Character Studies

Hemmed In: Kay Adams and Her Changing Fashions

in Character Studies/The Craft of The Godfather

By Emma Hager

Anna Hill Johnstone, the costume designer for The Godfather, knew how to make male antiheroes into fashion icons. In the mid-’50s, she outfitted the cool of Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront and of James Dean in East of Eden. On The Godfather—for which she received an Oscar nomination—she turned Al Pacino (dubbed “the midget” by producer Robert Evans) into an icon of slow-burning glamour with his dark three-piece suits and his tilted homburg hat.

Given that women speak all too rarely in the film, it’s especially important that we dwell on how their clothes speak for them.

What is often gravely overlooked is how much Johnstone’s genius—meticulous, deliberate, pointed—shaped the women’s fashions in the film. This is not surprising given how much the film trades in the currency of masculinity. Women in the film—or at least the idea of them—act as magnets of male ambition, motive, and desire. From a symbolic standpoint, that’s a powerful position to be in, but it’s also a problem that The Godfather’s women serve mostly as conduits for a story about men’s feuds and men’s business.

Given that women speak all too rarely in the film, it’s especially important that we dwell on how their clothes speak for them. We need to pay attention, when we can, to the pouf of a sleeve or the hem of a dress; they offer a lexicon cut from different cloth, whose words are quite revealing.

Corleones, meet Kay

Our first glimpse of Kay Adams (Diane Keaton) is from behind. She’s just arrived at Connie and Carlo’s wedding with her beau, Michael Corleone, a Marine back from the War. Michael, in a display of patriotism or of rote performance, wears his brown and boxy uniform. It’s well-tailored and simple—stoic, even, what with its precise hems.

Next to Kay, Michael and his uniform nearly disappear, swallowed by the aimless enormity of her gown. Because it’s orange-y-red with polka dots, parachuted at the sleeves, and generously petticoated, the gown would swallow Kay entirely, too, if it weren’t for its fitted waist. The burgundy belt is there as if to say there’s a person, here, underneath it all.

Kay has not dressed inappropriately for the wedding; there’s plenty of lace and tulle and crinoline to go around. Corleone women and guests jaunt about the scene, too, in garments of similar volume, yet the mostly pinks and otherwise pastels of their dresses offset Kay’s red look entirely. If all the other women look similarly elaborate and cartoonish, it’s in a different way. They’re like cakes, tiered and frothy, and Kay the sole tablecloth upon which to place them. This is an outdoor ceremony, after all, and her large look enough to be a picnicking surface.

It would be easy to dismiss this sartorial difference as one of mere taste; one might conjecture that Kay has chosen her dress from a different page of the Saks catalog. But this is a film whose aesthetic choices are excruciatingly deliberate, reflecting its grave polarities (good vs. bad) and ultimatums (life vs. death). Matters of taste are also ones of allegiance. And so it is through Kay’s laughably floppy gown, what with all its unwitting kitsch, that we’re first encouraged to be skeptical of the viability of Kay’s position in the family. Sure, the dress has an Americana charm, recalling Sunday drives and Wonder Bread, and may suggest an aspirational innocence, or a WASP-y posture, but already the contrasts are too stark to be easily resolved.

There will be no seamless synthesis into the family, nor will Kay ever be a raw and ready object of desire. Her beauty is sensible, lucrative; it frames her New Hampshire, Baptist upbringing, to which Michael turns, initially, as a means of Americanizing his life.

The Apollonia Distraction

To be naturalized, in some ways, through Kay, is a decent goal. But there’s still the immediate and irresistible allure of Apollonia Vitelli (Simonetta Stefanelli), Michael’s young and virginal bride whom he meets while hiding in Sicily. Her beauty is bewitching, her eyes rich and mysterious, her lips plush and pink. And Michael, upon seeing Apollonia for the first time as she comes traipsing up a dusty trail, goes still; he has been, in the words of his bodyguard, “struck by a thunderbolt.”

Indeed, our first glimpse of Apollonia — perhaps because it is also Michael’s — is a carnal yet unfussy one. Her burgundy dress, knee-length and loose but still generous to her feminine contours, takes up the movement of the wind. Its lightness means it could blow up, or off, at any moment, like she’s something to be undone. Unlike Kay’s saccharine and synthetic wedding ensemble, Apollonia’s dress, with its airiness and earthen tone, complement the browns and reds of the scorched Sicilian landscape. She’s of the earth, pure, and a desire for her is only natural. Michael has returned to his family’s point of origin, and the relative ease with which he dons the ubiquitous newsboy hat and flowy, peasant blouse — as opposed to his stiffness in the stiff Marines suit — finds its assuring companion in the nonchalance of Apollonia’s garment.

