“De Niro Direct,” by Julia Reed, originally appeared in the September 1993 issue of Vogue.

Robert De Niro is in a sound booth on 49th and Broadway with Lillo Brancato, the 16-year-old star of his new movie, re-recording dialogue. Lillo repeats lines from the film, this time delivering them more clearly—just how De Niro wants them. De Niro paces, sipping coffee (a double espresso with five sugars) and tearing pieces from a leftover baguette (he rarely eats lunch). His eyes stay fixed on the screen or on Lillo, who spent the morning testing his new pager and proudly declared, “There’s nothing better than going out at night and coming home at sunrise.”

The film, A Bronx Tale, is a heartfelt coming-of-age story about a boy (Lillo) caught between his hardworking bus driver father (played by De Niro) and a charismatic mobster, Sonny (Chazz Palminteri, who also wrote the script). It marks De Niro’s directorial debut and Lillo’s first acting role—unless you count his lifelong habit of impersonating De Niro’s characters, from stuffing orange peels in his mouth to mimic Jake LaMotta to slicking back his hair like Cape Fear’s Max Cady. A year ago, Lillo was just a kid hanging out at Jones Beach. Now, he’s a distracted movie star.

“Fight the medication, Lillo,” De Niro jokes. “I’ll get you some Ritalin—it’ll help you focus.” I half-seriously suggest to the sound tech that maybe Ritalin explains De Niro’s own laser-like concentration. “Nah,” the tech replies. “Bob runs on espresso.”

He needs it. The film, originally Palminteri’s one-man play, has already cost $21 million. Palminteri, an actor struggling to land roles, wrote the script with 18 parts for himself. De Niro saw the play in L.A. on his trainer’s recommendation and took a chance—other studios offered seven figures for the script, but only De Niro promised Palminteri the role of Sonny.

“Here’s the thing about Bob De Niro,” Palminteri says. “He’s a real man. Where I come from, we’d say he’s a stand-up guy. When he gives his word, that’s it. He looked me in the eye and said, ‘You’ll play Sonny, and no one else touches this script.’ And that’s exactly what happened.”

The two collaborate so well they’re already planning another project. But today, they’re spending over an hour perfecting a single line: “Hey, get the fuck outta here.” After each take, De Niro tweaks the delivery: “More emphasis on the ‘f,’” “Hold the ‘hey’ longer,” “Stronger, like you mean it.” By the time they nail it, De Niro has called Palminteri every name in the book, they’ve repeated the line 700 times, and Palminteri’s voice is shot.

I never realized how many ways there were to say those words, but both men understand the nuances. “There’s a specific way it should sound, and he knows it,” De Niro says seriously. “In that world, the inflection changes the meaning.” He demonstrates, saying “Ay” instead of “Hey.” When I correct him, he grins. “It is ‘Hey,’ but it sounds like ‘Ay.’ Make sure you get the inflections right.”

Getting it right matters deeply to De Niro. “Chazz knew that world inside out, and I recognized it from spending time there,” he says. “Between the two of us, I knew the story would be authentic.” Though the film centers on the boy’s journey…

(The original text cuts off here, but the rewritten version maintains the same tone and details while improving clarity and flow.)The story is set in a very specific place and time—a Bronx neighborhood in the 1960s—and it tackles a familiar subject: the Mafia. This is hardly new territory for filmgoers or for De Niro himself, who has already starred in six mob movies. “It’s about something we’ve seen before, so I thought the only way to approach it was to make it as real as possible,” De Niro explains. “The story is solid—tight and strong. The key is making it believable.”

To achieve that realism, he filmed in actual locations and cast mostly unknowns. Aside from himself, Joe Pesci in a small role, Palminteri, and a few others, no one in the film had ever acted before. The woman playing De Niro’s wife was cast after bringing her young son to an open audition. The gangsters are real gangsters, the Hell’s Angels are actual bikers, and the cop is a former officer from the neighborhood who has known Palminteri his whole life. Even Eddie Mush, the unlucky gambler with the slurred speech, is played by the real Eddie “Mush” Montanaro—a guy who really does jinx every bet. “We needed people who understood that world, who knew the moves so they could react naturally,” De Niro says. “Not many actors know that life.”

