“The Deer Hunter” (1978)
By the late 70s, De Niro had accumulated enough star power to make or break a film, and if he hadn’t agreed to take on the muted lead role of Mike Vronsky in Michael Cimino‘s “The Deer Hunter,” the picture would’ve likely never seen light of day. Meryl Streep wouldn’t have had the platform to make her indelible screen entrance, Christopher Walken wouldn’t have turned in a searing and unforgettable Oscar-winning performance, and we wouldn’t have had one of the greatest Vietnam films ever made. The world would’ve also missed out on De Niro’s exquisitely controlled and multi-faceted performance, proof of his profound talents when it comes to seamlessly blending into the action of a given scene. Whether it’s quiet self-reflection in a bar or on the mountain tops, the chaotic instability of forced Russian Roulette, visiting a war-buddy in the hospital, or trying to save his psychologically-damaged best friend; De Niro’s Mike is that rare lead performance that’s often sidelined as a witness to the horrors of war and post-war trauma, and the actor embodies the character with the appropriate amount of gravitas and dialed-down charisma. The psychological consequences of war weigh heavy on all the characters in “The Deer Hunter,” but it’s De Niro’s Mike, even with his life and limbs intact, who perhaps bears the heaviest burden of all.
“Raging Bull” (1980)
“I coulda been a contender”—those words, famously spoken by Marlon Brando’s Terry Malloy in Elia Kazan’s immortal “On the Waterfront,” are resurrected as bookends in “Raging Bull”—a harrowing, blunt-force melodrama that uses the act of boxing as a metaphor for the crippling emotional and sexual jealousy that certain men can harbor. But Martin Scorsese’s 1980 picture—the one that many say “resurrected” his career—is no grandstanding act of macho wish fulfillment a la Antoine Fuqua’s “Southpaw.” This is devastating human drama that dissects the flimsy male id into flailing bits and pieces. And in a career full of big, monumental turns, De Niro’s performance here may just be his very best. His Jake LaMotta, a middleweight fighter from a mob-controlled part of the Bronx, N.Y., is part schoolyard bully and part classic coward—a guy who thinks nothing of brutally slapping his wife around, who also buries his feelings in food and can’t even bear to hear his beloved describe a rival fighter as “good-looking.” De Niro’s dramatic weight gain for the film’s second half has been well-documented, but it should not overshadow the subtleties and nuance that go into his unsparing portrayal elsewhere: this is a towering, fearless turn that (pun intended) pulls no punches.
“The King of Comedy” (1982)
In Martin Scorsese’s most misunderstood and underappreciated film, De Niro plays an aspiring comic and television hopeful named Rupert Pupkin. Living in his mother’s basement and seemingly without gainful employment, Rupert dreams of life on the small screen, and of writing jokes for his idol, talk-show legend Jerry Langford (a curdled, bitter Jerry Lewis). The problem is, not only is Rupert not the least bit funny, he’s also a case study in antisocial behavior—which is another way of saying he’s needy, delusional and, ultimately, very, very dangerous. Many balked at the strange, off-tempo rhythms of Scorsese and De Niro’s fifth screen collaboration, which seemed an especially head-scratching creative decision following the knockout success of “Raging Bull”, but “The King of Comedy’s” stature has grown over time, and the film now stands as one of the legendary actor’s most effectively skin-crawling performances, a spiritual precursor of sorts to everything from Seth Rogen’s psychotic mall cop in “Observe and Report” and Jake Gyllenhaal‘s reptilian Lou Bloom in last year’s “Nightcrawler.” Whereas other De Niro characters might fly off the handle at something insignificant, Rupert is more terrifying for what he doesn’t say or do, his volatility tamped down beneath ghastly faux-friendliness. He’s quiet, but big, scary plans are constantly coagulating in his head; the performance is a masterclass in passive-aggressive resentment and threats made with a smile. De Niro’s performance crown glitters with many jewels, but this turn has perhaps the darkest, oiliest sheen of all.
“Once Upon A Time In America” (1984)
10 years in the making, and with the likes of Richard Dreyfuss, Tom Berenger, and Gerard Depardieu passing through as candidates for the lead roles, Sergio Leone’s final epic ended up getting made with Robert De Niro and James Woods. Much like most every project De Niro was involved with in the 70s and 80s, “Once Upon A Time In America” would have been a completely different film had he not canonized his character, Noodles, into one of his signature performances, turning out —with all due respect to another one of his mainstay gangster roles coming up on this list—one of the most rounded and complex portraits of a haunted mobster in cinema. Similar to Vito Corleone’s calm and collected exterior, De Niro’s Noodles isn’t flashy—no, the source of his magnetism derives from something much more internal, somewhere from within the depths of his relationships with the two people who matter to him the most: his best friend Max (Woods, also incredible) and the love of his life Deborah (Elizabeth McGovern, magnificent). In every scene with them the film’s themes of friendship, betrayal and love are projected tenfold through De Niro’s meticulously-timed delivery. His final smile is enough to cause a lump the size of a football in the throat, and it reminds us of his knack for relaying volumes of emotion without uttering a single syllable.