Anatomy of a Scene

Ripeness Is All: The Death of Vito Corleone

in Anatomy of a Scene

By Daniel Arias

Late in The Godfather, when Vito Corleone collapses to the ground and his grandson Anthony runs away to get help, viewers are left to look at the former Don’s body lying motionless in the shade of a trellised tomato garden. For five seconds, the only sounds that fill the soundtrack are the birds chirping and the wind blowing through the trees; then the image fades and funeral bells ring in the next scene. Unlike other critical scenes in the film, which rely on dramatic sequence and action, or intriguing dialogue between characters, this scene has a different way of registering with the viewer: its significance is encapsulated in the symbolic images that frame Vito’s final moments and the non-verbal gestures shared between Vito and his grandson.

It is no accident that the central prop of this scene is a watering gun — an implement which evokes power and the potential for violence but does so lightly, even ironically. (Water, not bullets, issue from its ‘barrel’.) Just before this scene, Vito speaks to his son, Michael, in the same garden. In that scene, Vito grapples with the guilt and uncertainty of having to transfer his power down to the next generation. Handing his status and the family business to Michael, he wants also to advise his son and ensure that the business can flourish. Though Michael is not unkind with Vito, neither is he overly deferential: the scene signals clearly that Michael, as the new Don, will make his own decisions.

This power dynamic is reenacted in the garden scene when Vito hands his grandson the watering gun. As a fatigued old grandfather, Vito can no longer stand for too long and he must sit down to watch Anthony play. From this position, Vito still seeks out any control he might have, shouting at his grandson, “over her, over here. Be careful, you’re spilling it, you’re spilling it. Anthony, come here, come here. Come here.” In the same way that he cannot control how Michael runs the family business, Vito cannot control how Anthony uses the water gun to feed the tomato vines. He has passed down the power to the new generation of his family: how they use that power, and how it affects them, are completely out of his control.

***

Vito Corleone’s loss of power is reflected in his physical appearance and presentation. In the introductory scene of the film, Vito comes across as a powerful figure. His words carry weight and deliberation in his monologue; he wears a fine suit, and his hair neatly slicked back. By contrast, this scene presents Vito in casual clothing, and with unruly hair protruding out of his hat. His body appears languid and shriveled by age. It is a portrait of a powerless Don. Even the simple act of calling out to his grandson and extending his arm as gesture seems like an extra strain on his body.

The only gesture of power that Vito conveys in this scene is reliant on artifice. To get his grandson’s attention, Vito cuts an orange peel and fashions a pair of fangs for his mouth. In his final exertion of power before he dies, he pretends to be a big and scary monster to frighten his grandson. The performance of power is what leads to his death — both literally, in this scene, and symbolically for the overall story arc of his character. Through much of the film, Vito has performed the role of mafia Don as the ultimate exertion of his power, but in this scene, viewers are offered a glimpse into what Vito Corleone looks like without his presentation and appearance as the powerful Don Corleone. When he adorns himself with a pair of fangs, to play pretend with his grandson, the scene frames the gesture as a representation of how Vito performs throughout the film; the only difference here is that viewers witness the process of how Vito transforms himself to convey power, even if it is just to frighten his grandson for a brief moment.

Chasing his grandson through the tomato vines, Vito removes his orange peel fangs —and tellingly, it is at this moment that he erupts into the coughing fit that results in his collapse. Playing pretend with his grandson has been too much of a physical strain on his body; Vito gives up his monster act, and gives up the ghost. Likewise, Vito’s performance of power as Don has been the ultimate exertion in his life. He has structured his whole life and family around the power and persona of Don Corleone, and the toll ends up being too much to handle: Vito crumbles and falls in the tomato garden. He lies on the ground, next to the ripe, or possibly overripe, tomatoes that have burdened the vine branch with their own weight and have fallen to litter the soil.

At the very moment of Vito’s death, Coppola notably cuts to a more distant shot. The camera frames the tomato garden at the center of the backyard; in the confines of the garden lies Vito’s body. The image of Vito resting on the soil, the foundation of the garden, resonates with Vito’s role as the foundation of his family and business. He has worked and exerted himself completely to maintain the growth of his personal and family legacy. As a result, like the ripe tomatoes that must fall to make room for new ones, Vito must fall in order to make room for the new Don, his son.

There’s a sense that, even as this scene portrays the death of Vito Corleone, it also encapsulates his life. Vito has done everything in his power to plant, care for, and grow the seeds of his personal and business life. By laying the foundation for his generation and the generations to come after him, he has become the foundation. Coppola gives us as viewers five seconds to hear the wind and the birds chirping so that we register that this is a natural death — one that, for all its sadness, completes a cycle.

Daniel Arias is a graduating senior (’18) at the University of California, Berkeley, where he studies English Literature. In his spare time he binge-watches The Office for the millionth time.

“I’m With You Now”: Michael Corleone’s Journey to Become His Father’s Son

in Anatomy of a Scene/Character Studies

By Nikki Munoz

The title of The Godfather is a surprisingly cunning one: ultimately it turns out to refer not to Marlon Brando’s Vito Corleone, but rather to his son, Michael, portrayed by Al Pacino. It is Michael who comes to sit at the core of this film — Michael, whose character is its focus. Viewers watch as Michael evolves from the outsider of the family — the one with higher morals who keeps his distance; the war hero—to a character distinctly like his father, the family patriarch and Don of this crime world.

Within the arc of any dynamic character, the instances of change are often subtle and dispersed throughout the narrative. Yet sometimes there is a decisive moment — a moment when a character chooses a new path. For Michael Corleone, this pivotal moment falls about an hour into the three-hour film, when he goes to visit his father in the hospital and declares quietly to him, “I’m with you now.” Through the intricate interweaving of details that allude to this character’s before and after, as well as meticulous shots that depict a transfer of power, the film develops this scene as the exact moment when Michael transfers his allegiance fully into his father’s world.

***

Taking one last look at his previous life: Michael on the threshold of the hospital

The scene begins with a shot of the outside of the hospital, though the building is not easily recognizable as one — the first of several subtle, almost surrealist elements that impart a feeling of isolation and strangeness to the scene. The building is overcome by darkness, only vaguely lit up by a sparse amount of Christmas lights hanging above the door, and a small Christmas tree with lights by the gated entrance. There appears to be a second tree even farther right, creating the feeling of a tilt. After being dropped off, Michael stands in front of the gate, hardly visible through the darkness, and looks after the car that has quickly driven off. His hesitation before climbing the stairs and entering the hospital is explicit. The uneven lights, clearly denser on the right, lean to the side that Michael is not looking toward, but indicate the directional path he will be following as the plot moves forward. As he looks into the darkness, a disconnect is clear. It is the last moment before Michael crosses an important threshold and, here, he appears as if he is taking one last look at his previous life.

An emptiness so strong as to be surreal: the maze of hospital hallways

The darkness of this shot then cuts to an only slightly brighter shot of an empty hallway. Michael soon fills that emptiness, becoming, seemingly, the only person filling an empty hospital. What follows Michael’s entrance to the empty hallway is a long buildup to him finally finding his father’s hospital room. It takes almost exactly one minute of Michael traveling through the hospital’s consistently empty rooms before he reaches what he set out for. This minute feels much longer than the mere sixty seconds, however, as Michael roams through a seemingly endless maze-like path of empty hallways. The emptiness is eerie, and never addressed nor explained — not even by Michael himself — and we as viewers sense that we’ve been enclosed in a surreal world, a world with an altered atmosphere.

Michael in this hospital is almost outside of the realm of the rest of the plot and there is a sense of the viewer being let in on a very intimate moment for Michael— the emptiness being a key element to this. Throughout this prolonged search, Michael’s singularity is emphasized. As the sole moving figure of an empty hallway, all focus is on him, just as the film’s entire plot molds itself around this character. This scene becomes about Michael looking for his father, rather than the fate of Vito himself.

The long journey through hallways eventually leads Michael to his father’s hospital room, at the end of yet another hallway. Michael, who had been running, slows down his pace and takes his time walking down this hallway. He then turns into the crevice at the hallway’s end, and from the viewer’s perspective, it looks like he has entered the room. Yet the next shot reveals that he is still outside of the closed door, pausing before opening it.

Michael’s long journey to arrive at Room 2

The viewer sees him linger outside of room 2, an interesting room number, considering how long it took him to find it — quite low for being so deep inside of the hospital, adding another layer of surrealism. Michael’s pause here is not the first, as we have already seen him hesitate outside of the hospital. His initial slow pace through the hallways is related, indicating an overall feeling of not needing — or wanting — to rush. He has not yet seen his father, meaning his life has not shifted — not yet. This lingering and hesitating does not occur after he has seen his father, only before — which means that this moment of him in front of room 2 is the last instance of it.