De Niro can discuss acting and directing at length if prompted, but he’s famously tight-lipped about everything else. In an industry obsessed with self-promotion and oversharing, his refusal to open up about his personal life has earned him either an air of mystery or a reputation for being difficult, depending on who you ask. “Bob is happy to talk about directing this movie,” says Judi Schwam, the film’s publicist—which, she implies, is the only thing he’ll discuss. His publicist warns me not to ask about gaining weight for Raging Bull (“Everyone asks, and that was over ten years ago”) or to mention that he dislikes interviews. Typically, he vets interviewers in preliminary meetings before agreeing to anything, and during his longest interview—for Playboy—he turned off the recorder eleven times. Once, he refused to answer a reporter’s question on the grounds that she already knew the answer—why should he repeat it? “What you’re supposed to do,” he told her, “is get an impression and write it.”

While waiting for those impressions, I focus on the facts: When working, he drinks more coffee than anyone I’ve ever seen, alternating double espressos with cappuccinos or swigs of Evian straight from the bottle. He rarely eats lunch, maybe just leftover bread and butter or an absentminded forkful of someone else’s cold pasta. People keep trying to order food for him, but he sticks to rolls of Tums (regular or wintergreen) and Werther’s Original butterscotch candies, both always within reach.

He loves clothes, and unlike many actors—who often seem shorter in person—he’s taller and more elegant than he appears onscreen, with long legs, slender wrists and ankles, and beautiful hands. His work wardrobe consists of khaki or off-white chinos, Top-Siders (no socks), and linen or washed-silk shirts in black, indigo, or forest green. He wears a long black leather jacket and carries a simple black leather satchel—no logos. Those who see him daily say he favors the forest green shirts. Once, during a looping session, he leaned over and touched Lillo’s khaki shorts. “Polo?” he asked. “No,” Lillo replied, surprised. “The Gap.”

The car service drivers are given two instructions: Drive fast, and don’t open the door for Mr. De Niro. He prefers the windows down and the AC on, listening to oldies on the radio—a habit he picked up while selecting music for his film. He tells me that as a kid, “music was…”The music plays a significant role in this film—it’s very important, but De Niro doesn’t want it to feel intrusive. Instead, he hopes it enhances the realism. The soundtrack reflects the cultural shifts happening on-screen, transitioning from Dean Martin’s Ain’t That a Kick in the Head to the Moody Blues’ Nights in White Satin. The credits include a special thanks to Sammy Cahn, the legendary songwriter who passed away during filming. According to one of De Niro’s assistants, Cahn was a close friend and someone he deeply respected.

For a scene where the mobsters beat up some Hell’s Angels, De Niro debated between using Strangers in the Night or The Ten Commandments of Love. This detail, along with the way he jokes about his fear of reporters—grinning and saying, Ask me a question before quickly disappearing—makes me think he has a great sense of humor.

Spending time with the postproduction crew is eye-opening. While horror stories about other directors abound, everyone has something nice to say about De Niro. He treats actors equally, always saying Good before asking for another take, no matter how bad the performance. Unlike some directors who lose patience, De Niro remains calm even with inexperienced actors. I watched him work with retired detective Phil Foglia, a friend of Palminteri’s, who kept missing his cues. De Niro patiently counted the beeps aloud, guiding him until he got it right—then gave him a bear hug.

Take this down, Phil told me as he left. He takes your professionalism and his and blends them perfectly. He’s got a knack for it. When I asked how De Niro directed him, Phil echoed what others had said: He told me to do what I’d really do. I just ignored the cameras and acted naturally.

De Niro’s patience comes from experience. I’ve been on sets so much that I know it all works out in the end. People panic, but with effort, you can make things go your way. He’s disciplined but not obsessive, comfortable with his authority yet open to ideas. As director, you make the final decisions—and your own mistakes, which I like. But you also need input from everyone.

Palminteri was involved at every stage—casting, editing, even looping. This will never happen again in my life. No other director will be this collaborative. Actors and writers are usually shut out, but not here.

De Niro values the writer’s input—They know the rhythm—but welcomes suggestions from anyone. When the postproduction supervisor frowned at a line, De Niro jokingly asked his opinion on every line for the rest of the day. At one point, a gofer stepped in to coach an extra, telling her, Act like I haven’t done the dishes. Turns out, the extra was his mother—she’d snuck her in because she loved De Niro. Instead of getting angry, De Niro later asked, Was that your mom? How is she? I liked her.

