Amerigo Bonasera

Navigating Coppola’s Maze: Editing in The Godfather

in The Craft of The Godfather

By Sarah Rivka

A film is written thrice — in pre-production through screenwriting, in production through shooting, and in post-production through editing. Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather was written (and re-written) in the editing room by a total of six editors, only two of whom, William Reynolds and Peter Zinner, were credited. Coppola’s biggest struggle, edit-wise, was to reduce the film to a length that Paramount Studios could stomach.

According to Harlan Lebo in The Godfather Legacy, “By the time principal photography was completed, Coppola had shot 500,000 feet of potentially usable footage, or more than ninety hours of material.” Coppola repeatedly removed and replaced scenes, often to “appease the studio,” resulting in the edit becoming a “maze,” with multiple scenes sliced and abandoned on the cutting room floor. (Lebo 188) The work was an epic exercise in reduction that won Reynolds and Zinner a nomination for the 1973 Academy Award in Editing.

The essence of cinema is editing. It’s the combination of what can be extraordinary images of people during emotional moments, or images in a general sense, put together in a kind of alchemy.

— Francis Ford Coppola

Completing their labyrinthine edit, Coppola and his team managed to create contrasting rhythms that amplified violent scenes. Through its varying rhythmic tools—from continuous action to hard cuts and cross dissolves—The Godfather lulls the audience into submission in order to intensify the impact of violent action when it arrives. The rhythm of the film’s editing thereby mirrors the rhythm of the Corleone family, which strives to maintain an equilibrium but often resorts to violence in order to reach it.

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Rather than employ a non-linear editing style where time is out of order (as famously done in Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane and Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction), The Godfather is edited in continuous action, with scenes passing in chronological order from start to finish. Coppola’s use of continuous action helps create his lulling ambiance. As we sit in scenes for long periods of time—scenes in which no violence occurs—we fall into the balance of the Corleone family carrying out business. Rhythmically, the majority of the film exhibits this slow, brooding pace.

Within said rhythm, one editing tool that Reynolds and Zinner employ is the transitional cross dissolve. A cross dissolve is the overlapping of two images in either two different scenes or the same scene. In contrast to hard cuts, where there is no visual overlap, cross dissolves are a way to slow down action, creating a gradual and therefore comforting effect.

This lulling and brooding ambiance causes the dispersed moments of violence to feel increasingly terrifying. When those moments of violence arise, both the film and viewer are bombarded by a rush of adrenaline. In the gruesome scene of Woltz finding his prized horse’s severed head at the foot of his bed, for instance, we open with multiple cross dissolves over exterior shots of his home, sprinkled with the sound of morning crickets. This establishes an idyllic morning before the horror. Similar to other parts of the film, it is a calm before a storm.

After the idyllic California cross-dissolve setup, the horse’s head is revealed through a long take. Jazz trumpeter Miles Davis has suggested, famously, that “[m]usic is the space between the notes. It’s not the notes you play; it’s the notes you don’t play,” and a similar principle applies to the language of film. A lack of cuts is often more powerful than countless dramatic splices. Had Reynolds and Zinner employed quick cuts here, the horrific reveal of Woltz’s severed horse’s head would read as a modern-day slasher film, which Coppola specifically aimed to avoid so that The Godfather would not fall “[t]oo much into the Corman Horror film tradition.” (Coppola, The Godfather Notebook)

The long take of Woltz waking up, discovering blood, and finding the horse’s head, all within the same shot, creates a sickening feeling that the audience can’t escape. We are forced to experience pain in real-time with Woltz. There are a couple of rhythmic beats resting on the head, making it all that much more terrifying and visceral. The shot holds on the horse’s head for the first two beats of Woltz’s scream, exacerbating the visceral nature of the horse’s killing. We do not cut until after two screams.

While Woltz screams, we visually cut farther and farther back to static shots, amplifying his sense of loss and powerlessness in this predicament. In contrast to the idyllic cross dissolves of exterior shots at the opening of this scene, these hard cuts at the scene’s finish intensify the sense of discomfort.

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Two scenes that further underscore the potential of a long take without edit are Bonasera’s opening monologue and Connie’s confrontation with her husband Carlo. In the opening monologue, we fade in and there is no hard cut, or any cut for that matter, for four minutes. The first hard cut of the film is when Marlon Brando’s character of Vito is revealed. Because this is The Godfather’s primary cut, it signifies his prominence as a character.

Bonasera’s opening monologue—a long take

first cut of the film, revealing Don Corleone

The scene in which Connie struggles to confront Carlo also showcases the power of allowing a long take to play without editing. We follow her from the kitchen, to the dining room, to the parlor, back to the kitchen and into the hallway with the knife—and all without any cut. There is no edit until after she is holding the knife; at that moment we cut to her going in the bedroom. Just as when we experienced Woltz finding his horse’s head, we are stuck in real time with Connie, vicariously trapped in her pain. This scarcity of edits also allows the actors to fully actualize their performance, further intensifying the audience’s experience.

