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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.

 

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Inhale, Exhale: Cigarettes and the Power of Michael Corleone

in Tropes and Leitmotifs
Michael wreathed in the smoke of Enzo's cigarette

By Meaghan Allen

Few people smoke in Coppola’s The Godfather, and for many of those who do, the cigarette functions more as a prop than as an expression of an idea about their character. However, the moments that Michael Corleone, played by Al Pacino, chooses to smoke are exceptional, deliberate moments: the action is in fact an action and not something done absent-mindedly. Michael smokes his cigarettes with purpose, as an image of his authority—of his emotional and mental strength as Godfather-in-the-making.

The choice of a cigarette to represent Michael’s symbolic power is significant because a cigarette is not a latent, or concealed, object: it consumes; it burns; it has the potential to kill and destroy. It is a piece of death that fits between the fingers and is kissed as the smoker inhales its substance, filling the body with fire. A cigarette demands a certain sense of control and presence, and—when used consciously—can be evocative of raw force.

The subtle symbolism of cigarettes is developed especially across three scenes in The Godfather: the scene where Michael comes home after Vito has been shot; the scene where Michael stands guard for his father outside the hospital; and the scene in which Michael is officially named Don. Whether through Michael’s physical movements (in particular his handling of cigarettes and lighters) or through the visual composition of the scene’s frame, Coppola underscores that, for Michael, the cigarette serves as a totem of dominance, control, and cool authority.

***

In the scene where the Family deliberates after the shooting of Vito, we see five men sitting in the dark office of the Corleone home. The shot is a medium ensemble shot of Michael (his back to the camera), Tom Hagen (profile), Sonny (almost direct center), Clemenza (3/4 face viewable), and Tessio (most of his face obscured, so we see mainly the back of his head). The camera is located behind the Don’s table, in line with the perspective of someone sitting in the leather chair, an evocation of Vito’s presence despite his being in the hospital. Out of focus in the foreground are a few objects sitting on the table, elements of the mise-en-scene: a cup, a small business ledger, some unidentifiable (due to the shadows) desk trinkets, and a pack of cigarettes.

After the attempt on his life, the camera takes Vito’s place at his desk

The men are all talking, discussing how to proceed given the news that Sollozzo has nearly succeeded in murdering Vito. In the whirling current of the conversation, Michael—who has been silent—comments, “You gonna kill all those guys” (referring to Sollozzo, Barzini, Tattaglia), and Sonny barks back, “Hey Mikey stay out of it!” This abrupt response silences Michael, and his lack of voice is tangible, a void in the overlapping whir of conversation. A beat later, though, he turns his head, and his face is now in profile. He turns his head further, giving the camera a full view of his face, and looks on the desk, possibly for some hint of encouragement from his missing father, to find his voice: he sees the pack of cigarettes. Michael gets out of his chair, walks very briefly out of the frame, and then re-enters in the foreground to grab a cigarette from the pack, which he tosses haphazardly back onto the table. He is now located in the dark shadows at the edge of the frame, his body a shapeless mass that morphs into the limits of the shot, becoming one with the shadows, not only of the scene but of the shadowy criminal underworld.

Michael reaching for the cigarettes on his father Vito’s desk

He is standing, meaning that the others must look up at him when they speak. Sonny points to Michael, says something incomprehensible regarding “Do me a favor” (which loosely recalls the opening scene between Vito [Michael] and Bonasera [Sonny] who comes to the Godfather for a ‘favor’)—a comment to which Michael does not respond verbally. Instead he moves back to his chair and sits, the cigarette firmly between his lips. In a few calculated movements Michael has not only foreshadowed his readiness to enter the family business by becoming one with the shadows of the frame and room, but he has also taken charge of the shot by seeking his emblematic cigarette.