Once entering his father’s room, the focus remains on Michael, as viewers are only given a limited perspective of Vito in the hospital bed. Now in the room, the changes within Michael start to become outwardly apparent. The presence of another person, besides him and his father — the nurse — indicates that he now has to enact the role he is stepping into. And he does, in the form of giving orders. Michael says, “Nurse. Wait a minute. Stay here.” And while the nurse has no reason to be listening to Michael, someone she has just informed is not even supposed to be there, she does anyway. He asks her to move his father’s bed — and, again, there is no reason for the nurse to do as Michael says, but she does. Michael has begun to grasp the elements of a leadership role. With the giving of these orders, he saves his father, the man who was previously the self-possessed family patriarch.

After moving his father’s hospital bed into a different room, Michael leans over his recovering father—and we as viewers see him shift before our eyes. The use of physicality to display the power dynamics here is vital. Vito is unmoving — he is physically restrained and cannot move; viewers have just seen this emphasized, as his motionless body was pushed through the hallway by Michael and the nurse. By contrast, Michael has just demonstrated his adept mobility to the audience, as he scoured the hospital for his father and, further, pushed around Vito’s bed. Throughout this moment between them, Michael is leaning over his father the entire time, always at a much higher level. The uneven level of power is not used negatively here, as Michael and Vito share a compassionate moment as father and son. The key detail, however, is that this is a decision made by Michael. Michael has the power to lead what happens here; he is wholly in charge. Michael is in this hospital room willingly, unlike Vito. He even gives his father an order, in the form of “Just lie here, Pop.” It is said quietly and soothingly, but it is an order nonetheless.

“I’m with you now”: a moment of father-son connection, and of the transition of power

Michael then utters the sentence to his father that signals his turning point: “I’m with you now.” This sentence indicates that Michael was not with his father beforehand — and indeed he wasn’t; he was distant from his family and its operations.

Further, he is verbally committing himself to the family; this sentence acts as a kind of oath. Then, there is slight repetition when he says again, “I’m with you,” which solidifies his stance more firmly. Vito does not verbally respond, but gives a clear smile, as you can see a small tear coming from his eye. With their hands grasping each other’s and Michael looking down upon the current patriarch, this moment also acts as a kind of transition of power. The smile can also be seen as an approval — the go ahead for Michael to move forward in his path toward becoming The Godfather. While subtle and intimate, this moment holds a great amount of significance, rippling beyond the two people experiencing it.

After this key moment, the film cuts to Michael exiting the hospital: a quick, five seconds of him walking through the hallway before cutting to him outside of the hospital. His five-second exit is in stark contrast to his previous minute-long odyssey through those same hospital hallways: the transfer of power has been completed and there is no longer a pivotal moment to build up to. Michael is coming out of the hospital a different person; the brevity of this exit conveys a man who knows where he is going.

It is just five seconds, yet with a distant and serious look on his face and a quick pace, the difference in Michael is clear. He resembles the person we imagine Vito to have been in his heyday—the purposeful head of the Corleone family—more than the person he was when he stepped into the hospital. He is now well on his way to becoming the Godfather.

Nikki Munoz is entering her final year at University of California, Berkeley where she is majoring in English and minoring in Journalism. She is a writer for the Arts and Entertainment section of The Daily Californian, where she writes about all things arts-related, with a focus on theater.

The Murder of Luca Brasi: The Curiously Moving Death of a Henchman

in Anatomy of a Scene/Character Studies

Luca Brasi getting strangled, his eyes vacant and his tongue poking his right cheek

By Jenna Allen

The scene begins with the camera positioned at a low angle, hovering just above ground level. We are transported into a setting never before seen, one that is fashionable, well-decorated, Art Deco-themed, and visually intriguing. It is a mere hallway but spacious, a series of platforms and stairs—pristine, white, heavily mirrored, gold-accented, and possessing an opulence that plainly states “luxury.”

We see many reflections of Luca Brasi in this Art Deco, heavily mirrored luxurious hallway—but we feel there’s one essential Luca

We see the lone figure of Luca, whose back faces the camera, dressed in all black and ascending the stairs. His garments are dark-toned, contrasting with the surge of brightness that is the background. His looming stature fills up almost the entirety of vertical space from ground to ceiling, as he ascends with a casual, confident gait. He is out of place—a dark, lonely figure situated among a landscape of brilliant white. When he reaches the top he removes his coat and, if we were unsure before about the identity of the tall figure, the wide profile allows us to see him clearly now: it’s Luca Brasi, Don Corleone’s most valued henchman.

The surrounding mirrors display his dark demeanor—his sober, calm professionalism—in multiple dimensions, but there seems to be one essential Luca. He is, indeed, a professional. He is a man sent out on a mission—a mission by Don Corleone.

There is something ironic about Luca’s presence here, and it is not simply his appearance. From the previous scene, we already know that Luca is to prepare the bait, to feign discontent with the Corleone family, and to ultimately test the waters for this newly emerging character, Sollozzo. Luca’s loyalty is executed in the form of a betrayal—one that is acted, of course. Thus, when Luca first steps foot into the club, with the intention to carry out the Don’s plan, a silent tension smothers the air. This is all a test.

It is a test for Sollozzo—in the most obvious sense, we want to know if he can be trusted—but more so it is a test for Luca, our principal interest in this scene. We are here directed to see how Luca will fare, this loyal, eagerly-obliging man who has been thrust into the Don’s dirty work. We cannot help having some stored attachment for this man, who first endears himself to us at the wedding with his poorly performed thank you to the Don. Thus, when Luca dies on an errand of loyalty, we register heavy tremors of shock. A sense of loss, keyed to the corruption of Sollozzo and Tattaglia, begins to color The Godfather, often exploding upon us in the most sudden and savage of ways..

Though the impact of Luca’s death scene has much to do with surprise, it also has deeper, more complex roots. Our emotional response to Luca’s death hinges on what we’ve come to know about him: at this point in our experience of the film, he is not just some brawny, dispensable crony, but rather an actualized, round character. In Puzo’s novel, Luca Brasi’s loyalty to Don Corleone is established through a long history of violence—murders committed on Corleone’s behalf. (Annotated Godfather, 75) In the film, Brasi is a much-abbreviated version of this ruthless killer, but he is fleshed out just enough, and with singular idiosyncrasies, to draw our attachment.

* * *

First impression-wise, it is difficult for the viewer to focus on any aspect of Brasi other than his gigantism. He possesses all the properties of a menacing assassin whose sheer bulk and size instantly disclose his raw strength. Kay echoes this notion at the wedding, remarking to Michael in a low tone, “See that scary guy over there?” The actor who fills this “scary guy” role is 6’6” Lenny Montana, an ex-wrestler who had been known by the moniker “The Zebra Kid” and was the World Champion at one point. (Annotated Godfather, 37) Such a figure inadvertently dwarfs all the wedding guests around him.

Luca, the “scary guy,” practicing and fumbling his lines

But the longer the camera focuses upon Brasi, the more we see of his contrasting, almost endearing interiority. The “big scary man” who is talking to himself is actually frozen in deep concentration, fumbling and repeating the same words over and over again. He strains himself in the midst of merriment. Everyone around him is alight with joy and then there is Brasi, mumbling to himself, a heap of nerves. There is something sweet about a man who does not match the fear he inspires—who is quickly deemed the ‘scary’ guy while possessing a slightly softer, grateful side within.

The death of Brasi is much more than transactional—not “strictly business,” to use a phrase from the film. It is emotionally affecting.

By suppressing Puzo’s version of Brasi, who is marred by a more unforgivable past, Coppola gives us a Brasi who is known only by his loyalty. This Brasi exhausts himself with perfecting a memorized speech of gratitude, and even gives money afterward for the bridal purse of the Don’s daughter. Yes, he kills for Don Corleone, but he also receives an invitation to an exclusive family wedding; we come to know him purely through this bond to Don Corleone. His death, then, is much more than transactional – not “strictly business,” to use a phrase from the film. It is emotionally affecting —the poignant consequence of his “pledge [of] never ending loyalty.”

***

At the start of the scene that leads to his death, we already know what Luca Brasi really is. He is a fabricated defector who must, for now, bury his unshakable allegiance to Corleone. When he steps into this lavish place of meeting, we as viewers are thrust into a moment of waiting, a moment of pressing uncertainty. The gold ornamentation, the trendy aesthetics, the overall unspoiled feel—burgundy walls, golden dim lights, everything shrouded in shadow: all these elements foster a mellow ambiance. Surely, no violence can erupt in a place as sedate and sophisticated as this? And even if it does, we have faith in the reliable, tried-and-true Brasi.

