52 Perfect Movies: The Godfather (1972)

"I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse..."

Well, here we are. A while back, I committed myself to this series on what I consider to be absolutely perfect motion pictures...and as far as I'm concerned, we are at the epicenter of that list. Because Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather is not just any perfect film--it is the perfect film. Even amongst screen masterpieces, it stands head and shoulders above the pack, as what may very well be the ultimate expression of filmmaking yet seen.

In my humble opinion, and the opinion of countless others, The Godfather is the greatest motion picture ever made. It is the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; it is Mozart's Requiem; it is King Lear. Filmmaking may be a flawed art compromised to a certain by being a form of popular entertainment first and foremost--but all that aside, it can be safely said that it literally gets no better than this.

Do I even have to sell you on why The Godfather deserves such praise? The epic story of one family's corruption of the American dream and of the shocking effects of unbridled power, it is a work of sublime beauty, startling violence and technical mastery, all rolled into one transcendent viewing experience. In simple terms, it is the type of film which, once it is discovered while changing TV channels (usually when one gets to AMC), must be watched for the remainder of its running time.

Mario Puzo's novel is lifted by the once-impeccably gifted hands of Coppola to heights I would dare say even the author himself had never dreamed. With his accomplice in genius, the legendary cinematographer Gordon Willis behind the camera, Coppola approaches the material with a singularity of vision that is all but unparalleled in American cinema. This is Greek tragedy transformed into pop culture. This is that great, hardly attainable feat: entertainment both fit for mainstream consumption, and masterful enough to become high art in the truest sense.

With a cast of characters highlighted by career-defining performances from the likes of Marlon Brando, Al Pacino, James Caan and Robert Duvall, it is the kind of film in which plot is secondary, and character comes first. And for my money, that's really where it's at, and the true test of whether or not a piece of narrative will stand the test of time. It is also why lovers of the film (is there anyone who doesn't?) can watch it and rewatch it, gaining more pleasure from it every time.

Brando brings a complicated pathos to the role of Don Vito Corleone that is dismissed as a caricature only by the most cynical of moviegoers. Rather, the Don as played by Brando is a man desperately trying to hold his family together with the good intentions that he doesn't realize will always pave the road to hell. His son Michael (Pacino) is the moral center and narrative lynch-pin of the film; as we watch his descent from squeaky-clean war hero to cold and calculating mob boss, we can't help but feel we are witnessing a fall from grace as timeless as any depicted in fiction since the dawn of civilization.

Duvall deserves so much more credit than he ever gets for a restrained yet brilliant performance as consigliere Tom Hagen, an adopted son to the Don who in many ways would've made the best don himself, were he not a non-Italian. And then there is Caan, so utterly perfect as the hot-blooded Sonny Corleone that he has been recognized over the years by numerous Italian-American organizations, despite not actually being Italian in real life. Add to this unforgettable performances from the likes of John Cazale (Fredo), Talia Shire (Connie), Lenny Montana (Luca Brasi), Diane Keaton (Kay) and many more, and you have a veritable smorgasbord of gifted actors doing their finest work.

Nino Rota's brilliant and iconic score needs no introduction, and almost no justification for how powerful, moving and completely gorgeous it is, not to mention entirely crucial to the impact the movie makes on the viewer. This is film music of the highest order, lending an air of larger-than-life tragedy and gravity that compliments Puzo, Coppola and Willis' work with a level of perfection seldom, if ever achieved. Just a note or two of the score, whether it be the Main Title, Sicilian Pastorale, or Halls of Hear theme, can conjure up instant emotional reactions.

Much more than a simple gangster film, The Godfather is Americana itself--the tale of the immigrant and his place in the nation, of the bonds of family and how they can be warped to serve greed and aggression. It challenges our notions of good and evil, often drawing criticism, in fact, for the way it arguably glorifies the world it portrays and glamorizes the actions of those who live in it. However, when watching the film, one cannot help but be lost in this glorification, whether it be morally sound or not.

It is a testament to the power of the work that even though it paints for us the picture of a man twisted and transformed by the effects of power, we cannot help but marvel at the beauty of it all. Is this irresponsible? Is it cynical? I propose that it is neither--rather, it is art. Plain and simple. Take it for what it is. As for me, I choose to take it as the most thoroughly realized piece of storytelling ever put to celluloid.

Francis Ford Coppola never again reached the heights of The Godfather, unless it was arguably with his almost-nearly-as-perfect sequel two years later. But that isn't a slight against Coppola--after all, no filmmaker ever has quite reached the heights of The Godfather. "I believe in America" is the fitting first line of the film, uttered by Bonasera in the Don's study on his daughter's wedding day. For this is a tale of America first and foremost, for good or ill, warts and all--it holds a mirror up to us. And having basked in the majesty of The Godfather, the jewel of American filmmaking, I must say that I believe in it as well.

