“The industry had changed, and the day of the personal film was gone,” Scorsese lamented ( and not for the last time). But as the Reagan era rolled in, it became clear the major studios were becoming more interested in sequels and special-effects adventures-many of them made by Scorsese’s peers-than in the brutal, truthful dramas that had flourished in the post-Vietnam era. That critical aut-streak would culminate in 1980’s sweat-soaked masterpiece Raging Bull.
The director had made his explosive arrival in the ’70s, when the brash trifecta of Mean Streets, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, and Taxi Driver established him as one of America’s crucial new directors.
It was another deflating moment in what was shaping up as the most frustrating, panic-inducing decade of Scorsese’s career. “I was putting on my shirt and tie,” Scorsese recalled, “and Entertainment Tonight said, ‘Now, for the flop of the year: The King of Comedy.’ I just go, ‘Oh. But as he readied himself for a New Year’s Eve party, his TV set blaring in the background, the filmmaker received one final reminder of just how miserable his year had been. If anyone deserved a stress-free holiday, it was Scorsese. And his newest film, the biting celebrity-worship tale The King of Comedy, had vanished quickly from theaters. The past few months had been a grueling time for the 41-year-old director: His long-in-the-works religious drama The Last Temptation of Christ had just been canceled by jittery studio execs. It was December 31, 1983, and Martin Scorsese was suiting up for a much-needed night out.
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