When we meet the figures of Bruno Tattaglia and Virgil Sollozzo inside, there is something about them that blends into this cool, fashionable setting. This is the Italian-American Mafia—sleek entrepreneurs, cleverly veiled criminals—and this is where they meet, as businesspeople accustomed to a tableau of luxury. Tattaglia immediately sets the tone, introducing himself as if he were all smiles and good cheer: “Luca! I’m Bruno Tattaglia.” He effortlessly assumes a businessman’s air of affability, embodying a type of bold cordiality that is difficult to second-guess.

“I know.” Brasi’s curtness marks a break with the manufactured pleasantries. Brasi, in fact, seems incongruously situated here from the start. The inaptness of the meeting is magnified by his unrelenting stoniness.

Meanwhile the camera angle captures the scene from the characters’ torsos up, panning back and forth frequently, with equal attention capturing each expression. Tattaglia maintains an easy casual aura, standing directly under a cascade of light, smiling as he speaks, professional and almost jovial. When Sollozzo enters, taking his place beside Bruno, he mimics this air of friendliness.

The opposing sides are clear contrasts in this way. Sollozzo, chatty and encouraging, leads the conversation with a piercing, alert gaze. He dresses warmly, in welcoming beige and camel-colored tones—all in all, appearing as a lighter flash of color against Luca, who is on the opposite side, darkly attired, stoic and shadowed, with a reserved nature that seems unwittingly out of place.

As with many scenes in The Godfather, we could not possibly have guessed the coming action. In a brief, preceding scene, Brasi, in preparation, dons a bullet-proof vest while he loads his gun. “The audience is probably waiting for the vest to come into play,” Coppola writes in his notebook. “This is a beautiful piece of misdirection.” (Annotated Godfather, 75)

The business pauses for a moment, as Brasi, thinking the ‘deal’ over, takes out a cigarette. Then the quiet, steady hum of this scene is shattered in an instant. With swift movements and efficient teamwork, the violence occurs almost too quickly to even process. Tattaglia drops his amiable facade, and the camera zooms in as he grabs firmly onto Brasi’s arm. Next, a knife plunges into the frame and lands with a tell-tale thud into Brasi’s restrained hand.

We hear a simultaneous scream, made more unsettling by its deepness, and by our awareness that it comes from a grown man who cannot suppress the anguish of his pain. And just like that, without warning, we are ejected at once from the scene’s mellow, easygoing tempo to one of fast-paced horror. By the time the garrote is placed around Brasi’s throat by an unknown assailant, we want Luca to overpower him, to use brute strength or even his gun to turn the outcome around. Ultimately, we just want his suffering to stop.

But there is no easy escape. Instead of ceasing, Brasi’s strangulation is extended as long as possible. In this striking, visually repulsive moment, we are forced to endure his death in its entirety. Luca’s gasps become softer. His face becomes tinged with a purple, bruised color. His eyes are pushed out of their sockets and become two vacant bulges as his tongue sticks unnaturally outside his mouth. In preproduction, Coppola’s special effects memo reads, “This is probably the most difficult effect in the movie.” Luca’s dying moments here are backed by sufficient research to capture all the unpleasant physiological changes that occur realistically with strangulation. (Annotated Godfather, 76) This scene holds nothing back. Once the choking Brasi ripens to the complexion of a grape, and his limp figure starts to slip under the table, we have to accept the imminence of his death.

Yet Luca’s drawn-out suffering and the morbidly jarring violence of this scene are not inserted in the film simply for the sake of violence, simply to titillate or transfix the viewer. Brasi’s suffering is key to the film’s greater significance, as this short scene marks a monumental turning point within it. From his death alone, The Godfather forges its overarching conflict and defines the ensuing direction of the plot. It takes one scene to dramatically color Sollozzo and Tattaglia as merciless villains.

The murder of Luca Brasi colors Sollozzo and Tattaglia as merciless villains, and seeds feelings of shock, disgust, betrayal, and sadness—out of which emerges the heightened question, “What next?”

The scene seeds, within the audience, feelings of shock, disgust, betrayal, and sadness—out of which emerges a heightened wonder of ‘What next?’ Moreover, Luca’s eventual death does not mean an end to the violence; it is, in fact, the jump starter for it. Brasi’s death, then, opens onto many forms of loss—the loss of a trusted friend, the loss of peace among the Five Families, and all the human losses that we anticipate will arrive with the unprecedented storm that is about reach the Corleones.

Jenna Allen (’18) is a Cal undergrad working on her B.A. in English Literature.

Works Cited

Jenny M. Jones, The Annotated Godfather (New York: Black Dog & Leventhal, 2007).

“Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli”: The Hit Man as Family Man

in Anatomy of a Scene

By Sterling Farrance

In a film as eminently quotable as Coppola’s The Godfather, perhaps only one choice line emerged solely from improvisation: “Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.” Neither the shooting script nor the novel mentions cannolis, but Coppola had his own childhood memories to draw this detail from: he remembered the specific white boxes that his father would bring home after work. That said, it was not Coppola who generated the line: Clemenza’s “Take the cannoli” line was an improvisation on the part of actor Richard Castellano, who portrayed him. The line became the favorite of many of The Godfather’s cast and crew, including Michael Chapman, a cameraman who would later, as cinematographer, become famous for his work on Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, among other great films. (The Annotated Godfather)

While the history behind this little tidbit of Hollywood magic is indeed fascinating, the line itself stands out because, in tandem with the scenes around it, it condenses so much about the values on display in The Godfather: in the world of the Corleones, family comes before all else, protecting children is imperative, and business is business.

***

An image of Clemenza's home — Clemenza’s cozy home

Peter Clemenza has been assigned the grim duty of assuring that Paulie is punished for the attack on Vito Corleone, and this is where the sequence leading up to the cannolis begins. In this first scene, we see Clemenza’s smaller family unit and get a sense of his home life. This short sequence personalizes the larger mob family and conveys many of the themes found in the film: the immigrant dream of American middle-class bliss, the need to care for and protect the family, and the untrustworthy and false front of business. Clemenza’s home is cozy, and seemingly of the type to be found in a place like Long Island. There are kids playing in the street and driveway, and we can hear laughter and joyous voices. The car that’s parked in the driveway is postwar and is shiny and gorgeous. Strife is conspicuously absent here; Clemenza’s home life is warm, and even idyllic. This seems to be the very life that Vito left Sicily for.

Clemenza's wife looks approvingly at him — Look at my sweet husband!

The camera cuts in to the doorstep, and Clemenza talks with his wife. They speak in the rhythm of a couple married for many years. Clemenza has his back turned to the camera, so his wife’s face, dialogue, and motions grab our attention, just as she is trying to grab her husband’s attention before he leaves for work. She wants to know when he’ll be home, and lovingly blows him a kiss after he tells her it will be late. She smiles after him as he walks away, as if to say “what a good man, what a good life I have.” To her, it’s just another day and nothing in Clemenza’s demeanor has given away that he’s on a brutal mission. He’s already in character, already putting up the false front he must maintain to deflect Paulie’s suspicion and keep the hit moving smoothly.

As he climbs into the car, she calls after him “Don’t forget the cannoli!” Clemenza replies, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” We tend to want to chuckle a bit, or at least smile: his repeated “yeahs” seem to convey “Oh that wife, how she nags, but she’s really a good one, and I love her, and won’t forget those cannolis.” But the humdrum dialogue not only personalizes this family unit, and through extension the larger Corleone mob family, but also suggests the importance of a certain level of comfort, of the pleasure that comes with that comfort. In the American dream of prosperity, it’s not enough simply to feed your family; one needs the treats that come from keeping that slightly more privileged existence.

Paulie nervously asks Rocco to move from his spot in the back seat — Paulie: not a very good actor

Clemenza advises Paulie to "Watch the kids" — Clemenza: thinking about the family

As Clemenza sits in the car, Paulie’s anxiety is readily apparent. He nervously looks at Rocco in the back seat and tells him to move, explaining that he needs a better view of the car’s rear. Paulie is fooling nobody, but this doesn’t matter. Clemenza doesn’t even show that he’s noticed, and Rocco moves without comment. Paulie is no actor, while Clemenza has a cold and routine manner. This is what’s needed to protect the family, and to keep the business moving. As they begin to pull out of the driveway, Clemenza sternly warns Paulie to “watch out for the kids while you’re backing out.” Like Vito who cares so deeply about the welfare of his children, Clemenza, even in moments of intense focus and responsibility, is looking out for his own children.

***

Notably, this unflinching drive to protect the family is exactly what led us to this scene in the first place. Paulie has seemingly betrayed Vito—and thus the family—by selling him out. In The Godfather, this kind of betrayal is the worst of all sins. We see the matter discussed, in the Corleone family office, just before the viewer spends time in front of Clemenza’s cozy abode.

