man in a wheelchair recounting his life at a nursing home, The Irishman is a confession with no hope for redemption. The Irishman is Frank Sheeran (DeNiro) and he paints houses, code for doing hits. Much has been written about the aging and de-aging techniques used in this film, as the sequences jump time, but old or young, the characters in Frank’s world come live in superb storytelling.

Steve Zaillian’s script, based on Charles Brandt’s book, I Heard You Paint Houses, is first rate, but then while filming, Scorsese finesses the dialogue, he explained, his hands moving in excitement at the festival’s opening night bash at Tavern on the Green: “What it is” becomes a routine, bounced off Pesci and DeNiro, as in a great comedy duet. Or, when the men riff on a fish in the backseat of a car, an absurdist exchange ends with sound advice from Hoffa: “Don’t put fish in the backseat of your car—unless you’re going to wrap it tight.” This hilarious scene becomes a prelude to the film’s violent climax, and you’ve laughed your way to it.

Al Pacino especially, runs riot in the role of Jimmy Hoffa, legendary teamster leader gone missing, with speeches that herald awards ahead. This is his first collaboration with Marty, but with these actors, all beloved for their work in The Godfather, Scorsese’s own Goodfellas, you feel their love for each other and the director. DeNiro, a decades long veteran with Scorsese going back to Taxi Driver has such telepathy with the director, they just discuss the scenes and shoot, no notes.

With the news of JFK’s death televised, faces look onto the diner television. You hear Walter Cronkite’s famous report, his voice cracking as he wipes away his tear. Scorsese knows: All of America’s communal memories combine, and bring us in. Our minds do the rest. Marty knows we’ve been listening to the same golden tunes, “In the Still of the Night,” and “You Belong to Me,” to name two, and to them we dance.