The Godfather (Francis Ford Coppola, 1972); The Godfather Part II (Francis Ford Coppola, 1974)

Watching the two 1970s Godfather films in prep for The Offer, a ten-episode miniseries about the development of the first installment which premiered last night on Paramount+, I have come to the conclusion that Francis Ford Coppola's twin totems suffered from elephantiasis because they aspired to an art form that didn't quite exist yet: prestige TV dumped on one of the big streamers. Coppola needed, say, the 86 episodes granted The Sopranos to flesh out his big concepts about America. With "only" six hours to work with (nine if you count Godfather III), his films come off not just gassy but shoddy as storytelling. If they were the precondition that made The Sopranos possible, then I salute them; apart from select Ernie Kovacs and The Simpsons, The Sopranos is the greatest television I've ever witnessed. Unto themselves, the Godfather films are white elephant art. 

White elephant art is Manny Farber's term from his classic 1962 essay "White Elephant Art vs. Termite Art" wherein he defines the former as films that aspire "to pin the viewer to the wall and slug him with wet towels of artiness and significance" (143) while termite art revels in "buglike immersion in a small area without point or aim, and, over all, concentration on nailing down one moment without glamorizing it, but forgetting this accomplishment as soon as it has been passed ; the feeling that all is expendable, that it can be chopped up and flung down in a different arrangement without ruin" (144).* Given the reverence with which the Godfathers have been treated over the last fifty years, one would think that every nanosecond of its six hours are 100% essential to their putative genius. But even a cursory watch reveals the same shortcomings exhibited by so much prestige TV, namely, catastrophic events that barely register in the narrative and/or have no discernible impact on the principals. They exist solely to puff up the running time in a quest for Significance (in his brilliant review of Taxi Driver, written with Patricia Patterson, Farber called the Godfather movies "uppercase filmmaking").

Take Michael Corleone's (Al Pacino) exile in Sicily in the first Godfather. While taking refuge from the Five Families war back in New York City, Michael falls in love with Apollonia (quick, name her**), a young Sicilian girl and, after many, many minutes, marries her. In their next scene together, she is blown up in a car bomb intended for Michael. And then...nothing. The murder is never mentioned again (apart from a brief allusion in Part II to Michael having a previous wife). We next see Michael back in the States when he surprises Kay (Diane Keaton, who deserved a special Oscar for dealing with all the priapism waving in her face), his former love. She asks how long he's been back. "I've been back a year. Longer than that, I think." You think? If you don't know, Mike, how on earth are we supposed to figure it out? Even more absurd, there's no indication whatsoever that Apollonia's destruction had any effect on him or anyone else. She's simply dispatched to make room for Michael's reconciliation with Kay which begs the question of why we had to sit through the explosion to begin with.

Similarly, in Part II, Senator Patrick Geary (G.D. Spradlin) has proven himself an enemy to the Corleones in the opening scene at the communion of Michael's son Tony (James Gounaris). Almost an hour later, de facto Corleone Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall) meets Geary in a brothel where a prostitute (tellingly, I can find no credit for her) lies handcuffed and murdered on the bed. A shaken Geary claims to remember nothing about the incident. Hagen vows to help get rid of the body in implicit exchange for their friendship. It took me three passes through the scene and a visit to The Godfather Wiki to learn that Hagen and Corleone henchman Al Neri (Richard Bright) engineered the scene to force Geary on their side. When we next see Geary, he's partying with the Corleones in Havana. Presumably, he has recovered from such a horrific event and Hagen had no problem disposing the body. As Hagen noted, she had no family and no one knew she worked at the brothel (isn't that convenient?): "It'll be as though she never existed." Just like Apollonia. 

All of which might be worth the screen time if Coppola hadn't thrown away this character when the Corleones needed him most. At a U.S. Senate committee hearing on the mafia, Geary delivers a speech on how Italians are great Americans. But then he excuses himself from the proceedings in order to preside over another committee. What on earth is the narrative purpose for him to peace out, especially since he reappears, doing nothing, at the next Senate meeting? This is the fourth greatest film of all time?

Far too much of the duology is dragged out with this kind of pointless tumescence. The first one gets the nod over Part II for being 25 blissful minutes shorter. Certain of the franchise's greatness, Part II encrusts every moment in uppercase. It takes two scenes in Havana for Michael to realize that his brother Fredo (John Cazale) has betrayed him when one would have made Fredo's slip up more convincing. But that would have forced Coppola to cut one of the two bloated set pieces that frame the betrayal: a flashy production number and a live sex show. In a flashback to 1917, it takes over five minutes of creeping on rooftops and shimmying down staircases for young Vito (Robert De Niro) to murder the O. G. Fanucci (Gastone Moschin). And to compound the fact that the Intermission comes way too late, Coppola welcomes us back with endless takes of Michael moping throughout his Tahoe estate. All this before Kay has a second door closed on her. This is the second greatest movie sequel of all time? 

One could chalk up these inconsistencies to That's Just The Way Things Are. Geary is a sleazy opportunist. Fredo is boneheaded and impulsive. Michael is quietly psychotic. And they ain't ever gonna change. But that's the problem with so many beloved New Hollywood titles - the revolutionary gains of the 1960s were lost so let's settle in for the resignation. Jonathan Rosenbaum has written a compelling meditation on this very aspect of the franchise (also check out his fantastic review of Clint Eastwood's Mystic River which airs some of the same concerns). This idea that change can never happen and we're stuck with corruption as a natural way of life reaches its apotheosis in the most infuriating scene from Part II. With Fanucci murdered, Vito is the new bully on the block. A mean landlord, Signor Roberto (Leopoldo Trieste), disrespectfully resists Vito's attempt to bribe him. Once the neighborhood has informed him of Vito's power, he rushes to make things right with Vito and his nervousness is scored by a goofy, comical clarinet riff. Reduced to a bumbling idiot and unable to operate a door knob, he pays back the bribe and pledges to lower the rent of his wife's friend while Vito and his henchman smugly look on. The scene is played for laughs. But the effect is to paper over the fact that one murderous goon has replaced another. Forget it, Jake - it's La Cosa Nostra. 

To end on a positive note, I do love the wedding scene that opens The Godfather. That could have gone on for another half hour. I offer it to students as an example of how to introduce characters without appearing, to borrow a phrase from American Dad, clunky and expositional. 

I've never seen The Godfather Part III. I suspect I'll wind up liking it best of all.

The Godfather: B+

The Godfather Part II: B

(both upped a notch for fear of getting whacked) 

*Manny Farber, Negative Space (New York: Stonehill, 1971).

**Simonetta Stefanelli