NEXT UP: The Exorcist (1973)

52 Perfect Movies: White Heat (1949)

"Made it Ma--top of the world!"

By the end of the 1940s, it had been years since James Cagney, once the ultimate movie gangster, had portrayed one on screen. Attempting to branch out as an actor and show all that he was capable of doing, Cagney had sidestepped pigeonholing and moved on to many other diverse parts. And yet, after enough time had passed, Warner Bros. was finally able to lure Cagney back to the genre that put him --and to a certain degree, the studio--on the map.

In doing so, Cagney created what is undoubtedly his most nuanced and fascinating gangster role, and most likely the greatest of his career, period. It makes sense that he would have held out for all those years, until such a plum part came along. Unlike previous racketeers he had played, like The Public Enemy's Tom Powers, who are guys relatively decent at heart that come to a bad way of life due to unfortunate circumstance, Cody Jarrett is a full-on psychopath, rotten to the core.

Watching Cagney dig into the part with relish is amazing. Jarrett is a bona fide monster, and yet Cagney plays him in such a fascinating, magnetic fashion that he never comes off two-dimensional or unbelievable. In fact, a good argument could be made that Cagney was one of the first to bring true naturalism to cinematic acting. Cagney's Cody Jarrett paves the way for James Caan in The Godfather, and especially Joe Pesci in Goodfellas. In that way, White Heat may be the beginning of the modern gangster film.

A demented, murdering bandit, Jarrett is famously coddled by his sinister mother, played sharply by Margaret Wycherly. The relationship is a twisted one, an unhealthy prolonging of the maternal influence, mixed together with Jarrett's amoral criminality to form an unforgettably warped character. By his side is the beautiful Virginia Mayo playing the archetypal gangster's moll, Verna--a hard woman who goes head-to-head with Ma for Cody's affections.

And speaking of Ma, it is her death that leads to the moment in this film that may be Cagney's defining scene. Upon discovering of her passing while in jail, Jarrett launches into an animalistic frenzy in the middle of the prison cafeteria, collapsing utterly into a subhuman mass of unreasoning pain and sorrow. There is nothing pretty here, no stylized dramatic presentation--make no mistake, this is raw stuff. And it demonstrates Cagney's absolute mastery of the acting craft.

Our director is Raoul Walsh, who had previously directed Cagney in The Roaring Twenties 10 years earlier, and had done another great gangster picture, They Drive By Night, with George Raft and Humphrey Bogart. Walsh seems intent on remaking the genre that had proven so popular during the 1930s, instilling a much darker edge, and also a bizarre fixation on technology that is probably very much in line with America's post-war tech obsession heading into the 1950s.

The writing team of Ben Roberts and Ivan Goff turned in the screenplay--these guys were personal favorites of Cagney's, and it's easy to see why. They deliver a script that is rich and layered, presenting the criminal element in a way far less romantic than what had been seen before. It's no wonder Cagney would use them again, including a few years later for his Lon Chaney biopic, The Man of a Thousand Faces (and in a totally random note, this same team would go on to create Charlie's Angels some 25 years later...)

One interesting aspect of Roberts and Goff's script, however, is the challenge of presenting undercover FBI agent Hank Fallon, who befriends Jarrett and joins his gang, only to turn him over to the feds. By post-modern standards, this character would be considered a rat and a heel, but in 1949 this simply would not have been permitted by the Hays Code, not to mention that mainstream American society hadn't yet developed that deep-seated and sanctioned contempt for authority. So instead, Fallon is a stalwart hero, doing his duty to take a vicious killer off the streets. It's an unusual take for those used only to modern gangster movies and their unbridled glorification of the criminal, but it works.

As for the climactic scene at the factory, any lover of film has at least a passing familiarity with Cody Jarrett's standoff, in which he utters the famous line at the top of this post. It's a powerful scene, literally ending in a gigantic explosion that spells the end of James Cagney as movie gangster. The movie itself also acts as a transition from the classic gangster pictures of old, presaging the much grimmer, bleaker, gangster cinema to come, populated with unhinged, violent sociopaths.

NEXT UP: Sunset Boulevard (1950)

52 Perfect Movies: The Public Enemy (1931)

William Wellman's masterpiece The Public Enemy is not simply an excellent gangster movie. It is the gangster movie; that is to say, it is the prototype, the epitome of the classic gangster film. This should not be confused with something like The Godfather, which took the genre to a different, more specifically mafia-oriented place. I'm talking about the old-school, all-American gangster movie here.