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No scene in The Godfather is more famous, editing-wise, than the baptism scene—the film’s bravura climax. This scene utilizes the editing technique known as cross-cutting, or parallel editing. In parallel editing, two or more scenes are woven together. These two scenes may be occurring simultaneously or happening at various times, in a montage manner. While it is likely that the baptism and murders occur within a similar time frame, the sense that the film may be breaking, for the first time, from its continuous action underlines this scene’s importance.

hands on Connie’s baby being prepared for baptism; hands on a gun being prepared for a murder

The use of parallel editing allows for stark juxtapositions—sharp contrasts in tone, and often in concept. Michael is becoming a godfather in two senses—to his niece, and to his mafia family. We open in the church, far away and cutting closer and closer in to Connie’s baby (played by Coppola’s now director-daughter Sofia). The first cut we see dramatizing this contrast takes us from the hands of Michael and Kay, holding Connie’s baby, to the hands of another adult, holding a gun. This is the first juxtaposition where the audience can draw parallels between the two worlds in which Michael vows himself to live. Had Reynolds and Zinner edited these as separate scenes, not back-and-forth, the audience would not have the same thematic guide from the filmmakers.

We cut from the gun’s preparation to Michael, whose composure illusrtates how he ruminates, coldly, on the imminent deaths. The baby meanwhile has gone from crying to a state of calmness; there’s a slow in the editing and a pause—another calm before the storm. As the organ builds, Michael says “I do” to renouncing Satan, his sins, and becoming godfather, of baby and mafia. The parallel pre-killing cuts quickly together and the baby is once again wailing, furthering the emotional impact. As seen below, the first parallel cut where he renounces Satan is followed by a murder.

the first parallel edit between Michael’s renunciation of Satan and a ‘hit’ that he’s ordered

We then cut back to Michael, who says “I do renounce him.” Afterwards, we are pulled into another murder. Along with the organ soundtrack, this cross-cutting creates a rhythm that punctuates each murderous beat. Between each of the following murders, there is at least one cut back to Michael, suggesting his responsibility for the action carried out in his family’s name.

The other four murders that Michael ordered—each punctuated with shots of Michael in between

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In their maze of an edit, Coppola, Reynolds, and Zinner crafted a film of varying rhythmic qualities, allowing it to return to an equilibrium after moments of high tension and violence. The film’s lulling rhythm is reflective of the balance that Michael Corleone struggles to achieve for his family. In his mafia world, these moments of violence are inevitable—and he often succumbs. Rather than editing these scenes into ones that glorify horror, Reynolds and Zinner made them cogent and visceral. The Corleone family, we sense, is stuck in a labyrinth of their own making, perpetually attempting to restore stability and without an exit in sight.

Sarah Rivka (Cal ’19) is a junior majoring in Linguistics with a minor in Creative Writing. She recently returned to school after traveling and working as a freelance video editor. Outside of class, she spends time at UC Berkeley’s radio station DJing soul, jazz, rocksteady, highlife, poems, pop, and more under the moniker Feel Good Weird.

Works Cited

Francis Ford Coppola, The Godfather Notebook (New York: Regan Arts, 2016).

Harlan Lebo, The Godfather Legacy (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1997).

Mixing Business with Pleasure: Alcohol in The Godfather

in Tropes and Leitmotifs

By Neha Zahid

Alcoholic beverages – wines and spirits – are an essential aspect of Italian-American dining culture. A meal without a drink is no meal at all. Similarly, a scene without a drink is incomplete.

In Coppola’s The Godfather – a film that follows the Corleones as they try to balance their dangerous business with their personal matters – there are sixty-one scenes that feature characters drinking. There are three dominant drinks in the film—scotch, red wine, and white wine—and each type of drink correlates to a distinct role in the film. Scotch is a “man’s drink”; red wine a family drink; and white wine a party drink.

There are three main drinks in the film: scotch, a “man’s drink”; red wine, a family drink; and white wine, a party drink. But the drinks start to blur as the line between what “business” and what’s “personal” begins to blur as well.

These associations are developed across the film but are especially highlighted in three scenes – the opening scene, Connie’s wedding scene, and the Las Vegas scene. Yet although these different drinks begin with distinct associations in the film, the drinks themselves start to blur as the title of “godfather” passes from Vito to Michael, and as the line between what’s “business” and what’s “personal” begins to blur as well.

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The films open with a conversation between Bonasera and Vito (the godfather), in which Bonasera pleads for the godfather’s help to seek avenge his daughter’s assaulters. Bonasera is explaining the details of the account and begins to tear up. He apologizes for this unmasculine moment and then Vito prompts his men to give Bonasera a drink — a glass of scotch.

Bonasera taking a shot of scotch to fortify himself

The first drink of the film is a hard, dark spirit. The lens focuses on Bonasera’s eyes and with his voice trembling, body shaking in shock and fear of the horrific events his daughter endured, he sips on the drink and settles it on his lap. The camera zooms out, his eyes no longer in focus, and his voice returns to normal. As Bonasera regains his composure, it becomes clear that the drink functions to give him courage – and, in effect, to regain his masculinity. But Vito’s scotch not only transfers power to his guest; it also asserts Vito’s superiority and power.

