As Pesci skittered across the century in a series of other Scorsese films, the spearpoint collar became his signature, regardless of the period in which the film takes place. Even as, in Goodfellas, the collar becomes fashionable again —a louche, undone lounge lizard eccentricity taken up by Ray Liotta’s Harry Hill and Robert DeNiro’s Jimmy Conway in the 1970s—Pesci sticks with the spearpoint, starched to outrageous, terrifying perfection. It’s like he’s always living in the mafia golden era, when the mob was king and the collars were big, even if every movie he’s starred in has taken place after the collars were in style.
But even when everyone else is wearing them, too, they do something more for Pesci. As he holds court in the infamous Funny how seen, needling Harry Hill about being funny like a clown?, his collar points are fangs that could sink into anyone (as it turns out, not Harry, but the restaurant owner who pesters him about the bill a few minutes later). Later, when he’s tricked into thinking he’s going to get made but gets shot in the head instead, it’s almost cartoonishly huge, like a neckbrace, or an exaggerated priest’s collar—reverent, protective, proud, and corrupt. In Casino, it’s constricting, threatening, imposing. He unbuttons it to steal his friend’s wife, but it remains a hand around his neck, growing tighter and tighter until he’s actually buried alive. And of course he wears one in The Irishman, as mob boss Frank Bufalino, with wild patterned ties that Pesci himself insisted on. He’s the eldest, the most important—why wouldn’t he have the biggest collars?
Pesci, shorter and wilder-looking than most movie stars, is the kind of guy who might reach for well-tailored clothes to make him look taller, or thinner, or bigger, all of which extremely pointy collars purport to do. But Pesci doesn’t really have the air of someone who has problems to solve. A few minutes into his Letterman interview, he tells a story about a guy standing outside of Radio City Music Hall who called him a wiseguy as he walked by, so “I gave him a f*cking slap—” He stops himself, realizes he just swore on television, says, “Oop,” and just walks offstage with his jacket yanked over his head for protection. Clothes are either armor or weapons. For Joe Pesci, they are always both.
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