Paulie coughs in a contrived manner in front of Sonny Corleone, who -- after he leaves the room -- order that he be killed — From fake cough to a hit planned

In the middle of deliberations about the fate of the family, Paulie enters the room with a message, handkerchief in hand, coughing a very pitifully fake sounding cough. Sonny sees through this faux-illness and doesn’t believe it’s a coincidence that Vito was shot the day Paulie was “sick.” Paulie, meanwhile, seems to foolishly think the family has gone soft enough not to catch him, but his poor acting underscores that he doesn’t have what it takes to handle the business world of the film. As soon as Paulie leaves the room, Sonny sternly orders the hit, telling Clemenza to make it the first thing on his list. Not only is betrayal the worst of all sins, necessitating an immediate death sentence, but there can be no time wasted.

***

Clemenza is just the man to enact the necessary care and protection of the family. Beneath Clemenza’s calm exterior, he is calculating—planning and taking precise action. Before Clemenza, Rocco, and Paulie have even left his driveway, Clemenza starts planning. The family business must move much quicker than before to deal with the myriad problems arising from the shooting of the Don. Clemenza begins discussing arrangements for safehouses to protect the family. This begins to settle Paulie down a bit.

Clemenza plans “goin’ to the mattresses”

Though this planning might ease Paulie’s anxiety, it is also legitimate, and is in fact critical work. On the level of the plot, it makes Paulie feel comfortable and gives him the sense that business is running as usual, which will keep the hit running smoothly, with no struggle or risk of the attempt being thwarted. Rocco, who sits in the back seat ready to actually commit the murder, is also being groomed to take Paulie’s place. While Clemenza lays out safehouse instructions throughout the drive, he might as well be giving this information to Rocco. They can’t just waste the time it takes to drive to a rural place and kill Paulie; they must plan next steps as well. The family business cannot stop or even slow down.

As they drive along, they trade jokes. While these jokes work to lighten the tone with Paulie, they have a deeper subtext too. En route to the remote spot that will serve as the scene of Paulie’s death, Clemenza explains that the mattresses must be clean because they will be in use for a long while. Paulie assures him that they are: “They told me they exterminate them.” Rocco starts to laugh, and Clemenza exclaims, “Exterminate? That’s a bad word to use: exterminate! Get this guy. Watch out we don’t exterminate you!”

Paulie: "They're clean and exterminated" / Clemenza: "That's a bad word to use" — The beginning of a harsh joke

Clemenza says to Paulie, "Exterminate! Watch out so we don't exterminate you!" The car is shown driving a curving country road outside of Manhattan — The brutal punchline

On an instrumental level, Clemenza is keeping things light and jovial to prevent Paulie from suspecting anything: while instructing him to “watch out,” he is in fact disarming him. But this joke has a different level of meaning for viewers who see the hit coming: in light of the murder they have planned, this joke seems incredibly cold, harsh, and calculated. The three of them then joke about flatulence in Italian—a very crude and typical “Who farted? It wasn’t me, it must have been you!” bit of banter. Before the laughter and tone has the chance to shift, Clemenza crudely declares, “Pull over. I’ve got to take a leak.” The tone of the moment continues to be earthy, casual. This of course opens the opportunity for the actual killing, and all the humor has prevented Paulie from becoming too suspicious. He is shot while Clemenza urinates—as if to suggest that the killing is as routine, regular, and necessary as “taking a leak.”

An image of a car parked in the countryside alternates with images of Clemenza taking a leak — Zip. Bang, bang, bang!

The act itself is done swiftly and coldly while Clemenza urinates. He walks away, unzips, and almost immediately three gunshots are fired. The camera is close to Clemenza, and he turns his head just enough to allow the viewer to see his slight reaction. When the act happens, there is maybe a hint of unexpected sadness that plays over his face, but the dominant look is one of resignation—resignation, we imagine, to the necessity of this act. Meanwhile the camera is incredibly far away from Paulie and Rocco, far enough to keep the act impersonal, and far enough to show us the Statue of Liberty in the distant background. This kind of coldness and decisiveness is what has allowed the family to achieve the safety and the immigrant dream symbolized by that pillar of freedom, and only this cold slaying will allow them to keep it.

Clemenza tells Rocco, "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli." — And let the quoting begin!

Clemenza tells Rocco, “Leave the gun,” which also means leave the car, the bloody body, the shattered windshield, and this whole horrific scene. Leave it to be a message; let it show the family has not gone soft, not gotten sloppy or stupid, and let it show what the cost of betrayal is. And then Clemenza gives the punchline: “take the cannoli.” He cannot leave that prized treat he has promised the family: otherwise what’s this all for? In the world of The Godfather, your word is your bond. He might have pushed away his wife with “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” but he wouldn’t dare forget her beloved cannolis. His conscientiousness lightly suggests the follow-through necessary to survive this film’s world (Michael is expert at follow-through). So Clemenza tells Rocco to reach into the bloody car for the special dessert. He is bringing back the cannoli, but also—thanks to the killing—a safer state for the family, one more secure and without the current threat of betrayal.

We can demonstrate why this scene is so important to the narrative, and we can illuminate how well executed it is; however, we may not have explained why everyone loves that quote. I know I count myself among its fans, but I can’t quite tell you why. I think it has something to do with the economy of its language—how, in the space of six words total, we get two sentences that convey so much about the core of this remarkable film. It’s a straight-up, practical line that advances the story very efficiently. But pure efficiency isn’t what makes great art. You can’t just leave the aesthetics and take the function. The quick rhythm, the parallel structure, and the decisiveness they register are appealing for reasons that go beyond mere efficiency. So maybe that’s why we adore these two quick lines: because they blend form and function at the highest level.

But let’s be real, we’d all be lying to ourselves—at least a little—if we don’t admit: it’s also totally badass.

Sterling Farrance is a writer/educator with a freshly minted B.A. in English and Creative Writing from UC Berkeley. An avid cinephile and lover of anachronistic media, he is looking forward to beginning an MFA at St. Mary’s College in Moraga, California where he will write about how film changes one’s view of the world. This, of course, is mostly just an excuse for him to plow through his ever-growing laserdisc collection for the sake of “research.”

A Bitter-Suite Romance: Michael and Kay’s Hotel Scene

in Anatomy of a Scene/The Craft of The Godfather

By Max Sala

Many scenes in The Godfather—Connie and Carlo’s wedding, the baptism and assassination montage—are full of self-conscious bravura, but it’s the quieter, shorter scenes that lend the film its emotional depth and narrative intrigue. Consider Michael and Kay’s hotel scene: lasting seventy-five seconds, and with only 9 lines of dialogue, this scene courses by, brief and seemingly unexceptional. The episodes that follow—Michael’s visit to his father at the hospital, McCluskey’s assault on Michael—eclipse this scene and perhaps push it to the back of the viewer’s consciousness.

But let us return to the hotel. If we inspect the scene’s formal features—those of sound, mise-en-scène, and cinematography—we can see how those features help establish a narrative problem for the couple’s relationship. Indeed, even without a close analysis, the tension between Michael and Kay is striking. This scene is the first time they experience that tension, but it lingers and refuses resolution, even at the film’s end. In this way, the hotel scene functions as a crucial marker within The Godfather’s plot, a harbinger of the clanging discord that comes to define Michael and Kay’s relationship.

***

The transition to the scene establishes an atmosphere of tension. Two unidentified men drive Michael into the city to meet Kay at the hotel. The camera jump-cuts from a shot of Michael in the backseat to the car’s bumper. We watch the car pass a flashing yellow streetlight on its right side. It is nighttime, the road is clear, and the only sound effects we hear are the tires hissing against the asphalt. This shot lasts only twelve seconds but establishes a sequence and tone. The direct sound of the tires seems menacing and heightens the peril of events so far—Vito Corleone’s attack, Paulie Gatto’s assassination.

A slow dissolve transitions us into the hotel room and is joined with a sound bridge, Irving Berlin’s “All My Life.” This song—a slow-tempo ballad often performed by a female vocalist addressing her lover—presents a surprising counterpoint to the preceding events, easing us into the scene and suggesting an emotional uplift in the narrative. It overlaps with the dialogue and is part of the film’s diegesis: the song seems to play somewhere in the background. The music is muted and subtle, softly complementing the dinner’s romantic atmosphere—a small round table and white tablecloth; red wine and steak; Kay’s lipstick-red blouse with a sweetheart neckline and puffed sleeves, Michael’s oxford shirt and tie. A lamp in the corner provides diffused light that illuminates Kay’s face. Her cheeks look cherubic; her skin, soft and warm.