And make no mistake, these movies are all about America. The American dream, or rather the very dark side of it. They're about what desperate men were willing to do to grab their piece of the pie and hold on to it, in a world that didn't give a damn about them. And The Public Enemy illustrates that concept to perfection.

Of course, none of that could have happened without the man whose presence is really what this movie is all about: The one and only James Cagney. In a time when film acting, especially in the new sound era, was still developing from the broad histrionics of the stage, Cagney brought the art into the modern age. He was subtle; he was nuanced; he was real. He has a charisma so powerful that you can't take your eyes off him for a split-second. He owns the screen, and this is the part that forever etched him into the mainstream consciousness.

As Tom Powers, Cagney is pure joy to watch. His every movement, and every line of dialogue is a gem. In this time before the Hays Code, movies were able to get away with a bit more, and so Cagney is able to portray a gangster we identify with and root on despite ourselves. He may "lose in the end" to prove that "crime doesn't pay", but we know that's just a pretense. Make no mistake, despite his ruthlessness, he is the hero of this movie.

He just may be my favorite actor of all time, and this movie will show you why. The naturalism--he comes across not as an actor, but as a genuine wiseguy off the street. Pacino and DeNiro would be nothing without this guy blazing the trail, my friends.

And that's not to say he isn't surrounded by a supporting cast worth a fortune. We have the sexy Joan Blondell; veteran actress Beryl Mercer as Powers' large-looming mother; hard-boiled Brit Murray Kinnell as mentor Putty Nose; Leslie Fenton as the slimy Nails Nathan; and best of all, the great Robert O'Connor as the cool-as-a-cucumber mob boss Paddy Ryan. O'Connor is cast just right, using what time he's given to create a truly memorable character--the potato chip-eating scene alone is worth the price of the DVD.

And then there's Jean Harlow. Some have harped on her seeming out-of-place in this picture, with a finishing-school accent that comes out of left field. I'm not one of those people. To watch the ultimate blond bombshell interact onscreen with Cagney is pure magic. The scene in which they glide into a nightclub together and start dancing, almost defies words. You just know you're watching two larger-than-life legends of the silver screen impose their aura on everything around them. I love it.

This is a movie that takes an unflinching look at the world of organized crime in the time of Prohibition, a virtual free-for-all of bootlegging and violence. And it's not all about glorifying, to be sure--the film shows us the seedy underbelly of this world as well, in a way that we wouldn't see again to such a degree until the new generation gangster flicks of the 1970s like Mean Streets.

It's a daring film from a daring era. Powers' seduction by Paddy Ryan's wife is dealt with in surprisingly frank fashion for the time, as is his out-of-wedlock shack-up with Blondell. Then there's the unforgettable climactic scene in the rain, beautifully shot and prefiguring 1940s noir, and that infamous closing image of Powers' "homecoming".

This is why the early 1930s is one of my favorite eras of movie-making, and The Public Enemy exemplifies the spirit of experimentation and exuberance that characterized it.

I've seen The Public Enemy many times, and I can honestly say I'm never not in the mood to see it. For me, this is comfort cinema at its best, and it's always my pleasure to worship at the altar of Cagney. I suggest you give it a try--you'll never look back.

NEXT UP: Trouble in Paradise (1932)

The Great Unwatched: Mean Frank and Crazy Tony (1973)

(I'll just be blogging as I go today and do the stats after the last movie. )

Part of: Grindhouse Experience Box

Director: Michele Lupo

Runtime: 85 minutes

Mean Frank and Crazy Tony is a nutty little crime-comedy from Italy, one I probably would not have watched without this project. It'd be a shame, too, because I had a lot of fun with it.

Tony (Tony LoBianco) is a small-time Italian crook who wants to make it big. Frank (Lee Van Cleef) is a big-time mafioso in town to sniff out whoever's been selling him out to his rival, Louis Annunziata (Jean Rochefort). Circumstances land them in jail together, where the earnest Tony earns the hard-bitten Frank's trust by saving his life. Tony hatches an audacious escape plan so that Frank can exact revenge. Soon this mismatched pair are in France, headed to Annunziata's frozen fish processing plant, with half of the French police force in pursuit.

What makes this film entertaining is that's equal parts Tony being crazy (that is, highly excitable but also incredibly clever) and Frank being mean (no-bullshit and violent as hell). For as goofy as the parts about Tony are, there are some surprisingly nasty bits of violence where Frank and the mob are concerned. That dichotomy just adds to the film's overall charm, however.

Worth the Purchase: Yes, especially for the new take on the phrase "sleeping with the fishes" at the end.