Martin Scorsese movies ranked from start to finish tell not only the history of one of cinema’s most influential directors, but also the evolution of guilt, crime, chaos, and morality across decades. Spanning 27 narrative features—yes, including his part in New York Stories—this ranking travels from Depression-era train heists to the neon delirium of Wall Street excess, revealing Scorsese’s wide creative reach and the ongoing resonance of his art.
No one approaches obsession, downfall, and the mechanics of power quite like Martin Scorsese. His filmography reads like a who’s who of remarkable collaborations—Robert De Niro, Leonardo DiCaprio, Harvey Keitel, Joe Pesci, and others—anchoring stories ranging from intense mob dramas to sweeping historical epics. As you scan this definitive list, expect to find vulnerable mobsters, tormented priests, eccentric inventors, and plenty of unforgettable cinematic moments.
27. Early Ambitions with Boxcar Bertha
Before Martin Scorsese transformed crime cinema and examined the haunted interior lives of broken men, he ventured into the world of cheap, fast genre films with Boxcar Bertha (1972). Starring Barbara Hershey as Bertha and David Carradine as Big Bill Shelly, the film follows outlaw lovers crisscrossing Depression-era America amid train heists and union uprisings. The volatile romance and anti-capitalist grit promised a fierce debut, but it remains more Roger Corman’s vision than Scorsese’s. While hints of his signature flair for atmosphere and violence are visible in harrowing scenes, the personal depth that would later define his work is mostly absent.
This lack of individuality did not escape his mentor, who told him,
“Marty, you’ve just spent a whole year of your life making a piece of sh*t. It’s a good picture, but you’re better than the kind of people who make this kind of movie.”
—John Cassavetes, Mentor
Compared to the deeply felt and morally layered works that followed, Boxcar Bertha endures as an off-brand detour, significant for what Scorsese would soon become rather than for its own merits.
26. The Ambitious, Uneven Fusion of New York, New York
Riding high after Taxi Driver, Scorsese pushed boundaries by merging grand musical spectacle with the gritty turmoil of a toxic relationship in New York, New York (1977). Robert De Niro’s brash improvisational saxophonist collides dramatically with Liza Minnelli’s classic songstress in a tale of doomed romance set against postwar neon-lit New York. Visually dazzling and accompanied by an iconic soundtrack—Frank Sinatra cemented the title track’s fame—the film nevertheless stumbles, as old and new film styles clash uneasily rather than create synergy.
The creative tumult during production surfaced when Scorsese admitted,
“I was just too drugged out to solve the structure,”
—Martin Scorsese, Director
The movie wavers between jazz age fantasy and emotional realism, its inconsistencies highlighting the limits of genre blending. Admirers will find much to dissect, but its hesitancy to commit to either tone keeps it from greatness.
25. Origins of a Visionary in Who’s That Knocking at My Door
Scorsese’s 1967 feature debut is a rough black-and-white creation, made on weekends with Harvey Keitel’s J.R. torn between streetwise bravado and fragile romance. When Zina Bethune’s character confesses to being raped, Catholic guilt and masculine pride collapse in tense, long monologues. Though uneven and experimental in structure—a surreal sex montage was grafted on later to attract U.S. distributors—the film pulses with motifs Scorsese would return to: religious shame, conflicted identity, musical energy, and restless Little Italy street life.
More a blueprint than a masterpiece, Who’s That Knocking at My Door signals both Scorsese’s cinematic obsessions and his ability to extract raw, personal emotion from simple stories.
24. Haunted Nights in Bringing Out the Dead
Bringing Out the Dead (1999) promised a reunion with Taxi Driver writer Paul Schrader and a ferocious central role for Nicolas Cage as Frank Pierce, a paramedic unraveling in the neon purgatory of 1990s Hell’s Kitchen. Frank careens through nights driven by guilt, ghostly visions, and brief surges of hope. While the film’s aesthetic—swooping cameras, kaleidoscopic lighting, and relentless anxiety—is pure Scorsese, the story circles on itself, repeating emotional beats without landing a lasting punch.
Supported by Patricia Arquette, Ving Rhames, and Tom Sizemore, Cage delivers physical intensity and jittery exhaustion, but the film remains more atmospheric than soul-shattering, remembered more for its fevered mood than intricate drama.