These details of the mise-en-scène recall, and seem to recreate, the moment between Michael and Kay at Connie and Carlo Rizzi’s wedding, when they were eating by themselves with red wine and a white tablecloth, in formal attire, under soft-quality outdoor lighting. Berlin’s song plays with the romance of that moment and underscores these formal features, establishing an intimate and enchanting mood:

I just want the right to love you

All of my life

Just the right to take care of you

All of my life

His lyrics suggest a storybook-like romance, a budding passion that charges each person’s enduring commitment to one another. The brass section’s dreamy crescendos, the percussion section’s dramatic yet steady beat: these musical features seem to frame Michael and Kay’s relationship through the sweet dreamwork of Tin Pan Alley.

Alas, these formal features only suggest intimacy; they actually function as ironic counterpoints to the scene’s undercurrents of discord. In fact, what we are watching is the dissolution of a romance, or at least the dissolution of the more idealized romance that the film initially depicts. This dinner is sour.

***

Consider the conversation between Michael and Kay. Initially, fifteen seconds of silence precede their dialogue. Besides the background music, we only hear sound effects of their meal—forks scraping plates, clothes rustling, the dull thud of Michael setting his wine glass on the table. Their silence creates an edgy atmosphere and implies some dilemma before any dialogue even occurs. Once it does begin, the dialogue is brief; each character speaks using one-sentence replies. Kay poses quick questions: can she accompany Michael to the hospital? When she will see him again (a question she repeats when at first Michael avoids answering her)? Kay uses the imperative mood when she speaks: she appears and is literally dependent on Michael.

Michael’s replies, meanwhile, are short and vague: he denies Kay’s requests to accompany him, declares that he does not want Kay to “get involved,” and avoids addressing when they will meet again. Michael uses the indicative mood—he makes decisions and is in control. Their conversation could simply reveal the sorts of tensions that beset all romantic relationships eventually, but we cannot help but feel something larger is at stake for this relationship.

The halting rhythm of the camera draws out the scene’s feeling of awkwardness. The scene’s establishing shot shows Kay sitting at the dinner table. The camera frames her using a point-of-view vantage and positions us in a medium close-up. Immediately we notice her red blouse, princess-length pearl necklace, coiffed hair, and hesitant face. Kay appears vulnerable, and since that vulnerability charges the establishing shot, we know it will inform the scene. The camera transitions to Michael wadding his napkin, looking down and avoiding eye contact with Kay.

This counter shot uses Michael’s icy attitude as a response to Kay’s diffidence, enabling the camera to characterize Kay as subordinate, as though she needs something from Michael. A brief medium two-shot reveals both characters across from one another at the table. Here the camera captures their disengagement. Their initial silence emphasizes the physical distance the camera exposes, and as a result the dinner feels forced and uncomfortable. We feel the discomfort—Kay’s pain and Michael’s angst.

Once the dialogue begins, the camera reemploys a shot/counter shot technique that parallels Michael and Kay’s responses until the scene ends. Each counter shot lasts approximately five seconds, and the more we watch, the more engrossed we become by the dialogue:

KAY: When will I see you again?

MICHAEL: Go back to New Hampshire, and I’ll call you at your parents’ house.

KAY: When will I see you again, Michael?

MICHAEL: I don’t know.

As the camera alternates between Kay and Michael, the montage produces two effects. First, the shots isolate each spoken line, underscore them as wooden and clipped, and intimate the anxiety Michael and Kay both suppress. Second, we become anxious. We identify with Kay’s vulnerability and await Michael’s replies, anticipating each counter shot. Yet because he is so evasive, and since their emotional turmoil functions as the subtext of the scene, we are left in suspense, with more questions than answers, frustrated and dissatisfied. At this point, the scene’s romantic picture crumbles. We realize now that Berlin’s song functions more as a lament for Michael and Kay’s romance than as an expression of it.

***

We end with a shot of Kay staring at her wine glass. The camera once again positions us at a medium close-up, reinforcing her pain and hesitation. We know Sollozzo’s attack has unnerved Michael. We might foresee his looming retaliation. Perhaps we even correctly infer his ultimate fate from these character developments. But empathizing with Kay’s pain, we question if her relationship with Michael will last.

This loose end unsettles us. It is true, of course, that Michael and Kay do ultimately reunite. It is also true that, as an outsider to the Corleone world, Kay is presented at first as a figure for the audience: when Michael explains his family to her in the wedding scene, he is in effect explaining his family to us in the audience, and she becomes a key figure of identification for us (up to the very last moment of the film). Our anxiety derives less from a fear that they will indeed break up, and more from the scene’s tragic irony: Kay’s world hopelessly opposes Michael’s, and yet she loves him. Whatever form her relationship with Michael does take, Kay—dependent, vulnerable, and unlike Michael in too many ways—will remain relegated to the Corleone family’s periphery. This alienation accounts for why she appears dependent and vulnerable: we sense too that, since Michael will always subordinate Kay to the family business, her alienation will persist.

This scene, then, does not merely establish a narrative problem. It reveals a fatal flaw in their relationship—the gulf between Michael and Kay that, whatever the melody playing in the background, neither one can bridge.

Max Sala studies Rhetoric and English at Cal. After watching her flaunt her silky smooth hair in a Noxzema commercial, Max realized he was Meredith Baxter in one of his past lives.

A Family in Celebration, and in Transition: The Godfather’s Opening Wedding Scene

in Anatomy of a Scene/Character Studies

By Hansol Jung

The men in the wedding party in black, the bride in white, the women in the wedding party in pink. Michael Corleone is not in the photo. Early in the opening wedding scene of The Godfather, a photographer lines up the Corleone family, preparing a family photo to solemnize the marriage of Constanzia, or Connie, Corleone to Carlo Rizzi. Yet Vito Corleone, the Don of this Sicilian family, notes his youngest son’s absence and so stops the shot from being taken: “We’re not taking the picture without Michael.” A picture is forever, and Vito—the center of the family, and with an especially soft spot for his son Michael—insists that all must be present and all must be willing to play their part. What Vito has created through the Corleone family is represented in its purest and most picturesque form by Connie’s wedding, which is huge, vibrant, and cheerful.

But even as the scene dramatizes the splendor of the family, it also suggests, through the characters of Vito’s three sons, the cracks that will split it apart: Santino, or Sonny, is hot-headed and unfaithful; Alfredo, or Fredo, is drunk and immature; and Michael is at odds with his family, holding himself apart from its operations. This distance, however, is not easily made, and through his dialogue and personality comes another image of Michael, one who is entrenched within Sicilian family values and unable to shake the influence of his father. And so the wedding scene works as a representation of the Corleone family in all of its glory and grime, setting up a family at the height of its power and influence while subtly undermining it through ugly portrayals of its key players.

***

The wedding is a grandiose celebration, and rightfully so for a Corleone celebration: Vito has put in exhaustive work to be able to put on display the love and care he has for his daughter, and more generally, his entire family.

An image of the festive wedding from above In the first shot following Vito’s dealings with Amerigo Bonasera, we glimpse the throng that has assembled for the event: though a tree covers half of the crowd, there are still dozens of visible people milling around, and by placing the camera far from the event, the individual people become a blur and turn into one huge sea of costumed bodies. The image suggests how, to the Corleones, a family should function: though the individuals that make up the larger family business are essential to its workings, they are all under the guise of one group and so are united by that group. Even with a sizable attendance already inside the estate, people can be seen still walking into the courtyard. Everyone, from tiny toddlers to their aging grandparents, must come and pay respects to Connie in this momentous event.

Still, the celebration wouldn’t be complete without the proper decoration and music, which Vito ensures are in tune with the rest of the festivities. Both the entranceway and courtyard are festooned with a huge overhanging of lights; no expense has been spared in the preparation of the party. The music jovially plays in the background and sets the scene for the constant dancing, which extends until the very last moments of the wedding scene. The orchestra that plays the music, visible later, is made up a great number of suited musicians—undoubtedly another considerable expense.

Yet Vito is not just a man who spends a lot of money to make his daughter’s wedding a great celebration; he’s the sort of father who actively shows his care with that money by partaking in the festivities, spending time with his family throughout despite his ongoing business deals behind the scenes. This scene fills the wedding with his attention and care as he dances with his wife in the midst of the crowd. Smiles on their faces, the couple waltz as Vito makes an inaudible comment to his wife that conveys the couple’s agreeable intimacy.

This scene is mirrored again at the end of the wedding: Vito leads his daughter through the crowd of clapping attendees, clutching her hand tightly. Holding hands is a sign of affection often seen between a parent and a young child, and in this context the meaning is still valid—perhaps even more so due to Connie’s older age and the likelihood that they no longer are so physically close. As Vito carefully lays his hand on her waist and they begin to waltz, Connie speaks inaudibly to him, causing them both to smile. When the scene cuts to a shot farther away from the two, Connie hugs him tightly as they continue their waltz. This increased physical affection suggests their own emotional intimacy, which they unabashedly display on stage.

