The Illusion of Greatness
When I was younger, Robert De Niro was often seen as the gold standard of Hollywood acting, much like Al Pacino and Denzel Washington, who were also regarded as "serious" actors. De Niro, in particular, sparked fascination, especially at the idea of him sharing the screen with Al Pacino. This was especially compelling given that both had appeared in The Godfather Part II, albeit in different timelines of the story.
As my interest in mafia films like The Godfather, Casino, and Goodfellas began to fade, I noticed that while these films are ideals of Hollywood at its most competent, the real star was often Joe Pesci. Pesci displayed remarkable versatility, often playing characters that were spontaneously unhinged, a trait that made his performances captivating. Home Alone is one of my favorite examples, where his unpredictable behavior steals the show.
On the other hand, when I began to reflect on De Niro’s participation in these films, I started to question whether he was truly great or simply playing himself. He often communicated positive emotions with that same smug smile, leaving me wondering if that was the extent of his acting range. During this time, it felt as if De Niro was everywhere in the film industry, his credibility built up as though he embodied ancient wisdom that would be delivered in a signature Hollywood style at some point. He was often hailed as an Oscar-nominated, Hall of Fame actor who was revolutionary, an essential component of cinematic innovation.
Then, after a period of stepping back from watching films, I watched Heat. Directed by Michael Mann, Heat is often regarded as one of his best works—but, given Mann’s track record, this isn’t saying much when stacked next to Blackhat. Heat was one of those films I watched multiple times, drawn in by its cinematography, technical approach to camera work, and the utilitarian aesthetic that created a realistic, sophisticated portrayal of characters. Composition and framing were solid, and the action sequences, combined with a tense score by Elliot Goldenthal (often overshadowed by Moby's God Moving Over the Face of the Waters), made the film epic.
The shootouts were exciting, relentless, and immersive. But as I rewatched the film, I found myself paying more attention to the acting. Tom Sizemore, as Michael Cheritto, stood out for his subtlety. I particularly liked the scene where he stared down characters in the diner when confronting Waingro. It was those understated moments that made a bigger impact as the film progressed. On the other hand, De Niro and Pacino, the two heavyweights, just seemed to overact. Their performances felt emotionally sterile, as if there was an expectation for them to deliver, given the massive investment in their roles—much like an all-star 11 football team that can’t translate its potential onto the field.
The restaurant scene, with its famous lines, was a prime example. The delivery felt mechanical, as if both De Niro and Pacino just wanted to get the scene over with and go home. There was no emotional weight to it—it felt overcooked. The buildup promised a moment of gravity, but the actual scene failed to live up to the hype surrounding it. Both actors, in their own way, delivered the same performances they always had—conversing just as they had in countless other films. It became clear that they weren’t acting anymore; they were simply getting the job done. Their serious faces and the immense weight Hollywood placed on them created a perception of greatness that felt manufactured.
This realization led me to rethink the concept of great acting. If De Niro and Pacino were truly great actors, where was their versatility? Isn’t it versatility that truly showcases an actor’s range?
Since Heat, my perspective on films and actors has changed dramatically. De Niro, in particular, made me question how the media and institutions like Hollywood create the illusion of greatness. They build infrastructure around certain individuals, giving them a free pass to the “backstage” of what constitutes an icon. However, whether they are iconic isn’t important to most people, and anyone with half a brain wouldn’t idolize actors in the first place.
The award shows, like the Oscars or the Emmys, create an illusion of greatness, making the entire field of acting seem far too self-important. They have become a self-indulgent, self-congratulatory clown show of millionaires, where the true essence of artistry is often overshadowed by inflated egos. People are beginning to wake up to the fact that Hollywood is no longer relevant for authentic portrayals of human experiences. We no longer need actors to tell these stories because real life has surpassed the fabricated realities created by performers. As film narratives increasingly align with political agendas, audiences are disengaging. It may soon reach a point where AI actors offer a better experience, free from the egos and political overtones that currently dominate the screen. Anything with the weight of realism can now be found on platforms like YouTube, without the manufactured grandeur of the Cannes Film Festival or other elite events. The concept of legacy and icons is a farce when we dig deeper into the entertainment industry. The reality is, De Niro hasn’t been in a truly good film since The King of Comedy. The majority of his roles have focused heavily on violent or deranged characters, but they lack the depth to go beyond these traits. If aliens were to land and watch De Niro's filmography, it wouldn't offer them a comprehensive or valuable understanding of the human condition.
When De Niro began publicly insulting Donald Trump, both on the streets of New York and during talk shows, with profanity-fueled outbursts, his smugness, coupled with a lack of substance, was disappointing. I had always sensed something was missing in his film contributions, and now it was clearer than ever. His behavior reminded me of how the media and Hollywood craft personas around individuals—deceptively elevating them to icon status, when in reality, they are just like anyone on Twitter complaining about "Orange man bad." It’s the furthest thing from original thought and genuine creativity. When they are simply being themselves, this is what emerges. No wonder they became actors in the first place.
When you reach a certain age, it's as if the illusion you're fed crumbles, including the idea of De Niro as a "serious" actor. What you're left with is someone who struggles to articulate his political opinions, despite it being his primary job to communicate effectively. You realize he's not serious at all. I remember his role in Dirty Grandpa, which I could barely watch, even from 20 feet away. I watched it out of the corner of my eye while two people laughed at the absurdity on screen. Instead of being the formidable actor I once thought he was, De Niro has become a legacy product of the Hollywood machine—a machine we no longer need in 2025 and beyond.