23. Spiritual Grandeur and Distance in Kundun
With Kundun (1997), Scorsese ventured into biographical epic, telling the tale of the 14th Dalai Lama’s discovery, spiritual growth, and forced exile from Tibet. Roger Deakins’ golden sandscapes and Philip Glass’s hypnotic score elevate the visual and aural experience, yet the casting of non-professional Tibetan actors, though authentic, results in subdued performances that contribute to emotional detachment. The film’s solemn, museum-like reverence underscores its spiritual message, but also makes it more admired for artistry than revisited for narrative urgency.
Nonetheless, Kundun showcases a director willing to risk new territory, even if the results provoke quiet contemplation more than catharsis.
22. Exploring Feminine Strength in Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore
In 1974, Scorsese guided Ellen Burstyn through the soulful journey of Alice Hyatt, a widow and aspiring singer traversing the American Southwest with her son. In Tucson, Arizona, she works as a waitress and navigates entanglements with flawed men. Burstyn, having handpicked Scorsese after viewing Mean Streets, challenged the director:
“I can’t tell if you know anything about women.”
—Ellen Burstyn, Actor
Scorsese candidly admitted,
“No, but I’d like to learn.”
—Martin Scorsese, Director
The result is a compassionate, gritty, and occasionally understated film. Kris Kristofferson offers grounded charm, while a young Jodie Foster nearly steals her scenes. Despite flashes of the director’s empathy, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore stands apart from Scorsese’s usual themes of masculine obsession and moral crisis, marking it as a unique and effective, if slightly less essential, detour.
21. A Whimsical Homage in Hugo
Hugo (2011) may seem like a departure for Scorsese, telling the story of an orphaned boy living in the walls of a Paris train station. Asa Butterfield’s Hugo, joined by Chloë Grace Moretz’s Isabelle, uncovers the lost history of cinematic pioneer Georges Méliès, played by Ben Kingsley. While lavish in 3D visuals and evocative production design, the film serves fundamentally as a love letter to cinema’s origins rather than a deeply engaging narrative.
The attention to silent-era craftsmanship is undeniable, yet emotional involvement sometimes lags, with characters occasionally feeling like guides in a museum rather than active participants in their own destinies. Hugo is heartfelt and technically masterful, but its legacy is one more of admiration than emotional impact.
20. Stories of Creative Obsession in New York Stories
New York Stories (1989) is an anthology featuring Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, and Woody Allen, but Scorsese’s segment, Life Lessons, dominates the collection. Nick Nolte’s Lionel Dobie, a passionate and neurotic artist, becomes fixated on his assistant, Rosanna Arquette, as his creativity and emotional chaos spiral into one another. The segment crackles with energy—camera movements, rock music, and Dobie’s psychological extremes—making for a captivating portrait of obsessive artistry.
However, the brevity of Life Lessons means it offers only a taste of Scorsese’s narrative prowess. It is an intense, energetic vignette hinting at larger themes, leaving audiences both satisfied and wanting more.
19. Meditations on Faith and Suffering in Silence
Silence (2016) stands as one of Scorsese’s most personal films, exploring spiritual doubt and perseverance through the eyes of Portuguese Jesuit priests in 17th-century Japan. Andrew Garfield and Adam Driver portray men searching for their lost mentor, played by Liam Neeson, amid the brutal persecution of Christians.
The film is unflinchingly patient and introspective, deeply invested in the emotional agony that arises when faith is met with violence and silence. Garfield’s slow spiritual unraveling and Issey Ogata’s poised Inquisitor drive the narrative toward existential reflection rather than action. Years in the making, every shot reflects a deep commitment, but viewing requires patience for unresolved doubt and subtle revelations. For Scorsese, it is a passion project, less commercial but enduringly significant.
18. Aging and Mentorship in The Color of Money
As a sequel to The Hustler (1961), The Color of Money (1986) sees Paul Newman’s Fast Eddie Felson stepping into the role of mentor to Tom Cruise’s cocky, naive protégé Vincent. While on the surface a road trip sports drama centered on high-stakes pool hustling, at its heart it’s a character study in aging, legacy, and the hunger to reclaim lost vitality.
Newman delivers a nuanced, Oscar-winning performance, contrasted with Cruise’s exuberant energy and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio’s multifaceted supporting role. Scorsese elevates the genre with kinetic shots, vibrant atmospheres, and carefully curated soundtracks. Despite these high points, the film is a polished entertainment rather than a deeply personal or transformative statement—impressive, stylish, and solidly mid-rank among Scorsese’s achievements.