Michael’s first cigarette in the film — part of a movement in which he comes to occlude our view of Sonny, the presumptive Don-in-waiting

In the composition of the medium ensemble shot, Sonny appears to be the focus, as the man in power, and Michael is presented as occupying a subordinate position, with his back to the camera. But by moving in the frame, coming closer to the camera, and therefore becoming a larger, more dominant presence, Michael has become the center of attention. He is now the man in power. Sonny may still be handling the logistics of business as the perceived head of the family, but Michael is the interesting, active presence. He captures the camera’s gaze, and he does so to light a cigarette.

This cigarette is not any mere cigarette: it is Michael’s first cigarette in the film, and it was presumably Vito’s as it was on his desk. This cigarette, this token of strength and leadership, comes from the reigning head of the family. Even if the cigarette was not originally Vito’s, it is coming from a place of power by being in the office, on the Don’s desk. When it enters Michael’s mouth and he inhales the essence of the cigarette and has it fill his body, it endows him with metaphorical authority.

***

Enzo’s trembling hands, as he tries to light a cigarette

The symbolic power of this cigarette carries over and is heightened in the next significant cigarette scene, which occurs between Enzo, the baker, and Michael outside the hospital later that night. Enzo’s hands are shaking uncontrollably as he reaches into his coat pocket for his pack of smokes. He and Michael have just successfully deferred an attack on Don Corleone, who has been shot and is recovering in the hospital, by standing out by the front gate of the hospital posing as armed body guards. The close-up shot pans from Enzo’s hands retrieving a cigarette up towards his face, the camera gracefully following the movement of his hands. The further towards his mouth his hand moves, the more violently he begins to shake in intense spasms. He turns his face away to scan his surroundings in an attempt to collect his bearings; the clicking of the lighter as he struggles to strike it can be heard.

We cut to a close-up of Enzo’s hand unsuccessfully igniting the lighter; he fumbles repeatedly, unable to control his hand muscles enough to turn the flint wheel and strike the flame. Michael’s hands then reach into the frame. The camera subtly follows Michael’s hands as they successfully turn the flint wheel on the first attempt and a strong flame flares. The frame holds, and Enzo leans down into Michael’s hands to light his cigarette. As Enzo pulls out of the frame, the camera angle cuts towards a medium close-up of Enzo and Michael, the focus of the shot now on Michael: he is looking down at his hands with intense concentration, his face enveloped in the smoke exhaled by Enzo’s cigarette. We then cut to a close up of Michael’s hands still holding the lighter, the lid still up; he pauses, briefly, before snapping the lid shut as police sirens enter the soundscape.

Michael calmly lighting Enzo’s cigarette
Michael wreathed in the smoke of Enzo’s cigarette

There is a lot going on in this particular encounter, one that lasts only twenty seconds of an almost three-hour film. What is revealed about Michael’s character is crucial. This scene outside the hospital occurs immediately after Michael pledges his allegiance to his father and by implication the family, declaring at Vito’s bedside that he is finally ‘with’ them. Michael has now officially entered the criminal underworld, posing as an armed mafioso, and he has done so with grace and courage. Despite the high risk and tension of a difficult situation he maintains his composure.

The juxtaposition of Enzo’s shaking hands with Michael’s steady hands underlines that Michael is capable of staying rational, calm, collected, and cool in this monstrous syndicate. He is in full control of his emotions, thoughts, and actions—embodying a composure that is absolutely necessary if he wishes to follow in his father’s footsteps and become Don. Also noteworthy is the choreography of power expressed by the gestures: Enzo bends down to light his cigarette, but Michael does not move his hands towards Enzo’s face. Michael is the provider of light, sustenance, and protection; Enzo merely receives these gifts.

The source of these gifts, a lighter, also carries a great deal of symbolic resonance. A lighter is an object capable of complete destruction: it has the capacity to burn all obstacles that stand in the way, and it furnishes fuel for the totemic cigarettes that Michael smokes. This small, sleek item, unassuming in its power, might be said to find a parallel in the character of Michael—the decorated war veteran, the ‘good kid’ who becomes the meticulous, cold-blooded, murderous Godfather by the end of the film. The lighter and its essential companion the cigarette have begun to function, then, as a cinematic trope expressing Michael’s control as Don, his observant nature, and his ability to destroy and be the hand of death. In short, they suggest his complete patriarchal (possibly phallic) power as Godfather.

