The screen is pitch black. After a few seconds, the mournful sound of a solo trumpet can be heard over the title credits. Then, a momentary silence takes over. But the silence is soon pierced by a man’s voice.
“I believe in America,” the unseen voice explains. After which, a dull, amber-colored light illuminates the person speaking: He is a man with a comb-over, in his mid-50s. He’s dressed in a black tuxedo with winged collar. The camera, which has been focusing solely on him, begins to pull back — slowly and deliberately at first — matching the halting cadences of the man’s speech.
The speaker resumes his story. “America has made my fortune. And I raised my daughter in the American fashion.”
While he is still speaking, the camera continues to spend an inordinate amount of time studying the man’s features: his dark visage (the New York Times called it a “death’s head figure”), his piercing eyes, his pursed lips, his foreign accent, his distressed tone, and his obvious discomfort at having to beg for a favor from the dreaded Don Vito Corleone.
The man telling his tale of woe is the sorrowful undertaker Bonasera (Salvatore Corsitto), who informs Don Corleone about how his beloved daughter — his pride and joy — was brutally attacked and nearly raped by two young men, one of whom was her supposed boyfriend.
“She resisted. She kept her honor,” Bonasera exclaims, his eyes glowing with affection. But, as the undertaker sadly reveals, “they beat her like an animal.” He starts to weep.
Seconds later, with the camera still slowly pulling back, the blurred, shadowy form of a male figure can be perceived at left. The figure signals with his right hand for one of the listeners in the room to provide the undertaker with some refreshment. Continuing to pull back, the camera now shows Bonasera slumping ever-so-slightly in his chair: He’s grown smaller and smaller before the viewer’s eyes, while the figure at left starts to take shape behind a desk, looming larger and larger in comparison.
And, so, begins one of the most influential Hollywood films of the 1970s, with the cautiously chosen words of the undertaker, Amerigo Bonasera, making a desperate plea for justice in Don Corleone’s inner sanctum. It’s the kind of situation more common to Catholic church confessionals than to organized crime heads, but there you have it.
This scene, so memorable in its outcome and so carefully constructed and paced by both the actors and crew (kudos to cameraman Gordon Willis), sets the stage for what is to come. It broadcasts the undisputed fact of the Godfather’s firm hold on men, only to see that hold slip away and deteriorate with the unraveling of his realm by others.
At this early point in the drama, however, the Godfather is still the puppet master, the man who pulls the strings while everyone else dances to his tune. Later on, after the Don has been laid up in a hospital bed from a failed assassination attempt, the male members of his extended “family” are gathered at his home, trying to come to grips with the situation. Sonny (James Caan), the Godfather’s hotheaded oldest son, wants to go to war with the other families. But adopted brother Tom (Robert Duvall), the family’s consigliere (or lawyer) counsels against it. The last thing they need is for all-out confrontation. Unconvinced by Tom’s argument, Sonny is dead-set on seeking revenge.
While the above exchange continues, the camera takes in the other participants: the stern-faced Tessio (Abe Vigoda) and the roly-poly Clemenza (Richard Castellano), two of the Don’s veteran cohorts, along with Sonny and Tom. In the middle, small and insignificant by comparison, is youngest son Michael (Al Pacino). His jaw is wired shut. His face, puffy and swollen, was smashed in by the fist of a gigantic police captain. As Michael begins to talk through his clenched teeth, the camera pulls in, slowly and surely.
By the time that Michael has quietly and methodically conveyed his own scheme for revenge against those who masterminded his father’s attack, one where Michael himself will blast the would-be-conspirators to kingdom come, it becomes clear to anybody within earshot (and especially to audience members) that we have witnessed his coming into his own. Here, for all intents and purposes, is the new Godfather, ready to take up Don Corleone’s mantle and cause. And it’s all done subtly and imperceptibly, with the utmost care, through the lens of a camera.
The remarkable aspect of this scene is that it turns the opening sequence with Bonasera completely around. Initially, Bonasera is shown as larger than life, but that quickly evaporates into sheer nothingness when Don Corleone’s formidable form begins to appear in the foreground. With Michael, the camera takes in a wider angle, at first encompassing the other participants in the room. But eventually, as the focus narrows on Michael and his softly spoken words — potent with meaning and more horrifying by their deliberate understatement — in context, his own form grows larger and larger by the second, until it completely envelops the frame. The camera has crowded out the other members present in the room, leaving Michael as the sole speaker.
It’s as if we, the viewer, have begun to physically sit upright in our seats. We want to hear what is being said and, yes, we are eavesdropping on a momentous conversation. By paying close attention to Michael’s speech, we have inadvertently moved closer to our subject, a natural inclination. Of course, the viewer hasn’t left his or her seat. It’s more on an optical illusion, and a clever one at that. As such, the camera has taken the place of the viewer, which in essence means we are literally brought nearer the subject so as to concentrate more fully on what we are being told, as monstrous and out of character is it may seem.
Instead of approbation, Michael’s deadly serious speech evokes laughter from his listeners. They can’t believe what they are hearing. What, this little guy? This kid brother, who’s always fled from the family business? Who enlisted in the armed services (much to his father’s dismay) to get away from his brothers, to go fight the Nazi vermin overseas? THIS Michael Corleone, the one who’s going to pull the trigger on dad’s would-be assassins? Yes, indeed.
Francis Ford Coppola’s directing career took off like a rocket as a result of this film’s unprecedented popularity and success. It made him and Paramount Pictures a bigger fortune than either of them could have imagined. Author Mario Puzo’s pulp novel The Godfather — not exactly high art or intellectually challenging as great literature — came to passionate life in Coppola’s now-classic depiction of the Sicilian-American underworld (we know what he meant, even though the word “Mafia” is never uttered).