To my mind, if Kay recalls the sort of competent women played by the actress Theresa Wright in the postwar period, then Apollonia is a sort of Lolita figure. She’s Michael’s own kind of Nabokovian nymphet.

Nowhere in the film are we confronted with the archetypal contrasts of these women more than in an abrupt scene cut from one woman to the next, which cuts across geography and cloth. We start, in one moment, with an intimate scene between Michael and Apollonia. It’s the evening of their wedding, which occurred earlier in the day, and they appear now in white in their bedroom. Michael is in an unbuttoned dress shirt; Apollonia in an ivory negligee. He inches toward her. And while she’s initially hesitant with all the qualms of inexperience, the pencil-thin straps of her negligee fall away from her shoulders. They kiss.

Back in America, Kay Can’t Get Through

The camera cuts abruptly, back to America, where Kay exits a red and yellow taxi outside the Corleone compound. She’s on a mission. She wants to get in touch with Michael, though Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall), who meets her at the compound gates, refuses to pass on her letter to for fear of being further implicated in Michael’s hiding.

Kay’s ensemble here is signature to her. It sticks to the register of her previous looks: she wears a rounded, red coat and a matching hat. The tablecloth-like quality of her first look is preserved through the polka-dotted blouse. But when it’s set against the backdrop of the preceding scene, which is doused in Apollonia’s wanton energy, the outfit choice is made jarring. The tailoring is sure and strong, but the coat’s ketchup-like color is almost droll. This is not the crimson of desire; she must pursue Michael, find him out, though he retreats to the bosom of Apollonia.

Assuming, Subsuming

Eventually, Michael returns to the United States; Apollonia dies in an accident. Lust, like happiness, is mostly fleeting. There’s business to do and an American posture to assume again. Kay is, as mentioned, integral to this Americanization. It’s fitting that their first reunion, since Michael’s Sicily tenure, occurs outside the school where Kay is employed.

Michael emerges from a smooth, black car in a smooth, black overcoat; Kay struggles to keep the schoolchildren in line. She’s got on a trench coat — just more beige than a sea-foam green — a knitted skirt set, brown loafers and a string of pearls. She’s styled her hair into a bouffant, and it’s the most pronounced and animated aspect of her new, otherwise demure look. Gone are the tomato reds and roadside dining patterns.

While Kay’s power, to the extent we can conceive it as such, has never been a sexual one, this outfit helps to eradicate all previous hints of vibrance. Kay’s function is more pragmatically strict than ever, and Michael’s marriage proposal to her is more an admission of defeat—of how he’s working in a mode of ‘damage control’—than it is a demonstrated commitment to some ineffable bond. Kay professes it’s “too late” when Michael expresses his tenderness in the form of an addendum: “and I love you.” Only it’s not about that, of course, and anything beyond the transactional is muted — just like the green of Kay’s coat.

The Shadow of Doubt

The film closes with a closed door. The last shot is of a defeated-looking Kay, who stands in the frame of Michael’s office, looking longingly into its interior. Inside, there’s a world to which she’s not welcome. Kay cannot stay, and eventually one mafioso shuts the door on her; the shadow is increasingly cast upon her face until we get only her vague outline.

It’s a peculiar and compelling choice for an ending since it privileges the female as its object, but is explicitly exclusionary in its shutting the door on her. But perhaps this makes perfect sense for Kay, and more so when we consider her “purpose.” Michael has fully assumed his role; Kay has given him children. A transaction complete. A door closed.

In her final outfit, Kay’s features do not stand out, and it’s as if she has faded into the role of herself.

As the men buckle down for business , we see Kay buttoned up in a golden-beige shirtdress. It’s a fitted garment, for the most part, with only a slight flare of the skirt rendering any semblance to the comic largeness of her first look. Her hair has the same champagne glow as the fabric. Kay’s features do not stand out, then, and it’s as if she has faded into the role of herself.

Uncertainty and doubt invade the last shot, take over Kay’s face, but at least the lines of her dress are stiff and sure. A domestic armor.

Emma Hager (‘18) is a senior at the University of California, Berkeley, where she studies English literature. Regrettably, she still has yet to read Middlemarch.

“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).