***

Michael twirls a cigarette lighter after having his authority challenged

The final compelling scene of Michael’s smoking occurs at a transitional moment in his rise as Godfather, when Vito first places Michael in charge. In this scene, which again occurs in the family office, the shot switches from a brief ensemble shot of Michael sitting beneath the lamp, the only source of light in the shuttered room, to a medium shot of Michael in his chair. His legs are crossed and he is twirling his lighter in his hand as he talks of moving the family’s business to Nevada. He is in a suit (wearing the same tie he does at the baptism), and his body is active, his fingers lightly tapping the lighter and his crossed leg restlessly bouncing. His authority as Don is not being taken seriously – Clemenza and Tessio keep turning to Vito, not Michael, for instruction. It is not until after the brief dialogue between Vito, Clemenza, and Tessio, where Vito declares “Be a friend to Michael,” that Michael’s dominion as Don takes hold.

This absolute reign begins when the shot again becomes a medium ensemble and Michael ascends from his chair beneath the light to stand assertively behind the Don’s desk. As he takes his place, it is clear that he now has a lit cigarette in his hand. His voice is more confident and demanding, and he not only has physical power over Clemenza and Tessio (who are now sitting below him), but he also has his token of authority securely between his two fingers. Michael begins to hand down a series of authoritative decisions.

Cigarette in hand, Michael claims his authority: “There are things being negotiated that will solve all your problems”

The film cuts to a middle shot of Carlo as it is revealed he will be in charge in Nevada; it cuts to a middle shot of Tom, who will no longer be consigliere but instead the family lawyer in Nevada (the shot lingers to gauge Tom’s reaction); then we cut to a medium close-up shot of Michael, who is still standing. The cigarette has moved out of the frame but the smoke can be seen languidly drifting up—a reminder that it is still there, burning away, mixing in the air that Michael inhales to speak. The smoke mimics Michael’s thoughts and actions, curling and twisting like his soul as he adapts to the complex situations presented throughout the film.

Michael’s hands do not shake as he holds a thread of death in them, the ability to destroy and conquer evoked by a single image: the cigarette. Its source of power, the lighter, a small compact brass box, has the ability to burn and consume everything that gets in its way; it is a portable inferno of judgment—not so far from Michael during the infamous baptism sequence.

***

While these three scenes suggest the arc of Michael’s development via his handling of cigarettes, cigarettes are Michael’s companion and totem in three other scenes too. In the anticipation of ‘the meet’ with Sollozzo, Michael gently places a cigarette between his lips in the family kitchen to keep his calm while Sonny and Tom get anxious; when Mo Green challenges Michael in Las Vegas, Michael lights a cigarette as he prepares to tell Mo how things should be, simultaneously twirling his lighter as he does so (possibly alluding to Mo’s eventual death); and finally, Michael lights two cigarettes in the last scene of the film after Connie accuses him of murdering Carlo and Kay earnestly presses him on whether he had Carlo killed. He lights up, first, when he is giving her his ‘one-time-only’ answer about the true nature of his business; and he lights up again when he is framed by the door as Kay prepares drinks in the foreground and members of the family filter into his office.

For Michael, smoking allows for a form of meditation and deliberation that is also at the heart of his newfound power. Through the methodical rhythm of inhalation and exhalation, he achieves a cool control that becomes the personal signature of his brand of dominance. Held gently but confidently between the two fingers of Michael’s hand, the cigarette claims its place in the hands of the Godfather whose hands do not shake, the man who does not allow the strings of the family business to tangle. Michael is the one who holds the strings taut and with care, all the while enveloped in the drifting smoke of power.