Postwar America is the setting for this violent tale of Don Corleone, the Godfather of the title, who lords it over his crime syndicate as one of the heads of the five New York “families.” Gambling, prostitution, murder incorporated, judges in hip-pockets, and nefarious bribery schemes are the syndicate’s life blood. The men who work for this syndicate are bound to each other by their adherence to a strict code of honor (they take the saying, “Silence is golden,” to new heights).
But incredibly, the Godfather refuses to dabble in illegal drugs, which makes Don Corleone out to be a beggar among thieves. His unequivocal stand against dope dealing lands him and his family in hot water with the opposing forces longing to take over his territory. And honor to a code, as we learn in the end, can be both adhered to or not.
Played by the legendary method-actor Marlon Brando, the Don is power personified: a lift of his hand, a cock of his head, a mere whisper into someone’s ear, and his slightest whim is dutifully obeyed and carried out — especially by head enforcer Luca Brasi (former wrestler Lenny Montana). Both are literal giants among mortals, or so they are meant to appear. But it’s all an illusion, wiped away by the necessities of their chosen profession.
Brando won a well-deserved Best Actor Oscar (he refused it, however, sending in his place an actress, “Sasheen Little Feather,” posing as a Native American) for his subtle, tour de force performance as Don Corleone, even though he’s relegated to what is essentially a supporting role. For a film that concerns itself with such disreputable types as hoods, pimps and gangsters, Brando is still able to find the human element in many a situation.
For instance, his playful handling of his grandson Anthony in the garden scene late in the picture. As he places an orange peel into his mouth (much like those plastic monster teeth from our youth), the old don musses his hair up like a makeshift scarecrow to frighten the little boy with a horrible visage, only to comfort the crying child a split second later.
Equally deserving of mention is newcomer Al Pacino (note the fire in his eyes as he speaks) as youngest son Michael. At first hesitant to take part in the family “business,” Michael has a change of heart. It’s been said that Coppola’s film is about the dark side of the American dream, and there are many examples throughout where this dictum has been carried out with startling efficiency (e.g., the decapitated horse’s head in movie producer Woltz’s bedroom, the car bomb that leaves newlywed Michael a widower, the bullet through Moe Green’s eye, and others).
While true enough in practice, the real crux of the drama (with a screenplay by Coppola and Puzo) is the unquestioned loyalty and devotion Michael feels towards his father, despite Michael’s distaste for dad’s line of “work.” Michael proves his love by running the family’s business ventures after Don Corleone is seriously injured in that botched assassination attempt — perpetrated by the shifty-eyed Virgil Sollozzo (played with sinister malevolence by a cagey Al Lettieri) — and after hot-headed brother Sonny (Caan, equally hot-tempered) is gunned down at a Long Island toll booth.
So many quotable lines (“I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,” “Leave the gun, take the cannolis,” and “Never tell anyone outside the family what you’re thinking”), and so many individualized portraits (Clemenza, Tessio, the Tattaglias, Apollonia, Don Tommasino, Fabrizio, and Bonasera), it’s one of those pictures that demands repeated viewings as well as our undivided attention.
No matter how many times you’ve seen The Godfather, there are always fresh insights to be savored, over and over again: the opening trumpet solo — sad, longing, full of untold regret; right-hand man and ex-cop, Al Neri (Richard Bright), closing the door on Michael’s wife Kay (Diane Keaton) and on a “normal” home life; Brando’s tearful breakdown (“Look how they massacred my boy”) upon viewing the dead Sonny’s shattered remains at Bonasera’s funeral parlor; that ironic, masterfully orchestrated finale (shall we call it “operatic”?) whereby Michael all-but-wipes the slate clean of his father’s foes, while standing stoically as Godfather to his sister Connie’s child; and many, many more.
With a fine ensemble cast, including Robert Duvall as the family consigliere Tom Hagen, Talia Shire (Coppola’s real-life sister) as the high-maintenance Connie, John Cazale as Michael’s older brother Fredo, Richard Castellano as the fat Pete Clemenza, Abe Vigoda (Fish in Barney Miller) as Sal Tessio, Alex Rocco as Moe Green, and John Marley, Sterling Hayden, Richard Conte, Al Martino, Morgana King, Gianni Russo, Vito Scotti, Simonetta Stefanelli, Angelo Infanti as Fabrizio, and Gabriele Torrei (uncredited) as Enzo the nervous baker. All are excellent and give vivid performances as a result.
The strikingly moody cinematography is by the late Gordon Willis (as earlier noted), with incredibly detailed production designs by Dean Tavoularis, and of course that instantly recognizable film theme by veteran composer Nino Rota (reused and remodified from an earlier Federico Fellini flick).
Speaking of film scores, there are two romantic ballads included in the picture: one, the pop song “I Have But One Heart,” sung by Al Martino at Connie’s wedding, was originally published in 1945 and recorded by Vic Damone, with music by Johnny Farrow and lyrics by Marty Symes; the other, the so-labeled “Love Theme from The Godfather” — more familiarly known as “Speak Softly Love” — was composed by Nino Rota, with lyrics by Larry Kusik. Given an Academy Award nomination for Best Original Score of 1973, Rota was disqualified from competition when it was learned that “Speak Softly Love” was previously used by him for a 1958 movie called Fortunella.
Need we say more?
Copyright © 2015 by Josmar F. Lopes; updated 2022
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