***

Despite all the effort Vito puts into the celebration, he is undermined by each of his sons, who fail to share the same love and attention he puts into his family. Fredo, his second oldest son, is particularly marginalized within the framework of the wedding. He is introduced in a scene where he meets Michael and Kay Adams, Michael’s girlfriend.

Fredo inserting himself drunkenly between Michael and his girlfriend (later wife) Kay Adams Instead of greeting Michael with care and love—as Tom Hagen does when he first sees Michael, and as an older brother should do after not having seen his younger brother in quite some time—Fredo flicks the back of Michael’s head. While this gesture suggests a kind of playful intimacy, it underscores Fredo’s immaturity and inability to socialize with people in a more dignified way. The blocking of the action in the scene—with Fredo kneeling between Michael and Kay—also conveys his awkwardness and divisiveness. Michael’s act of bringing Kay to the wedding shows his devotion to her and telegraphs that one day, they too might get married. When Fredo sits between them, he separates the two and effectively disrupts the natural state of the couple.

John Cazale, the actor who plays Fredo, draws out the character’s immaturity through his particular way of inhabiting the character. Cazale acts slightly too drunk, with his hands too active in touching both Michael and Kay and his way of speaking too oblivious to have a continuously flowing conversation. This is Fredo’s single scene of dialogue in the entire opening wedding sequence, and it makes clear that he is a son who lacks many of his father’s qualities. He is too drunk to function properly at the wedding, is unable to have mature social interactions, and fails to understand the intricacies of familial relationships.

***

Sonny offers crumpled bills ot an FBI agent after stomping on his camera Though Sonny Corleone, the oldest son and therefore the eventual successor to the family business, shares few of Fredo’s character traits, he is also unlike his father in both personality and values. His reckless and impulsive nature is dramatized in his interaction with the FBI agents who are documenting, in an act of surveillance, the people who are attending the wedding. After unsuccessfully attempting to get the agents to leave and being met instead with a stoic face and an FBI ID, Sonny takes his frustration out on one of the agents, yanking his camera away and throwing it on the ground. Afterwards, he’s held back by Peter Clemenza; if Clemenza had not been there, Sonny would have likely thrown some punches. Then, in classic gangster fashion, he drops a couple of crumpled bills on the ground to pay for the broken camera.

This scene speaks volumes about Sonny, especially his inability to control his temper: once he fails to get what he wants, he will continue to take further action, no matter how irrational, to exact his petty revenge. Sonny has his own form of immaturity, that is, and although it is quite different from Fredo’s, it still is a huge character defect. By committing such irresponsible actions, he distances himself from his father. During the wedding, especially in his dealings with Amerigo Bonasera, Vito is defined by his poise, gracefulness, and eloquence. He does this not only to maintain control over intense situations, but to handle them maturely and ensure that they reflect well back on to him. By contrast, Sonny lacks the foresight to control his emotions, and fails to understand how his outbursts will reflect back upon his family.

If his personality suggests a mismatch with his father’s, the way Sonny treats his own family absolutely confirms this mismatch, setting him up as the antithesis of Vito. In a cruel irony, Sonny takes advantage of the drama around the celebration of a new family to cheat on his wife.

This moment from the wedding scene encapsulates well the cruelty of the irony. His wife is in the foreground, busy talking to other guests and joking about the size of his phallus—which in its own way is a form of endearment. Meanwhile Sonny is almost directly behind her, just having whispered into the bridesmaid’s ear to meet him in a more private setting. He is cheating on his wife literally behind her back, and her close proximity to him while he commits this act suggests how normal this sort of betrayal has become for him. He puts a little care into hiding his unfaithfulness, but his suspicious activities are not unnoticed by his wife, who looks behind her to find him, only to see that he is already gone.

Sonny’s willful disregard of his own family reveals the biggest possible contrast between him and his father: while Sonny is scheming to have sex in an act of unfaithfulness, his father dances with his wife on stage in an act of faithfulness. Vito makes it plain that he disapproves of Sonny’s actions in a later scene from the wedding sequence.

Vito to Sonny: "a man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man" While talking to Johnny Fontane, he asks him if he spends time with his family, which Johnny replies affirmatively to. He follows up with a bit of moral instruction—“Because a man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man”—and here he looks directly at Sonny, directing the line more to him than to Johnny. Vito doesn’t address the issue in a private one-on-one, but he doesn’t need to, as this line serves as his condemnation of Sonny’s act. And in this condemnation, he embarrasses his son for failing to be a “real man” and a proper Corleone father.

Structurally, the shot echoes the one earlier with Sonny’s wife: in both, Coppola places in the foreground a character who’s talking about Sonny and positions Sonny in the background. His placement in the background suggests his participation in suspicious activities and his attempts to keep them out of sight from his family. Consequently, Sonny is the opposite of Vito in both personality and moral conduct, and his obvious lack of belief in traditional Sicilian family values indicates how inappropriate he would be to succeed Vito as head of the Corleone family.

***

Michael enters the wedding in olive green military garb, accompanied by Kay Adams, a non-Italian-American While Michael may not be as immature as his two older brothers, the moment he walks into the wedding a distinction is already made between him and the rest of his family. As he walks into the estate with Kay, noticeably late—13 minutes already into the film to be exact—his military uniform sticks out like a sore thumb. Michael makes deliberate choices to differentiate himself from the rest of the Corleone family, showing up when he wants to instead of at the beginning of the wedding, wearing what he wants to instead of a tuxedo like the rest of his brothers, and bringing a non-Italian-American date (who herself chooses to wear a dress that is Americana in style). These choices construct his character as just another attendee and not a central member of the Corleone family. In his first interaction with a member of the family, Michael hears from Tom that his father is looking for him.

Coppola cuts to a close-up shot here, placing emphasis on both the importance of the statement as well as the secrecy of it—as it is family business—to ensure that Kay will not overhear. But Michael barely reciprocates, simply nodding before sitting back down to continue dining with Kay. This is a direct rejection of Vito, and more generally a rejection of any effort to craft stronger ties with his family and the dubious business they deal in.

Michael saying to Kay, "That's my family, Kay. It's not me." Michael’s decision to create a strong distinction between himself and his family is epitomized in a later scene in which he recounts the story of how Vito helped launch Johnny’s solo career. As he relates Vito’s criminal activities to Kay in vivid detail, he ends with the line “That’s my family Kay. It’s not me.” Michael makes it clear to Kay that he no longer feels a sense of belonging within his own family. It appears that Michael, decked out in his military uniform, is attempting to rebrand himself as a law-abiding, patriotic citizen — the exact opposite of a Corleone.

***

The opening wedding scene of The Godfather serves a dual purpose, revealing Vito’s love for the entire Corleone family and the standard of behavior he expects from them, while also exposing his three sons as failing to meet that standard. However, we can make a crucial distinction between the three sons: while Sonny and Fredo are both defined by their immature actions, Michael is Vito’s only son who chooses, on purpose, to fail to meet this standard.

Furthermore, we can see that, outside of his decisions to distance himself from the family, Michael is still a bearer of Sicilian values and culture: he talks about Sicilian family titles, recounts stories regarding his father, and even waltzes with his significant other, much like Vito is seen doing at various points in the wedding.

And so, with Michael finally present at the wedding, the photographer lines up the family once again. Michael stands with his family, even bringing in Kay despite her not being Italian-American nor his wife at this point. His presence in the picture hints that he may one day be ready to rejoin the Corleone family, but it won’t be to assimilate back into the previously established culture. Instead, it will be on his own terms, with his own standards of morality and his own family values.

A complete Corleone family, with Michael now posed in the family portrait

Hansol Jung (Cal ’20) is a sophomore majoring in English. A student with many aspirations, Hansol is part of various extracurriculars that align with his interests. At one point a Daily Californian Arts writer, Hansol now devotes his time to working as a vice president of the Korean-American Student Association on campus as well as the president of an awards-winning competitive advertising club, imagiCal.

“Till Death Do Us Part”: Michael’s Marriage to Apollonia and the “Corleone” Way

in Anatomy of a Scene/Character Studies

By Julia Reilly

Michael’s marriage to Apollonia, halfway through The Godfather, marks a metaphorical marriage to Sicily and the ways of his father. By partaking in an intensely traditional wedding with an equally traditional Italian bride in a town that bears his family’s name, Michael is wedding himself to the Old World of his father’s generation and to the violent path that he had previously rebelled against. Yet he renews his commitment to his family in his own way — and the terms of this commitment are signaled by the contrast between the two weddings in the film (Michael’s and Connie’s) and by the development of his character between the two ceremonies.

The two weddings in The Godfather differ from one another greatly. Unlike his sister Connie’s sumptuous and lighthearted reception, Michael’s marriage to Apollonia is old-fashioned and deeply Sicilian. While Connie’s wedding features Sicilian traditions, like her wedding purse and songs sung in Italian, it does not diverge too sharply from a normal (though lavish) American wedding. The Corleones showcase their prosperity and well-connectedness through the wedding, and Connie’s towering cake is the epitome of extravagance and excess.