Meaghan Allen (Cal ’17) currently teaches high school humanities in the Bay Area, and will soon be pursuing a Master’s Degree in Cultural Studies at the University of Edinburgh. She delivered a commencement speech at the 2017 Berkeley English Department graduation.

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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.

***

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.

***

“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.

***

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.

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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.

“Santino, what’s the matter with you?”

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.

Sonny, exacting vengeance on Carlo

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.

The fruit of vengeance: Sonny’s death

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).

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Coppola’s Reluctant Voyeurism: Gendered Violence in The Godfather

in The Craft of The Godfather

By Julia Delgadillo

Cinema is a medium that, even in the more progressive present, is largely dominated by men. As Laura Mulvey has famously suggested, this domination has caused a clear masculine bias in how films are shot and presented to viewers who, sometimes unknowingly, consume examples of harmful masculinity. In her landmark essay “Visual Pleasures and Narrative Cinema,” Mulvey identifies some of these harmful techniques—prominent among them the scopophilia of the male-directed camera and the sadistic punishment of women—while citing Alfred Hitchcock’s films as prime examples.

Yet there is often a complex relationship between the larger tradition of male-dominated cinema and the work of a single director—as might be seen in the case of Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather. Though the New Hollywood of the 1970s often reinforced “the male gaze,” Coppola deliberately does not use the more popular approach of sadistic punishment, rejecting the Hitchcockian way of violence. What is most interesting about The Godfather, though, is how it negates these  conventions: Coppola created innovation not only through his manipulation of the film’s formal elements, but also through its depictions of the punishment of women.

The Godfather is a film that is obsessed with depicting male abjection—abjection understood with reference to Julia Kristeva’s “Approaching Abjection,” which defines the abject as something that is unsafely other; something that is not a definition of the self, but is within the self; something that is not a symbol of death or decay or other forms of shame within the self, but evidence that these shameful processes exist despite the self’s attempts to suppress them. More than an abstract concept, the “abject” evokes the repressed elements of the body, with fluids like blood, vomit, and feces being the best example. Not only is The Godfather obsessed with showing the moral decay of its male characters, but when it comes to the depictions of violence, male violence is shown in its entirety, with no restrictions obscuring any form of abjection.

A hyperviolent murder to match a hypermasculine protagonist: the death of Sonny

The most violent onscreen male death, in terms of the abject, is the death of Sonny Corleone. Seemingly punished for his own insatiable rage and confidence in elements of traditional masculinity, Sonny is murdered in full view. When his death begins, he is seated inside his car as the bullets begin to pierce his body and cause visible bleeding, visible abjection. His death does not end in the obstructed view of the car, however, and continues as he steps outside, not allowing a moment of rest during his hyper-violent massacre. If there is a depiction of sadistic punishment in the film, it arrives through Sonny’s death, as he is punished for being too masculine; his protracted death is performed for the unobstructed view of the camera, and so he perishes with his abjection, shame, and decay in full view—dehumanized in his demise.

The same hyperviolent treatment is not extended to the women in the film. The death that is most violent in nature and outcome is the murder of Michael’s Italian wife Apollonia, and although the manner in which she dies is harsh , the impact of this death is not as evident because of the scene’s lack of visual violence. The car explodes in full view, but we do not see the full impact of the violence on her body. The violence against her is lethal, but there is no abjection present to further shame her. The violence is instantaneous; there’s no prolonging of the agony.

***

The sequence which comes closest to the Hitchcockian tradition of sadistic punishment is the sequence in which Connie gets beaten by her husband after reacting emotionally to a call that seems to indicate an affair. Still, even though this scene is set up for an act of sadistic punishment against women, Coppola refuses to use the Hitchcockian conventions, instead allowing Connie to be punished off screen: doorways obstruct the violence, setting it in a closed space that is not completely explored by the camera. The moments in which Connie is being visibly abused by her husband are few throughout the scene, but while we see the belt hitting her body, we do not see any signs of abjection. She does not bleed, she does not bruise, she only screams in an act which alludes to pain, but does not provide proof of its existence as blood does. Both Connie and Sonny’s punishments end in a scream, but while Sonny is in an open space, Connie is out of the frame.

