In 1993 avant-garde noise rockers King Missile released a song called Martin Scorsese. In it lead singer John S Hall shouts lyrics that declare — in the safe-for-work version: “He makes the best films. If I ever meet him I’m gonna grab his neck and just shake him and say thank you thank you for makin’ such excellent movies. Then I’d twist his nose all the way around and rip off one of his ears and throw it like a frisbee. I want to chew his lips off and grab his head and suck out one of his eyes and chew it and spit out in his face and thank you thank you for all of your films.”

Scorsese, who turned 80 on Thursday, has for the better part of five decades established himself as the grand poet of US cinematic violence; the chief surgeon responsible for dissecting the machismo of the beleaguered fragile American male ego; and the sly religious philosopher whose giddying, distinctive aesthetic wraps his contemplations about life’s biggest questions in a satisfying and oft-imitat...

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