Scotch, throughout the film, is present during meetings between men; it is not observed in any scene involving women. It is presented as a peace offering during meetings, a welcoming gesture for males, and as a mode of relaxation for men. No matter the scene in which it appears, scotch symbolizes a significant power dynamic between the men who offer it and the men who drink it.

Directly after this encounter between Bonasera and Vito is Connie’s wedding scene. The choice of drink? Wine. Red wine. Red wine is an Italian necessity. It complements the lavish gathering and joyful energy. The film, in a future scene, alludes to the health benefits of red wine. Vito explains to Michael that he has been drinking more red wine in his old age to which Michael responds with, “It’s good for you.”

Clemenza guzzling red wine from a pitcher; red wine pitchers, as essential as centerpieces

The association between red wine and good health is developed throughout Connie’s wedding. Men are seen drinking red wine while dancing to upbeat music. Clemenza drinks red wine as a replacement for water after exhausting himself in a dance. Pitchers of wine rest on tables — as essential as the centerpieces. Women are seen sipping red wine during casual conversations. Michael and Kay drink red wine along with their meals during a private conversation in which Michael is explaining the roles of members of the Corleone family. Young women enjoy red wine while gossiping about men. Every guest, old or young, male or female, is seen with a glass of red wine in hand. Red wine, then, has a strong connection with not only Italian culture, but also family.

It serves to bring people together, regardless of the “business behind the scenes.” In the wedding scene, the viewers are repeatedly taken from the cheerful events of the wedding to the serious discussions in the Don’s private office. Despite these ominous transitions, we are constantly comforted by the presence of red wine.

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“Welcome to Las Vegas”—a world of light fun and white wine

White wine is starkly different than the former two types of drinks. There is just one scene that involves white wine – the scene in Las Vegas where Michael proposes to buy out Moe Greene. Here the only people drinking white wine are the women whom Fredo hires for Michael (Johnny Fontane is holding a glass of white wine but never actually takes a sip). Within this context, white wine serves more as a party drink. Its lightness, in both color and strength of alcohol, represents the environment it tries to create – light, fun, worry-free. And indeed, it is a fun environment: music is playing, the girls are smiling, the colors are vibrant.

Michael Corleone: no women, no white wine, when discussing business

However, Michael immediately prompts Fredo to get rid of the “party” elements – the women and the band – because he is “here on business.” Strictly business.

The drink of choice, we might infer, should have been scotch. Fredo insults Michael’s masculinity by presuming the fun environment as appropriate for his interaction with his brother. Fredo further insults Michael by disrespecting and questioning his decisions in front of non-family members.

Clearly there is a disconnect between Fredo’s and Michael’s understanding of masculinity. Fredo’s perceived role in the Corleone family as an outcast relates to his misinterpretation of masculinity, family, and business. Fredo understands masculinity to be fun – in which white wine, a seemingly more feminine drink, is the drink of choice – and does not understand the seriousness of the Corleone business. It is this misunderstanding that results in his disrespecting of Michael. Where Michael was expecting scotch, Fredo was providing white wine.

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Across the film, there is no clear progression of drinks: the type of drink is dependent on the scene and the environment. Sequential scenes tend to have a mix of drinks, primarily scotch and red wine, and the overlap further blurs the lines between business and personal.

Arguably the most prominent scene to highlight this blurred mixing of business and pleasure is the final scene. In Michael’s office, Kay is told by her sister-in-law Connie that Michael is responsible for the assassinations—including the murder of Connie’s husband Carlo—that have just occurred. In shock, Kay asks Michael if it truly was his doing. He says no — a lie.

Kay, in relief, hugs Michael and calls for a drink. But what drink will it be? The camera is angled on Kay pouring two glasses; the figure of Michael is in the background. We as viewers cannot see which drink she is deciding to pour.

Kay hugs Michael and calls for a drink—but what drink will it be? The audience, much like Kay, is left in the dark.

If Kay truly believed Michael, red wine would be the appropriate drink, as it represents celebration of the bonds of family. But then we see, from Kay’s perspective, Michael’s men approach him and shake his hands, honoring him as the new Don Corleone.

Kay Adams: pouring two drinks but drinking alone

The office door closes and Kay is shut out from the truth — and the look on her face does not suggest that this is a happy outcome; she has poured two glasses, but the shut door keeps the two of them from sharing drinks and sharing a moment. Perhaps the drinks should be scotch, to signify Michael’s masculinity, his power, and his capacity for deceit — a capacity that Kay may now recognize.

Ultimately, the audience, much like Kay, is left in the dark. The drink is unknown; the future of Michael and Kay, uncertain.

Neha Zahid (Cal ’19) is a junior double-majoring in Public Health and Biology. She is interested in the role of health policies in addressing health inequities at the local and global levels. In her free time, she enjoys playing soccer and is a member of the Cal Women’s Club Soccer team.