GoodFellas (1990)
Plot Overview
GoodFellas begins with a jolt—in 1970, Henry Hill (Ray Liotta), Jimmy Conway (Robert De Niro), and Tommy DeVito (Joe Pesci) pull over on a dark highway to stab and shoot a bloodied man in their trunk, later revealed as mobster Billy Batts (Frank Vincent). Henry’s voiceover kicks in: “As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster,” setting the tone for a sprawling tale of ambition, betrayal, and collapse. The film flashes back to 1955 Brooklyn, where teenage Henry (Christopher Serrone) ditches school to run errands for local mob capo Paulie Cicero (Paul Sorvino). Seduced by the glamour—crisp suits, wads of cash, respect—Henry dives into the life, delivering sandwiches and torching cars with glee.
By the 1960s, adult Henry (Liotta) is a full-fledged associate, not a made man (he’s half-Irish, ineligible), but thriving under Paulie’s wing. He teams with Jimmy, a charming Irish thief, and Tommy, a volatile hothead, pulling heists like the Air France robbery—$420,000 snatched in a breeze. Henry’s narration revels in the perks: skipping lines, greasing cops, living untouchable. His romance with Karen (Lorraine Bracco), a sharp Jewish girl from outside the mob world, adds a domestic twist—she’s initially repulsed, then enthralled, marrying him despite his chaos. Their life peaks with the 1978 Lufthansa heist at JFK Airport, a $6 million haul orchestrated by Jimmy, cementing their crew’s legend.
The good times unravel fast. Tommy’s temper erupts when he kills Billy Batts over a “shinebox” insult, forcing the trio to bury him upstate—a paranoid, muddy mess that foreshadows their doom. Paulie, a stickler for rules, distances himself as Jimmy grows reckless, whacking Lufthansa accomplices to hoard the cash. Henry’s cocaine habit spins him into a side hustle, dealing behind Paulie’s back—a betrayal that fractures their trust. The tipping point comes in 1980: Tommy’s murder of a made man, Spider (Michael Imperioli), gets him whacked by the mob, leaving Henry and Jimmy exposed. Arrested in a drug bust—busted by cops he once owned—Henry flips, testifying against Paulie and Jimmy to save his skin and Karen’s.
The film ends in 1980s suburbia—Henry, now in witness protection, steps out of a cookie-cutter house, griping about egg noodles and ketchup replacing his mob feasts. Paulie and Jimmy rot in prison, their empire dust. Scorsese and Pileggi’s script, distilled from Hill’s real-life saga, spans 25 years in 145 minutes, a propulsive rise-and-fall arc that revels in the mob’s allure before gut-punching with its cost—no redemption, just survival.
Character Dynamics and Performances
Ray Liotta’s Henry Hill is the film’s beating pulse, a wide-eyed everyman seduced by the mob’s promise. Liotta nails the duality—his boyish grin and eager narration sell the thrill (“To us, it was better than being president”), while his unraveling—coked-up paranoia, sweaty desperation—charts the crash. He’s not a mastermind but a cog, charming yet spineless, his turncoat finale a gutless inevitability. Liotta’s chemistry with Lorraine Bracco’s Karen is electric—she’s no passive wife but a fiery partner, her voiceover (“I got to admit, it turned me on”) matching his zest. Bracco’s arc—from outsider to gun-toting accomplice—peaks when she flushes Henry’s coke stash, her rage a mirror to his collapse.
Robert De Niro’s Jimmy Conway oozes cool menace, a thief who’d rather kill than share. De Niro plays him with a sly grin and coiled tension—his “never rat” toast hides a killer’s pragmatism, evident when he buries Lufthansa loose ends. He’s Henry’s idol turned betrayer, their bond fraying as Jimmy’s paranoia spikes—De Niro’s quiet “Congratulations” to Henry’s drug arrest chills more than any shout. Joe Pesci’s Tommy DeVito steals every scene, a pint-sized volcano of rage and humor. His “Funny how?” rant—improvised, per legend—turns a diner chat into a masterclass in volatility; Pesci’s Oscar-winning turn makes Tommy a live wire, adored until he’s expendable.