In the scene of Connie’s beating, the camera represents a reluctant voyeur—one who is curious, perhaps horrified, at the abuse, but does not feel the need to insert him- or herself into the scene.

Moreover, because of its frequent placement behind doorways, the camera in this scene does not identify with Carlo, the masculine punisher, as it would in the Hitchcockian convention. To make a fine but necessary distinction: the scene is voyeuristic, but not in a scopophilic sense. The camera looms over places of domesticity, but it does not fixate on the female. Instead, the camera represents a reluctant voyeur, one who is curious, perhaps horrified, at the abuse, but does not feel the need to insert him- or herself  in these scenes of violence, and instead observes quietly and curiously as violence is committed.

Violence and punishment in film do not necessarily need to relate to the physical or the abject. In some cases, violence can be considered a destructive force separate from the physical. Although Coppola may reject American cinema’s tradition of sadistic punishment, there are definite limits on how he chooses to imagine the women in his film.  In the same sequence, in which Connie is a victim of domestic abuse, the mise-en-scene conveys the limits within which Connie imagines herself and lives her life. The spaces she inhabits—and destroys—are filled with staples of domesticity. Connie breaks plates in the kitchen, she tears up the dining room, and she gets beaten in the bedroom.

Breaking plates, spilling food and wine, throwing poker chips: Connie destroys the illusion of their happy home

Yet even when Connie has the brief power to act on her own agency and destroy, she is only allowed to destroy within the confines of her stereotypical gender roles. While she does spill the chips of the living room’s poker table—the only masculine objects she touches in the scene—they are not damaged beyond repair like the other objects in the home.

What we see when Connie is being beaten: a pink bedroom full of signifiers of female fragility and submissiveness

When the sequence comes to an end, the camera lingers on the image of the bedroom, which matches Connie’s own infantilized image. The bedsheets and curtains are in the same shade of pink as her silk nightgown, a shade of pink that is most often associated with a youthful femininity and innocence, one which codes the wearers as delicate or fragile. On top of the silk bedsheets is a stuffed rabbit, another object which signifies Connie as a girl, not a woman. A girl to be disciplined and controlled by the patriarchal figures of her father, brothers, and husband, not a woman with her own sense of agency. Lastly, the images of Japanese women in kimonos that hang over her bed reinforce this impression: not only do they signify an obvious fragility and femininity, but also these images have been fetishized in the West, and falsely and unjustly associated with submissiveness. The combination of these two indicators of femininity—the softness and fragility of the pinks; the submissive and silent geishas frame Connie as a person who is expected, simply, to please her man and submit to him.

In the end, the acts of violence against Connie were used as bait to lure Sonny to his death, furthering the constraints women face in the universe of The Godfather. They exist only as objects for the men to use, whether it be sexually, romantically, in the roles of cooks and housewives, or as pawns in their never-ending battle to maintain their hyper-masculine ideas of dominance. While Coppola does not necessarily partake in the traditional on-screen, voyeuristic violence against women as seen in classic Hollywood films, The Godfather perpetuates the oppression against women in the sense of confining them to spaces and roles that reduce them to ideas of submissive beings without agency. Coppola gives us, then, both an untraditional way of framing them through his camera and a traditional way of framing women, in a larger sense, as characters.

Julia Delgadillo (Cal ’18) is a senior majoring in Film Studies and an aspiring writer/director. She is currently writing a senior thesis titled Monsters of the Mind: Manifestations of Mental Illnesses in Contemporary Horror Films.

 

Works Cited

Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings, eds. Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 833-44.

Julia Kristeva and John Lechte, “Approaching Abjection,” Oxford Literary Review 5:1/2 (1982), 125-149.