Men of the House: Modes of Masculinity in The Godfather

in Character Studies

By Janani Hariharan

In The Godfather, director Francis Ford Coppola introduces the lead character Michael Corleone in the most curious of ways: almost thirteen minutes after the film has begun, Michael walks into his sister’s extravagant wedding, wearing a full Marines Corps uniform with a non-Italian-American woman on his arm.

This choice on Michael’s part, and on the part of Coppola, signals how The Godfather — though produced in the early 1970s — is a film that reflects on the mid-1940s, a time when masculinity was being redefined in the wake of the Second World War. Historian Corinna Peniston-Bird argues that during the war, “opportunities for contraction, transformation and resistance were limited. Men did not have a choice whether to confirm or reject hegemonic [military] masculinity.” But what happened once the war ended, when men had to use their bodies outside of war? What happened when decorated war heroes like Michael had to come home and redefine their manhood without wartime’s existing framework?

This problem is tackled in The Godfather through Michael but extends to every man in his family. The Godfather dramatizes this crisis of masculinity through male characters’ interactions with other men. While Vito uses restrained movements to exert influence, Sonny’s big, brash, impulsive actions take up space. Michael, meanwhile, takes a page out of both their books, using his intelligence and audacity to command authority. Insofar as the film equates masculinity with power, these important male characters in the film use their bodies in different ways to secure their patriarchal positions at the head of the family.

***

Power expressed in a small gesture: Vito signals for a drink for Bonasera

Vito Corleone controls his movements impeccably, using his body in only the most understated of ways to convey a sense of omnipotent authority over other men. This becomes evident as soon as the movie begins: the first time we as viewers lay eyes on any part of Vito, the camera faces Bonasera from over Vito’s shoulder. Bonasera, sitting on the other side of Vito’s desk, begins to sob at the plight of his daughter’s suffering. We see not a commanding body towering over Bonasera but an out-of-focus hand in the foreground, gesturing to a capo to bring Bonasera a drink in consolation, which he gratefully accepts.

Vito with the kitten: calculated gentleness

With just the use of one out-of-focus hand, the film situates Vito’s authority in methodical action and institutional relevance. His is a masculinity characterized by the deference and obedience of other powerful men — a masculinity that doesn’t need to exert power actively because the institution he has built on his own terms does it for him. Soon after the camera cuts to face Vito, we see him petting a small cat on his lap as he discusses matters of life or death with Bonasera. The cat, sprawled on his lap, luxuriates in his attention and infuses a playful energy into an otherwise dark and brooding room. Past critics have pointed to the cat as representative of hidden claws under Vito’s subdued façade. To me, however, a subtler detail stands out, particularly when Bonasera makes the grave mistake of asking Vito, “How much shall I pay you?” Vito immediately looks up at him from the corner of his eyes, affronted, and stops playing with the cat. He puts the cat on the table as if to mean serious business, stands up, and calmly confronts Bonasera about his infraction: “Bonasera, Bonasera. What have I done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?”

Playtime is over: the Don dispenses with the kitten

The cat in Vito’s hands is a symbol of the judicious way in which he wields power: he plays with the cat and gives it what it wants until he decides playtime is over. The Don giveth, and the Don taketh away, so to speak. These first few scenes illustrate what I would call Vito’s calculated gentleness: his body language is characterized by restraint, which highlights the authority he draws from simply being the head of the family and being revered and feared by so many.

Tenderness without calculation: the Don with his grandson

Of course, Vito’s authority changes after he steps down from his position as the copo dei capi. Vito becomes more of a family man, indulging in wine and time with his grandchildren. In an uncharacteristically tender moment toward the end of the film, we see Vito playing with his grandson in the garden. He presses an orange peel against his teeth to scare the child and lets him spray him with a water gun as they run around through the orange plants.

Poignantly, this is when his body gives out and he passes away. “I spend my life trying not to be careless,” Vito had admitted to Michael just moments before the film cuts to the garden scene. You would think that being a Mafioso is more life-threatening than being a grandfather, so it seems particularly biting that during his most unprotected moment in the film, he dies. Vito’s masculinity and power rest on the foundation of the institution he has built; when he finally moves without formal restraint, his vulnerability is not allowed to last. Within the scope of being a being a don, tenderness — when it’s not calculated — becomes weakness.