I already knew De Niro was kind because—He went to see three Columbia film students who were shooting a short film in a studio nearby. They had sent him a note begging for a visit—”We’ll walk your dog, get you coffee, wash your car”—and I encouraged him to go, joking that it would give me something to write about. He glanced at me with a grin and said, “Write this down: ‘What the hell do you guys want?'” But when he actually walked in, he was so shy and they were so stunned that no one spoke—let alone said anything funny—for a full minute. Eventually, he looked down at the floor, asked about their film, thanked them for the note, and wished them luck. They stammered, “Good luck with A Bronx Tale, Mr. De Niro,” and he gave a small wave before leaving.

Watching the awkward exchange reminded me of the 1980 Academy Awards, where he won for Raging Bull. His speech was halting—he thanked his “mother and father for having me, and my grandmother and grandfather for having them.” It was a tense night—John Hinckley Jr. had shot President Reagan the day before, claiming inspiration from De Niro’s role in Taxi Driver. Struggling for words, De Niro vaguely referenced “all the terrible things happening” before ending with, “I love everyone.”

By all accounts, he adores his children, both of whom live just blocks from his Tribeca apartment. He adopted Drena, now 25, after marrying her mother, actress Diahnne Abbott, in 1976. Though they later divorced, De Niro is the only father Drena has ever known. His son Raphael, 16—named after the Rome hotel where he was conceived—sees him often. Even while finishing his film, De Niro made time for lunch with Drena at the Tribeca Grill, the restaurant he opened four years ago.

De Niro clearly has a soft spot for Lillo Brancato, the young actor in A Bronx Tale. He worries about him—”His life will change now”—but admires the raw authenticity he brought to the role. “What’s charming about Lillo is that beneath all that bravado, there’s this awkwardness. It makes him feel real.”

Lillo’s natural duality is something De Niro has mastered deliberately. He always plays multiple layers—like Lillo’s vulnerability under the tough exterior. In Midnight Run, he’s a fugitive haunted by the family he left behind, yet defensive and gruff when questioned by Charles Grodin. His Jimmy Conway in GoodFellas is outwardly calm, but De Niro lets us glimpse the violence simmering beneath, keeping us on edge. No matter the surface emotion, he hints at something deeper, letting us see just enough to feel we truly understand.

I imagine how draining it must be to constantly juggle so many emotions—so much so that in everyday conversation, trusting a single one must be hard. When I ask why he dislikes tape recorders (which most actors use for accuracy), he jokes that if he’s misquoted, he can blame the reporter. It sounds flippant, but I get it. “I’ve never read anything about me that’s completely accurate,” he once said. “What you get is a one-dimensional snapshot. If I say something, it’s never the full context, or it’s not what I meant, or it’s missing the comparison to something else I’ve said.” When I ask if he’s disappointed critics overlook his comedic talent, he starts to answer—I can practically see him wrestling with the thought—then stops. “It’s too complicated,” he says. “I’m not sure I’d explain it right.”

He dedicated A Bronx Tale to his father, Robert De Niro Sr., a painter who, like Larry Rivers, blended Abstract Expressionism with figurative elements. His parents split when he was two. Before his father died of cancer the previous May, De Niro’s assistant had asked him to create a painting that was later reproduced on wine labels for De Niro’s restaurant.Last month, I mentioned De Niro’s surprise 50th birthday party—a detail I instantly regretted sharing because it felt too personal. Was De Niro close to his father? “In some ways, yes,” he says. “In some ways, no.” He pauses. “I don’t know. In some ways, I was close to him.”

For his own 50th birthday, De Niro gave two of his father’s paintings to his good friend Francis Ford Coppola, who directed The Godfather Part II. At the time, De Niro admitted his father was “very, very touchy about that kind of thing, so I had to convince him the person I was giving them to was worthy.”

Coppola once wondered how worthy De Niro felt of himself. “I like Bob,” he told a reporter years ago. “I just don’t know if he likes himself.”

When I repeated this to De Niro, I asked if it made him mad. “No,” he said. “Francis would have said it in a caring way.” I took a chance and asked, So, do you like yourself? He grinned. “Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.”

I suggested there are times when we shouldn’t be too fond of ourselves. He laughed dryly. “Exactly.”