Paul Sorvino’s Paulie Cicero is the crew’s stoic anchor, a don whose slow gestures and soft voice mask iron will—Sorvino’s “You broke your cherry” to young Henry is paternal yet predatory. His fallout with Henry over drugs feels personal, a father spurning a wayward son. The ensemble—Frank Vincent’s smug Billy Batts, Michael Imperioli’s doomed Spider—fills the margins with wiseguys who live fast, die faster. Karen’s dynamic with Henry shifts from romance to co-conspiracy, while Jimmy and Tommy’s loyalty to him erodes under greed and bloodlust. The interplay—laughter one minute, murder the next—captures the mob’s volatile brotherhood, a family built on trust until it’s not.
Direction and Visual Style
Martin Scorsese’s direction in GoodFellas is a cinematic high-wire act—kinetic, immersive, and unflinching. Shot by Michael Ballhaus, the film pulses with energy: the Copacabana tracking shot—Henry and Karen gliding through the club’s back halls to “Then He Kissed Me”—is a three-minute seduction, a gangster fantasy in one unbroken take. Scorsese’s camera prowls—freeze-frames punctuate Henry’s narration, whip-pans chase Tommy’s outbursts—making every frame a rush. Brooklyn’s brownstones and the Wasteland’s diners glow with grimy nostalgia, a ’50s-’80s tapestry of sharkskin suits and cigarette haze.
The pacing is relentless yet deliberate—early montages (robberies scored to “Rags to Riches”) revel in the life, while later chaos (Henry’s 1980 coke-fueled day, cut to “Jump Into the Fire”) mirrors his spiral. Scorsese’s jukebox soundtrack—over 40 needle-drops, from “Layla”’s piano exit during corpse reveals to “Sunshine of Your Love” over Lufthansa prep—is a character itself, tying mood to era without diegetic fuss. Violence erupts with blunt force—Tommy’s pen-stab to Batts, Jimmy’s casual pistol-whips—never glamorized, always messy, a counterpoint to Hollywood’s polished hits.
Production design by Kristi Zea nails the details—Paulie’s velvet-lined den, Karen’s tacky suburban digs—while costumes (Richard Bruno) track the decades: sharp suits fade to gaudy ‘70s threads. Scorsese strips the mob of myth—no operatic honor, just petty egos and bloody pragmatism. The Batts murder scene, with its red-lit panic and shovels in dirt, is visceral cinema—raw, unglossy, real. His virtuosity shines in restraint too—Henry’s courtroom betrayal cuts to suburban banality, a quiet gut-punch after the fireworks. It’s a masterwork of control and chaos, every shot a brushstroke in a gangster epic.
Overall Impact and Reception
GoodFellas stormed 1990, grossing $47 million ($114 million adjusted) on a $25 million budget—a hit, though overshadowed by Dances with Wolves that year. Critically, it’s a titan—94% on Rotten Tomatoes, lauded as “the best mob movie ever” (Roger Ebert)—winning Pesci a Best Supporting Actor Oscar and nabbing five other nods, including Picture and Director, though it lost to Dances. Initial reviews glowed—Vincent Canby called it “breathless and brilliant”—but its violence (and 300+ F-bombs) sparked walkouts, a testament to its raw edge.
Its impact reshaped cinema—GoodFellas redefined the gangster genre, trading The Godfather’s operatic gravitas for street-level grit, influencing The Sopranos, Casino, and beyond. Henry’s “I always wanted to be a gangster” became a cultural mantra, his rise and fall a mirror to America’s love-hate with outlaws. For 1990 audiences, post-Reagan excess and pre-Gulf War unease, it was a perfect storm—a darkly funny elegy to a fading underworld, its freeze-frame nostalgia masking a brutal reckoning. Posts on X in 2025 still call it “untouchable,” “Scorsese’s peak”—its quotability (“What do you mean I’m funny?”) and VHS/DVD afterlife cementing cult status.
Historically, it’s a benchmark—#92 on AFI’s “100 Years… 100 Movies,” a Library of Congress pick by 2000. Flaws are few: some see Karen’s arc as underdeveloped, the third act’s sprawl a tad indulgent—but these nitpicks fade against its brilliance. It’s not moralizing; it’s a ride—seductive, savage, unforgettable. GoodFellas endures as Scorsese’s rawest triumph, a mob epic that doesn’t just depict the life—it makes you feel its pulse, then leaves you staring at the wreckage, craving one last hit of its chaotic glory.