17. Scandal and Redemption in The Last Temptation of Christ
The Last Temptation of Christ (1988) remains one of Scorsese’s most controversial works, trading conventional depictions of Jesus for a complex, doubt-filled portrait embodied by Willem Dafoe. This film isn’t about easy faith or pious resolve but about the internal struggles between divinity and frail humanity. Dafoe’s Jesus fights through temptation—not of sensational sin, but of yearning for ordinary life: companionship, family, peace. Harvey Keitel’s Judas and Barbara Hershey’s Mary Magdalene offer grounded, emotionally turbulent counterparts.
The film’s climactic vision sequence incited fierce backlash, even as it stays reverent and deeply probing. What sets The Last Temptation of Christ apart is its willingness to court raw emotion and spiritual uncertainty, as Scorsese channels both personal conviction and artistic bravery into an unvarnished meditation on faith and weakness.
16. Unleashing Terror in Cape Fear
With Cape Fear (1991), Scorsese pivoted to full-throttle psychological thriller, updating the 1962 original with relentless intensity and operatic dread. Robert De Niro embodies Max Cady, a vengeful ex-con, targeting the family of the attorney, played by Nick Nolte, who helped convict him. De Niro’s performance, defined by menacing charisma and sinewy rage, transforms Cady into a nightmare presence.
Jessica Lange and Juliette Lewis add complexity as the lawyer’s wife and daughter—the latter, in a memorably disturbing encounter with Cady, anchors the film’s lasting unease. The style—dramatic lighting, thundering score, and homage to Hitchcock—encapsulates Scorsese’s craftsmanship, even as De Niro’s infamous threat echoes through the film:
“I’m going to destroy your life.”
—Max Cady (Robert De Niro)
Cape Fear is unapologetically unsubtle and revels in it, demonstrating that Scorsese’s mastery extends well beyond crime sagas into the realm of visceral, mainstream suspense.
15. Blood and Ambition in Gangs of New York
Gangs of New York (2002) is a historical epic as raw and untamed as the city it depicts. Leonardo DiCaprio’s Amsterdam Vallon attempts to avenge his father in the violent Five Points district, but it is Daniel Day-Lewis’s Bill the Butcher who electrifies every scene, delivering a performance of relentless charisma and terror. The reconstructed cityscape teems with chaos, and Martin Scorsese directs with a sense of furious purpose.
The film’s strengths—spectacle, immersive world-building, political resonance—are occasionally undercut by narrative wavering and production struggles. However, the sheer ambition, especially in Day-Lewis’s portrayal and the savage vibrancy of this pre-modern New York, ensures its enduring fascination among Scorsese’s works.
14. Nightmares and Absurdity in After Hours
Few films capture urban anxiety and dark absurdity quite like After Hours (1985). Griffin Dunne’s Paul, expecting an ordinary night out, instead finds himself spiraling through SoHo after hours, encountering a gauntlet of punks, thieves, artists, and a series of surreal setbacks. The relentless parade of disasters, each more bizarre than the last, conjures a feverish blend of discomfort and hilarity.
The project emerged during a period when Scorsese was struggling to finance his passion projects, leading to a looser, almost improvisational style. The experience is both cathartic and squirm-inducing, reflecting the kind of comedy that makes viewers want to escape their own skin, as described by the film’s pervasive sense of,
“I want to crawl out of my skin”
13. Social Restraint and Emotional Violence in The Age of Innocence
On the surface, The Age of Innocence (1993) is far removed from Scorsese’s urban underworlds, set instead among the rigid aristocracy of 19th-century New York. Daniel Day-Lewis plays Newland Archer, navigating a passionless engagement to Winona Ryder’s May Welland while drawn to the scandalized Ellen Olenska, played by Michelle Pfeiffer. The film’s violence is not physical but emotional—a withering clash of manners, expectations, and private longing.
Gorgeously photographed and meticulously composed, with a mournful narration by Joanne Woodward, the film turns social ritual into high drama. Scorsese’s camera reveals the oppressive forces of society as surely as it does mob violence elsewhere, proving heartbreak can be as shattering as betrayal.
12. Greed and Consequences in Casino
With Casino (1995), Scorsese revisited organized crime through the lens of Vegas glitz, amphetamine-fueled ambition, and inevitable self-destruction. Robert De Niro’s Ace Rothstein craves control over every detail of the casino and his own life, but mob alliances, Joe Pesci’s volatile Nicky Santoro, and Sharon Stone’s tragic, spiraling Ginger draw him into chaos.