***

Reckless self-indulgence: Sonny with the bridesmaid

This weakness becomes apparent after an attempt is made on Vito’s life by a rival family, and the film offers up his oldest son, Sonny, as a solution to this newly created vacuum of power. But if Vito spends his life trying not to be careless, Sonny is a man who spends his life doing the complete opposite. Brash and impulsive, Sonny wields his body in intensely physical, violent ways; he asserts a hypermasculinity in relation to those around him, men and women alike. During Connie’s wedding, Sonny flirts with the maid of honor as his wife Sandra sits at another table. Soon after, we see Sonny and the bridesmaid in a bathroom having rough sex up against a door. Tom Hagen goes looking for him at Vito’s request and knocks on the door. “Sonny, are you in there? … the old man wants to see you,” Tom calls from the outside. “Yeah, one minute,” Sonny responds, before continuing with his pursuit.

If Vito maintains his masculinity through restraint in order to keep the family in power, Sonny asserts his through reckless self-indulgence, prioritizing his own needs and desires over those of the family. A particularly telling moment later on in the film illustrates this difference of worldview between father and son. In a meeting about the possible growth of the drug trade in their area, Vito and Sonny learn from a fellow Mafioso that the Tattaglia family would be willing to work together to ensure the Corleone family’s security. Sonny, immediately interested, butts into the conversation: “You’re telling me that the Tattaglias would guarantee our invest—” But Vito does not allow him to finish. “Wait a minute,” Vito tells Sonny, as he looks back at him, irked and disappointed, and proceeds to elegantly divert the conversation away from the infraction.

After the meeting ends, Vito tells Sonny to stay behind and reproaches him: “Santino … what’s the matter with you? I think your brain is going soft from all that comedy you’re playing with that young girl. Never tell anybody outside the family what you’re thinking again.” Sonny, like a disobedient child who refuses to listen, looks away and rolls his eyes at the scolding. Through this interaction, we see that Sonny’s intelligence and competence as a man and a leader is frustrated by his impulsive desire to disobey the configuration of norms and codes as set by Vito. His refusal to practice restraint and judiciousness in making decisions upsets Vito, and it is ultimately what leads to his downfall.

Yet Sonny loves his family as fiercely as he indulges in his own whims and fancies — and as the film progresses, these two passions create a recipe for disaster. Sonny finds his sister Connie with bruises all over her face, ostensibly because she had been abused by her husband Carlo. “Sonny, please don’t do anything. Please don’t do anything,” Connie pleads, recognizing where Sonny’s mind would immediately go. “What am I going to do? Make that baby an orphan before he’s born?” Sonny says as he holds her. In the scene that immediately follows, Sonny jumps out of a car with a baseball bat and chases Carlo down. “If you touch my sister again, I’ll kill you,” Sonny says through gritted teeth, after having beaten him to a pulp.

While it may seem like a justified retribution — a black eye for a black eye — it is this hotheadedness that triggers Sonny’s downfall. After another violent altercation between Connie and Carlo, Sonny receives a call from Connie. “You wait right there,” he says, and jumps into a car and drives off angrily, despite pleas from Tom to stop or at least slow down. “Go after him, go on!” Tom tells other members of the family, and they get into a car to follow him. Sonny ultimately drives off to his demise as he is ambushed at a tollbooth by machine gunfire, in a set-up orchestrated by enemies of the family with the help of Carlo.

If Sonny had not been so quick to attack Carlo after the first incident, he may have never made an enemy out of Carlo and would not have met such a gruesome and sudden death. Minutes after the assailants drive away, Tom’s men arrive at the scene only to find Sonny lying dead in the middle of the road. At the very least, if Sonny had waited for others to join him before he drove away to confront Carlo, he would have had some form of reinforcement during the ambush. Unlike Vito, Sonny is neither calculated nor gentle, relying on brutish force and carnal instinct to use his body and exert power. His masculinity ultimately proves to be an unfeasible solution to the vacuum of power in the wake of Vito’s attack.

***

Sonny’s response to a threat: artless aggression

Sonny’s death leaves his younger brother, Michael, as the most viable option to take the helm of the Corleone family. If Vito’s quiet authority and Sonny’s careless impulsiveness occupy opposite ends of the spectrum of masculinity presented in the film, Michael’s masculinity lies squarely in the middle. He is intelligent and collected but unforgiving: he has the tact of his father and the audacity of his brother. A telling difference between Sonny’s and Michael’s body language is highlighted during the two brothers’ meeting with Clemenza, Tom, and Tessio, as the five discuss how to handle Sollozzo’s request to discuss a truce. Sonny unsurprisingly raises his voice at the idea of Sollozzo’s proposition, pacing the room aggressively and yelling at those who suggest hearing Sollozzo out. “No more meetings, no more discussions, no more Sollozzo tricks,” Sonny yells, towering over Tom. “Do me a favor, Tom, no more advice on how to patch things up. Just help me win.” Michael, on the other hand, sits stoically on a plush chair, watching the scene unfold. After a brief moment of silence, Michael enters into the conversation. “We can’t wait,” he says calmly, remaining seated. “I don’t care what Sollozzo says about a deal, he’s going to kill Pop. That’s it.”