Connie’s enormous and intricate cake, a symbol of the family’s wealth, is presented to the party

Guests cheer loudly and happily at Connie’s well-attended and expensively decorated reception

Connie and Carlo’s wedding is bright and loud. Wine flows freely, and several characters appear to be drunk. The scenes of their celebration utilize warm, vivid colors and upbeat music accompanied by laughter, excited shouts, and singing, while Michael’s wedding looks muted and earthy, scored by a band playing a song that recalls the slow and almost mournful Godfather theme. Where Connie’s wedding features posy pink bridesmaids’ dresses, a performance from celebrity Johnny Fontane, and lots of dancing, Michael’s nuptials are quiet, small, and more serious, in the “Old World” fashion.

Apollonia engages with guests at her modestly sized and decorated, quiet reception

A reverent Michael and Apollonia bless themselves, kneeling respectfully before the Sicilian priest

As noted in the screenplay, Michael’s wedding is “the same in feeling and texture as it might have been five hundred years ago,” with “all the ritual and pageantry, as it has always been, in Sicily.” This deeply Sicilian wedding illustrates Michael’s complete immersion in the Sicilian culture. The priest and the wedding ceremony, rather than the reception, take center stage, and Michael and Apollonia, though joyful, wear formal expressions. Their wedding is a sacred, holy union, and while the couple and the bride’s family will soon celebrate, the religious sacrament is the undisputed focus of the day. This emphasis on reverence and religion is not displayed at Connie’s reception, where young women are playing guessing games about the size of someone’s manhood and Sonny is having extramarital sex with a bridesmaid upstairs.

Sonny’s wife with a riff on someone’s—perhaps her husband’s—manhood

In Michael’s wedding scene, a beautiful long shot of the small Italian town follows the bride and groom’s procession, showcasing both Corleone’s natural richness in color and its plain and battered buildings. Michael’s journey to Sicily is a journey back to his family’s roots, and this shot shows audiences just how different his home in America is from the region that gave the Corleone family their name. In New York, the Corleones live luxuriously. Immensely successful as a result of their illegal deeds, they are a family of wealth, but one somewhat isolated from the land and their community. Only the important and influential are permitted to attend Connie’s New York wedding, but Michael’s Sicilian wedding invites the whole town to take part in tradition and festivity.

A long shot (Godfather cinematographer Gordon Willis’s favorite shot of the film) follows the wedding party as it files through poor but naturally beautiful Corleone

Set against the backdrop of poor, dilapidated Corleone, Michael and Apollonia’s reception takes place among urban grime, in a circle of mismatched chairs — a stark contrast to Connie’s ornate celebration. Apollonia engages with her wedding guests through Sicilian traditions, her incredibly elaborate hairstyle and ornamental veil reflecting the monumental nature of the day in a way that the homely reception area does not. This reception is about family and community, about honoring the memory of those who came before by celebrating in the old way. The reception’s traditions are like valuable heirlooms, passed down from each new couple to the next; they join the community in a bond that matches the sacredness of the earlier ceremony, even though they are not religious sacraments.

Connie waltzes with her father on the dancefloor, encircled by her hundreds of guests

Newly married Michael and Apollonia dance together on worn cement as their guests look on from a circle of mismatched chairs

The differences between The Godfather’s two weddings suggest the materialism of American culture — how the opulence of “The Don,” a product of his success in America, has distanced him from the family-based Italian way and the poverty-stricken town of Corleone.

Aside from providing important commentary on the Corleone family and culture, the disparities between the two marriage celebrations highlight the many ways Michael has changed since the beginning of the film. For Connie’s wedding, Michael dons an American military uniform, signifying not only his alignment with America and its laws and customs, but also, and more notably, his history of risking his life to maintain them.

A bright and giggly Kay intertwines arms with her war-hero boyfriend, Michael

When Kay, a talkative and inquisitive all-American beauty (dressed in a bright and patriotically-hued frock), questions Michael about his family, he does his best to answer only vaguely and often attempts to direct their conversation away from the topic. When asked about Luca Brasi, Michael simply tells Kay that he “helps my father out sometimes.” Kay eventually pushes Michael to tell her the full story about Brasi and Johnny Fontane. He gives in, telling the tale solemnly and in graphic detail, taking great care to distance himself from the violent act he is speaking about. Michael concludes the story with the statement “That’s my family, Kay. It’s not me”: he does not simply refuse to participate in the “family business,” but also deeply disapproves of it. As Kay and Michael sit together, Tom Hagen informs Michael that his father is looking for him. He does not get up or even attempt to look around for his father, but instead simply continues his conversation as if nothing had happened.

Michael holds Kay and poses with his family for a photo

Michael and Kay are carefree and giggly when not discussing family matters, holding hands and sitting close together in their own little world like high school sweethearts. They isolate themselves from the rest of the party, only interacting with family members if they approach them first. When Michael is brought over for a family picture, he insists Kay join in, perhaps subconsciously to associate himself more closely with her than with the Corleone family. Kay is an independent, outspoken American woman—the opposite of the submissive female Corleones, most notably the delicate and powerless Connie.

At his own wedding later in the film, Michael is much more serious and traditional, embracing both his family and his heritage. He seems comfortable in the Sicilian way and looks perfectly natural during the ultra-traditional wedding. Michael has traded in the military uniform for a modest yet formal suit, looking dapper save for his badly bruised face. The attempt on Don Corleone’s life has ignited a change deep within Michael, and the darkening mark under his eye physically indicates the alterations taking place inside him emotionally.

A bruised Michael, changed both physically and mentally since the film’s start, dances with his new wife

At the ceremony, he genuflects reverently, then sweetly but solemnly offers his new bride his arm as they stand up. Michael is serious and formal as he processes through the city with his wife, wearing a dignified expression that matches the rich and ceremonious wail of the music. As Michael continues to walk, it is increasingly apparent that he has become one with Sicily.

The newlywed couple walks forward seriously and ceremoniously as guests throw celebratory rice behind them

He shares a moment with the young flower girl: he smiles at her and she smiles back, as if acknowledging him as a welcome member of the family and the community. Michael walks with his bride through the town that has now become his home, not looking like an out-of-place foreigner, but like a man who has strolled these winding paths all of his life. As Michael walks down the dirt roads of his father’s world with his new bride, he follows in his father’s footsteps, both literally and figuratively.

Sharing a smile with the young flower girl, Michael is comfortable and accepted within the Sicilian community

The changes Michael goes through during the film, visible through the differences in his behavior at the two weddings, begin with the attack on his father. At the hospital, Michael gets in an altercation with (and is physically assaulted by) a corrupt cop while trying to protect his already injured father from being “finished off” by hit men. From this moment on, both he and the family’s enemies view him not as an innocent bystander, but as an active participant in the Corleone family.

Seconds before he is punched, Michael angrily asks the corrupt police captain about his ties to the opposing mob family

Michael wants safety for his father and revenge against the Tattaglias who tried to assassinate “the Don,” and to ensure that safety, he becomes not just an active member of the family, but an active member of “the business” as well, volunteering to shoot and kill Sollozzo. When Michael gets to the restaurant where the hit will take place, he is noticeably uneasy, but he doesn’t change the plan; his motivation is strong enough to neutralize his previous moral ideals. After Michael murders Sollozzo and the cop McCluskey, there is no turning back.

Michael murders McCluskey and Sollozzo—an act the man at Connie’s wedding never would have committed

The very violence he condemned at Connie’s wedding now his own, Michael goes to Sicily to hide. While killing for the family was the first major step in Michael’s transformation, he continues to undergo changes during the journey to his father’s roots. In the town of Corleone from which his family took its name, Michael is inducted into the Old-World life and the Sicilian way. The derelict buildings and sprawling countryside through which his father once walked are Michael’s new home: the ultra-modern, all-American man whom audiences were introduced to at the start of the film is now nowhere to be found. In Sicily, Michael embraces his roots and his culture, connecting with his Italian heritage in a way viewers have not yet seen.

Michael (at front), indistinguishable from his Sicilian bodyguards, treks comfortably through the rural Italian landscape

When asking Apollonia’s father permission to court her, Michael uses his father’s power to his advantage in a way he never would have before, saying “My name is Michael Corleone. There are people who would pay a lot of money for that information, but then your daughter would lose a father instead of gaining a husband.” Michael makes Fabrizio stand and translate for him as he speaks with a stately air, showcasing his power and commanding respect from the man who only moments ago regarded him as a rude and immature boy. Michael’s earlier relationship with Kay is featured in dialogue-heavy scenes, but his growing bond with Apollonia is shown through montage, with smooth, orchestral music and almost no words shared between the couple.