The film’s three-hour sweep delivers spectacle and downfall, orchestrated with rapid-fire editing, classic Rolling Stones cues, and relentless adrenaline. While often compared to Goodfellas, Casino reveals a colder, grander vision—one that exposes not only the external violence of organized crime, but also the internal disintegration of those who chase power without mercy.
11. Psychological Games on Shutter Island
With Shutter Island (2010), Scorsese crafts a labyrinthine psychological thriller as U.S. Marshal Teddy Daniels, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, investigates a patient’s disappearance from a remote asylum. The stormy setting, ambiguous staff, and Hitchcockian visuals immerse viewers in mounting dread, foreshadowing a deep descent into grief and denial.
DiCaprio’s performance is a standout, wavering between vulnerability and paranoia, while Mark Ruffalo, Ben Kingsley, and Max von Sydow intensify the film’s atmosphere of perpetual unease. Critical moments and the final twist remain endlessly debated, but it’s the unshakable emotional undercurrent—rooted in loss and guilt—that gives Shutter Island its power, earning it a place among the director’s celebrated genre experiments.
10. Genius and Madness in The Aviator
The Aviator (2004) soars as both an exhilarating biopic and a somber character study. Leonardo DiCaprio channels Howard Hughes, the pioneering yet tortured aviation magnate whose brilliance is matched only by his unraveling mind. From daring Hollywood stunts to solitary compulsions in a cavernous mansion, Scorsese examines how innovation edges toward isolation.
Cate Blanchett shines as Katharine Hepburn, and the supporting performances by Alan Alda, Alec Baldwin, and Kate Beckinsale enhance the depiction of old Hollywood glamour and industry rivalry. Visually stunning, The Aviator transforms the traditional rise-and-fall narrative into an epic about the cost of vision, balancing spectacle with heartbreaking intimacy.
9. Remorse and Retrospection in The Irishman
The Irishman (2019) offers one of Scorsese’s most reflective takes on the mob, charting the long, slow disintegration of Robert De Niro’s hitman Frank Sheeran over decades. Unlike the energetic highs of past gangster tales, this film lingers on the grinding erosion of morality and the loneliness that follows. Joe Pesci’s quiet, reserved Russell Bufalino contrasts perfectly with Al Pacino’s volatile, showboating Jimmy Hoffa, creating a trio of unforgettable performances. Though digital de-aging tricks drew mixed responses, the film’s pacing and emotional climax are deliberate and deeply earned.
As the narrative comes to a close in silence and regret, the film delivers one of Scorsese’s coldest observations about a violent life: it all comes down to consequence, not glory. The Irishman is the director’s confrontation with mortality, his own legacy, and the price of loyalty.
8. Unmasking Darkness in Killers of the Flower Moon
Even late in his career, Scorsese continues to challenge himself and his audience. Killers of the Flower Moon (2023) recounts the grim, true story of the Osage Nation’s exploitation and murder in 1920s Oklahoma, following the discovery of oil beneath their land. Leonardo DiCaprio plays Ernest Burkhart, a weak yet complicit pawn, while Robert De Niro’s William Hale embodies manipulative, calculated evil. Lily Gladstone lends the film its gravitas, presenting an Osage perspective marked by pain and fortitude.
Scorsese’s style here is methodical, stripping away the glamour of earlier crime sagas and focusing on the systemic, everyday banality of violence and greed. The film becomes a stark examination of national guilt and complicity, insisting viewers recognize the consequences of building prosperity on stolen ground. Killers of the Flower Moon is less a quest for justice and more an unblinking look at intergenerational wounds.
7. The Disquieting Satire of The King of Comedy
With The King of Comedy (1982), Scorsese trades violence for delusion. Robert De Niro plays Rupert Pupkin, an oblivious aspiring comedian whose desperation to earn fame leads him to kidnap talk show host Jerry Langford—portrayed with exasperated subtlety by Jerry Lewis. Unlike other crime films, danger here comes from the slow creep of obsession, not explosive rage.
De Niro’s portrayal is chilling not for its ferocity but for its awkwardness—rehearsing in his mother’s basement, masking loneliness with unflappable self-delusion. Sandra Bernhard’s accomplice makes Rupert appear almost normal by comparison. The film, underappreciated on release, now feels prescient in the age of fame-chasing and blurred reality, marking it as a visionary dark satire.