Michael’s response to the same threat: a methodical plan of action

Interestingly, Sonny and Michael want the same thing: they both think it’s wiser to strike now rather than give Sollozzo the benefit of the doubt. This is indicative of their potential to both be sound leaders. However, what Sonny articulates via artless aggression, Michael expresses in a methodical plan of action. “They want to have a meeting with me, right? … Let’s set the meeting,” Michael says, as he goes on to detail how they will orchestrate the ambush and dodge any possible retaliation.

We might see both Vito and Michael as self-made men — or self-made Dons — though they take different routes to that same destination. While Vito built the institution of the Corleone family from the ground-up, Michael comes of age over the course of the film and makes himself into a man by virtue of avenging an attempt on his father’s life. We later see that Michael successfully carries out the plan for the Corleone family, unflinchingly putting bullets in Sollozzo’s and Captain McCluskey’s heads and ending the threat to this father’s life. Insofar as Vito possesses a calculated gentleness and Sonny does not, Michael learns from their shortcomings to realize a calculated ruthlessness. He is a man who does not strike unless it is absolutely necessary — but does not hesitate to get his hands dirty when he must.

Calculated ruthlessness: Michael with Carlo

Michael’s newfound, calculated ruthlessness is powerfully evoked in the movie’s bloody climax, in which the camera cuts between the baptism of his godson and the assassinations of his rivals. But Michael’s metamorphosis is even more strikingly dramatized in a scene soon after, when Michael confronts Carlo about his complicity in Sonny’s murder. “Sit down,” he tells Carlo, as he pulls up a chair and takes a seat next to him. He pats Carlo on the shoulder and calmly reassures him: “Don’t be afraid. … Do you think I’d make my sister a widow?” Michael tells Carlo that he will have to leave for Las Vegas and hands him a plane ticket. “Only don’t tell me you’re innocent because it insults my intelligence. … Now, who approached you?” Michael asks. When Carlo finally admits to his involvement, Michael directs him to a car that is supposed to take him to an airport. Clemenza, sitting in the backseat, garrotes Carlo to his death, as Michael watches from the outside.

Michael, in the vicinity of violence: the murder of Carlo

For all the talk that we hear of Vito “taking care of business” toward the beginning of the film, we never once see him personally enact violence or be in the vicinity of it. Michael, on the other hand, both tactfully extracts a confession and also watches his brother-in-law lose his life at his own order, without so much as a flinch. The film establishes Michael’s masculinity relationally through the men that came before him: he learns from his father’s distaste for violence and his brother’s carelessness to become a true, successful copo dei capi of the Corlene family.

Michael’s consolidation of power proves to be a fitting end to the first installment of The Godfather trilogy, which is primarily interested in charting the jostle for power between and within families to establish a new socio-political hierarchy within the organized crime circuit in mid-1940s America. In the post-war context, men grappled with how to express their masculinity and assert their dominance outside the battlefield.

The film encapsulates this struggle by moving through two different modes of masculinity — through Vito and Sonny — before settling on the only viable option in Michael, whose calculated ruthlessness secures the survival and prosperity of the family. The other Dons have been vanquished, and there are no other characters within the family who might take its helm: the film underscores how Fredo’s feebleness and lack of intelligence and Tom’s non-Sicilian heritage effectively take them out of consideration for the leadership of the family, while the women of the film are shut out of that form of power entirely. Michael stands alone, unchallenged — his character having “successfully” resolved the film’s complex exploration of the relationship between gender and power in the post-war era.

Janani Hariharan (Cal ’18) is a senior studying Business Administration and English. She may have been much too young when she first watched The Godfather twelve years ago, but she is using this project to help her recover as she continues to explore the implications of gender and its performance in her favorite works.

Work Cited

Linsey Robb and Juliette Pattinson, Men, Masculinities and Male Culture in the Second World War (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018).

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.

By Emma Hager

Corleones, meet Kay

The Apollonia Distraction

Back in America, Kay Can’t Get Through

Assuming, Subsuming

The Shadow of Doubt

Emma Hager (‘18) is a senior at the University of California, Berkeley, where she studies English literature. Regrettably, she still has yet to read Middlemarch.

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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.

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

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