Michael “courts” Apollonia’s father before courting her: they talk while she watches from afar

Michael’s courting of Apollonia is patient, gentle, and traditional—much less modern and American than his previous romantic interactions with Kay. Michael gains the approval of Apollonia’s family and father before spending time with her alone, in customary Sicilian fashion. Apollonia and Michael are united by culture, tradition, and loving glances, their connection deepening slowly but fiercely. By the time Michael marries Apollonia, he seems a completely different man than the one who attended Connie’s wedding. Michael has become a true Corleone (embracing both Italian culture and mob affiliation), and his marriage to Apollonia signifies Michael’s official acceptance of this change and what it means for his future.

Michael catches Apollonia from a fall, touching her—albeit only for a moment—for the very first time in their relationship

When Michael marries Apollonia, he is wedding himself not just to her, but to Sicily and his father’s values. He is also rejecting Kay and the American way: due to the chain of events prompted by the attempt on his father’s life, Michael is on the road to becoming the new Don, and he will need support from a suitable wife. Though the love between Michael and Apollonia is portrayed as gentle, patient, and true, Apollonia is certainly attractive to a future mafioso not just for her kindness and beauty, but for her subservience. Where Kay is white, nosy, and modern, Apollonia is Italian, submissive, and traditional.

Michael’s pre-Sicily relationship with Kay spoke to his rebellion against the “family business,” and when he trades Kay in for a more obedient model, Michael is no longer rebelling against, but rather fully embracing, his father’s lifestyle. He takes part in an Old-World style wedding, far more traditional than Connie’s, to shed the vestiges of his American ways and become a true Sicilian. By marrying Apollonia, Michael accepts the Corleone name, and everything that comes with it.

Julia Reilly is a junior (Cal ’19) studying film and creative writing. On campus, Julia acts in Berkeley’s Theatre, Dance, and Performance Studies Department and in plays put on by the 100% student-run Barestage Company. A vintage and kitsch enthusiast, Julia runs a fashion-focused Instagram blog, @juliamaejuicebox.

A Son’s Devotion to His Father: Michael and Vito’s Garden Scene

in Anatomy of a Scene/Character Studies

By Maria De Jesus Ramos Mendez

Michael (left) and Vito (center) in the dark and enclosed garden, discussing the future of the family business

We begin the scene in a noticeably dark garden: Michael Corleone has his back to us on the left, while his father, Vito Corleone, looks away to the right. They are meeting to go over Michael’s possible assassination from a traitor in the business. The scene of their meeting — in a garden —strikes a different note from earlier Godfather scenes, in which business is handled indoors, and in dark and private rooms. Yet it is not so different: the fencing encloses the garden and gives it an exclusive feel, and the lighting is gray rather than sunny and bright, suggesting the death that looms over both Don Vito and Michael (between the previous attempt on Vito’s life and a possible future attempt on Michael’s).

Although the scene is set in a garden, which might evoke the work of women (gardening) or the play of children (a suggestion taken up by the bicycle in the background), we see that the ground is mostly dirt with some big trees near the dark concrete border mentioned earlier. Too, the placement of Don Vito and Michael at the edge of the garden and not in the middle—where there are rows of vegetables being cultivated —reinforces the idea that they are not in the garden to pass the time but to go over a plan to keep Michael safe. Michael is, after all, living his life “on the edge,” and so it is fitting that he confers with his father on the edge of the garden rather than in its more sunny center. The atmosphere may be more informal than usual in the Corleone family business, but there’s no question of its seriousness. In fact, the nature that surrounds Michael and Vito acts as a framework that preserves the transfer of power between father and son as a natural and conventional gesture.

A study in contrasts: black hair vs. gray hair, new clothes vs. faded clothes

The same frame allows us to take notice of Vito Corleone and how he has been worn down by age. His hair is a dull gray, with white accents; his skin is wrinkled; he wears stubble, as if he has stopped keeping up appearances. Another critical point about the first frame is how Vito Corleone isn’t looking directly at Michael. Instead, his eyes are low and looking elsewhere. In the same manner, we don’t have access to Michael’s face. Our only way to discern how Michael is feeling at this particular moment is through his body. He leans towards his father in a concerned and caring manner.

However, moments later, the camera shifts, and we see Michael’s face and only the back of Vito Corleone’s head. Unlike Vito Corleone, Michael’s hair is black, his face is young-looking, and even his clothes are more polished compared to Vito Corleone’s old style and almost faded shirt. The difference in clothes accentuates how Vito Corleone has retired as the head of the family business and can wear comfortable clothes and be outdoors.

We come back to Don Vito as he tells Michael that he has been drinking more wine. The brief moment presents a shift in mood. Don Vito drinking the wine makes the scene appear more casual. In the background we can hear the birds chirping; the conversation eventually turns to them talking about Michael’s family, with a focus on his son. The mention of Michael’s son and his ability to read the funny papers lightens the mood; for the first and only time in the scene, Vito’s face spreads into a smile and we feel his affection for his family.

Michael looks to his father, his back toward us, while Vito looks down at the wine in his hand

Vito smiles as he faces Michael and thinks about his grandchild

Half in shadow, half in sun: Vito contemplating the paths he’d hoped Michael would follow

The happiness vanishes fairly quickly, and the scene continues to dramatize the disconnect between Michael and Don Vito. Vito and Michael’s lack of eye contact suggests many things at once. First, as part of different generations, they are constantly seeing things from a different perspective. Don Vito is still in the old habit of going over plans, and Michael has to continue reassuring him that he has already taken care of things. Second, there is a guardedness to the warmth between them: constant eye contact might be dangerous — too affectionate, too soft, for this father and son. As Robert Towne, who was brought in to script this scene, has suggested, “they couldn’t just outwardly declare their love for each other.” Lastly, there’s the possibility that Don Vito can’t look at Michael because he can’t literally face the reality that his son has become the new Don Corleone.

This last suggestion is taken up by Vito’s dialogue in the last part of the scene, which brings out both the tenderness and guardedness of their rapport. Vito gets up from his seat and sits closer to Michael, making the space between him and Michael significantly smaller. Even though Don Corleone stands up, he doesn’t have a strong presence nor much authority in the frame because his eyes are still looking down and his walk to the seat is sluggish. The scene exposes his old age even more by closing in on his aged features.

Here the lighting underscores Don Corleone’s smallness. Despite the fact that Don Corleone is closer to the screen because of where he is seated, his appearance is darkened, and Michael’s face is lit up in profile. The lighting naturally forces our eyes to focus on Michael’s face, making us see Don Corleone as a mere shadow, almost insignificant. Under the safety of the shadows, Don Corleone permits himself to utter the words, “But I never wanted this for you.” The confession enables the scene to reach a higher level of intimacy without the need for light or eye contact because the words carry all the weight. This instance of vulnerability communicates how important the family is to Vito, so much so that he taps into the unconventional tenderness of fatherhood. The sense of vulnerability is heightened by the shadow that drapes Vito’s face — a shadow that, given Vito’s age, seems not unrelated to the shadow of death.

Michael and Vito’s bodies are positioned towards each other, but the difference in lighting (Michael’s face made lighter and Vito’s darker) makes it appear that they are looking past each other

An alternative reading of this particular moment might suggest that Michael and his father are two sides of the same coin. The main difference is that Don Corleone has his eyes looking to the left as he reflects on his past, while the frame forces Michael to look to the light, towards the future.

Coppola’s particular framing of the back and forth between father and son leaves us asking why they don’t share the screen with full faces at the same time. Perhaps the camera purposefully only grants one or the other to stress the difference in generations and how that affects the future of the godfather role. After all, this scene was written so that there could be “a visible transfer of power from father to son.” The scene wraps up with Don Corleone kissing Michael on the cheek, giving last-minute warning of the traitor, and then walking off the frame of the lens. Immediately, we see Michael lay down.

A closing frame: Michael, slumped on the patio chair, carries the weight of the family

The last frame with Michael slumped in a pillowed chair conveys the weight he now bears. In the scene as a whole, Michael has become newly sympathetic — he’s framed as the son who wants to free his elderly father from the burden that is work. At the close of the scene, we see that he has taken on that burden, along with the conviction that he is the new Don Corleone. Having given the viewer that assurance, the scene fades out to the next.

Maria De Jesus Ramos Mendez (Cal ’18) is a senior studying English and Education. She is committed to fulfilling her passion for teaching literature in high school. She has taken up multiple teaching positions in hopes of gaining experience and refining her skills as an educator. When she’s not reading her novels or teaching, she enjoys the company of her husband and their beautiful little girl.

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Daniel Arias is a graduating senior (’18) at the University of California, Berkeley, where he studies English Literature. In his spare time he binge-watches The Office for the millionth time.

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