6. Brutality and Guilt in Raging Bull
Raging Bull (1980) remains one of Scorsese’s most raw and unflinching films, chronicling the rise and self-destruction of boxer Jake LaMotta. Robert De Niro physically transforms himself for the role, delivering rage, jealously, and insecurity in every scene. Joe Pesci, as his brother, and Cathy Moriarty, as LaMotta’s wife, round out a toxic circle of loyalty and abuse.
Shot in stark black and white, the film reframes boxing as psychological warfare rather than sports entertainment. There’s no redemption arc—LaMotta ends defeated, forever wrestling his reflection. The film is a relentless exploration of violence, guilt, and the impossibility of escape from oneself.
5. The Birth of a Signature in Mean Streets
Mean Streets (1973) marks the moment when Martin Scorsese’s personal style and creative soul fully emerged on screen. Harvey Keitel’s Charlie, caught between faith and corruption, tries desperately—and fails—to guide Robert De Niro’s unpredictable Johnny Boy through the streets of Little Italy. The plot is secondary to the energy: handheld cameras, spontaneous violence, and a soundtrack that electrifies mundane moments.
Not only does the film announce the arrival of Scorsese’s unique cinematic voice, but it also injects the gangster genre with emotional honesty and messy realism. Mean Streets grounds its drama in lived experience, introducing themes and rhythms that would define the director’s future masterpieces.
4. Capitalism and Collapse in The Wolf of Wall Street
The Wolf of Wall Street (2013) takes Scorsese’s fascination with excess, addiction, and moral decay out of the mob world and into high finance. Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jordan Belfort is a whirlwind of greed and charisma, spiraling through three hours of indulgence, criminality, and crashing hangovers. Margot Robbie arrives as a breakout star, while Jonah Hill sheds all restraint in manic support.
Where some directors might moralize, Scorsese mirrors Belfort’s own experience: letting the fun run unfettered, then pulling the rug out and making viewers confront the cost. The lesson of unchecked ambition lands with force, without ever delivering a lecture. It’s a ride as wild as it is revealing, amplified by a simple question:
“How is this man not dead?”
3. Undercover Agonies in The Departed
The Departed (2006) stuns with its mixture of gritty humor, suspense, and sudden brutality, set against a Boston crime landscape. Leonardo DiCaprio’s undercover cop and Matt Damon’s embedded mobster play a deadly cat-and-mouse game. The stellar cast—Jack Nicholson as the anarchic Frank Costello, Mark Wahlberg’s abrasive police sergeant, and others—provide high-octane interplay and relentless plot twists.
Scorsese orchestrates chaos with surgical efficiency, maintaining tension from start to explosive finish. Though the film lacks the existential depth of his most meditative works, it delivers pure cinematic excitement, finally earning him the industry’s highest award for a film as sharp and uncompromising as anything in his catalogue.
2. Isolation and Madness in Taxi Driver
Taxi Driver (1976) remains an indelible exploration of loneliness and warped heroism. Robert De Niro’s Travis Bickle is a failing cabbie in a decaying, neon-lit New York, enduring long, sleepless nights that chip away at his sanity. Paul Schrader’s script, Bernard Herrmann’s anxious jazz score, and Scorsese’s intimate camera generate an atmosphere of deep unease.
Bickle’s urge to cleanse the world unleashes violence and horror rather than redemption. Jodie Foster’s harrowingly mature performance and De Niro’s iconic moments—the mohawk, the mirror monologue—are burned into cinema history. The film leaves a lingering question that echoes through the years:
“What happens when no one sees you?”
Violence emerges not as spectacle but as inevitable consequence.
1. The Apex of Crime Cinema in Goodfellas
Goodfellas (1990) is Martin Scorsese’s crowning achievement, a film that captures the seductions of mafia life and pulls the rug out with breathtaking precision. Ray Liotta’s Henry Hill is both narrator and victim—charmed by power, undone by addiction and betrayal. Robert De Niro’s Jimmy Conway and Joe Pesci’s explosive Tommy DeVito form a volatile, mesmerizing triangle at the heart of the underworld. The iconic opening line,
“As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.”
—Henry Hill (Ray Liotta)
signals a non-stop plunge into a world of violence, glamour, and regret. Scorsese’s technique—long Steadicam shots, razor-sharp edits by Thelma Schoonmaker, perfectly timed needle drops—makes each moment pulse with energy or dread. The film captures not just criminal acts, but the allure and danger of becoming complicit in evil, inviting viewers to both thrill and recoil.
Goodfellas stands atop the list, embodying the director’s lifelong fascination with power, loyalty, guilt, and the cost of seeking transcendence in a fallen world.
