Everyman Bristol
We went to the Sofa Cinema for the Fiftieth Anniversary showing of the Godfather. (We are going again in a couple of weeks for the Godfather Part II. I don't know if they are showing Part III which has now morphed into a Coda.) It was almost completely full; the staff worked dutifully to bring our drinks to our seats by the time the undertaker started talking. I had a mojito and honey and halloumi wedges, which were delicious, if on the small side. My Sofa-Body, who is the more sophisticated of the delegation, had guacamole nachos. We were right at the back, in what would have once been the "courting seats". I am not sure if I have ever seen the Godfather on a big screen before. My first exposure to it was that odd 1980s TV version, recut from Parts 1 and 2 in chronological order, with the swearing cut out, and the ending of the novel somewhat restored. I have never read the novel.
Whenever anything has been declared the greatest something of all time it is hard to engage in it. I mean, Hamlet is a nice play and the Beethoven's Fifth is a jolly collection of tunes; but if I didn't already know they were the greatest if I hadn't already been told that they were. In one sense, the Godfather is a soap opera -- I think this is why I don't think part III is anywhere near as bad as everyone says. (Bear in mind that I don't hate Phantom Menace.) Behind the soap opera there is a something that feels like a Greek tragedy or a Shakespearean epic or maybe just a fairy tale. I like Francis Ford Copola's characterisation of it as the story of a King who had three sons -- one inherited his sweetness, one his agression, and one his cunning. The Don's last words to his son are that the person who sets up the meeting of the families after his death is the traitor: which has something of the character of a dying curse. This mythical trajectory means that the film stands even if you don't particuarly care for gangster movies or the overwhelming aroma of machismo. (It is relatively uncorrupted by Times Having Moved On. And unsympathetic character uses the N-word and talks about dark people not being human; and the women spend a lot of their time cooking, but it doesn't feel overwhelmingly sexist, which is not, I understand, true of the novel. Michael is chauvinistic, but his chauvinism isn't approved of.) It is incredibly actorly. Brando is according to some people the greatest actor of all time, but this is the only role most of us know him in. (And Superman.) It's his film, but he's kind of a major supporting role; a perfectly sketched caricature more than an actual human being. It is Al Pacino who shows us what acting is all about -- his imperceptible growth from nice-ish giy to smouldering psychopath; hardly showing his emotion and then letting it out in controlled bursts. I've seen the film half a dozen times; I never quite get my Tattaglia's and Barzini's straight; and I can't quite put my finger on when Michael decides to quite being a nice guy and become and bigger monster than his father. (Does he already know he's moving into the family business when he saves his father's life at the hospital; or does he hope to to return from Sicily and resume a civilian life? And why does he leave it a year before tracking Kay down?)
At three hours long, the film doesn't seem slow moving or a slog. I think this may be because it's constructed quite episodically: discrete sections -- the wedding, the horses head, the narcotics meeting, the assassination attempt -- have beginning, middles and ends that weave together into a complicated pattern. (You can see this structure in the first Superman Movie, which Puzo mostly wrote.)
The film lives in one's memory as a series of great moments. "What's the Turk paying you to set up my father"; "Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes"; "....and now you've had you drink"; "...now who's being naive"; "I do renounce them." But watching it again feels like re-immersing myself in a process; a long saga about a group of people; meatballs and corny songs and cannoli and wedding gowns and pussy-cats. (What happens to the cat after the first scene?) I said the same thing about Hamlet a few weeks ago, didn't I: wanting to be sucked back into a particular world of interlocking relationships; a particular social network; a particular narrative process. Not to gasp in reverence at a Cinematic Masterpiece, but to get to know these people again. Apart from all the murdering, the Corleones are really a very nice family.
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