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Never Let Your Body Show What You’re Thinking: Gesture and Masculinity in The Godfather

in The Craft of The Godfather/Tropes and Leitmotifs

By Alex Chellsen

Mind Your Mannerisms

For a film filled with intense scenes of violence and gripping dialogue, Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather contains an equal amount — if not more — of quieter, more understated moments. Throughout the film, masculine power is not expressed in feats of physical strength, or through hardened exteriors and hyper-masculine personas. Instead, it is conveyed by the manner in which Vito and Michael Corleone carry and conduct themselves around other men, specifically the other Families with whom they are dealing. Small actions often speak louder than words. By controlling their physical faculties, Vito and Michael maintain the appearance of authority: their power is dependent upon the suppression of their violent, primitive urges in the midst of things going amiss. Fascinatingly, as Michael inches closer towards becoming the new head of the Family, his mannerisms begin to mimic those of Vito. The men, for brief moments, become mirror images of each other, or reflections and refractions.

There are four pairs of scenes that reveal both the parallels between Vito and Michael’s physicality and their divergences. By comparing and contrasting the mannerisms of Vito and Michael, we can observe the differences in how they exercise their masculinity — differences that become especially evident in their shared scene in the garden, where Vito is the experienced elder, exhausted from his responsibilities, and Michael is the heir, hungry for revenge and committed to advancing the family name and the Family’s legacy.

Sitting Still

Vito and Michael resemble each other in the way they sit and are seated, displaying their masculinity through the manner in which they restrain themselves.

As the head of the Family, Vito is not stripped of his patriarchal position when he sits down. Rather, his status is elevated: he is a king upon his throne. With all eyes drawn toward him, he is careful to use limited and deliberate physical gestures to conceal his thoughts and emotions. When Tom Hagen briefs Vito about Sollozzo’s request to receive protection in exchange for a percentage of the profits of his drug trade, Vito sits with his legs crossed while reclining in his seat. Before the meeting with Sollozzo commences, Vito nods his head, shrugs his shoulders, and sways—as if he were doing Sollozzo a favor by indulging his offer, only bestowing the minimum physical attention required to hear his request. He also asks Tom if he is “not too tired,” as if to suggest his own fatigue as the Don. His body language reveals a disinclination towards stretching the reach of the Family business, as it jeopardizes the familial affiliations that he has established within and outside his blood ties.  When Sonny asks him what his decision is going to be, Vito raises his hand from his cheek before resting it on his chin, withholding his thoughts until the next scene.

After he inherits Vito’s throne, Michael’s sitting posture recalls his father’s — but with some striking differences. When Michael offers a plan to exact retribution for his father’s shooting, he positions himself in an armchair in a similar manner to his father, crossing his legs and lolling in the furniture. However, Michael is not as calm and collected as Vito had been: he rubs his eyebrows and slumps in his chair, moving his body back and forth before proceeding with his plan. He’s restless—sweaty and squirming. He wants to take immediate action, but he does not act upon his impulses. In the following moments, he places both arms on the handles of the chair as a way to ground himself within the turbulence. As the camera zooms in, Michael’s body becomes more relaxed while still tilting forward: we sense that he is more comfortable with his position, prepared to prove his power. He slurs his words, recalling how his father often mumbles his words, but he does so in anger, his gestures intensified by the sternness of his stare and speech.

Michael is channeling the Don, but uneasily: he’s trying to hold onto himself, in the same way that he holds onto the arms of the chair.

Showing—and Not Showing—Their Hands

Vito and Michael both use hand movements that reveal them suppressing their anger and frustration. In the opening scene, mortician Amerigo Bonasera offers to pay Vito Corleone in exchange for revenge upon the men who abused his daughter—an offer which offends the Don, as it insinuates he is both a killer and can be “bought.” Prior to this exact moment, Vito’s hand is petting and playing with a cat sitting on his lap; just after, his grip tightens around the animal’s head. The sequence of gestures suggests a few meanings: (1) he is crushing his urge to act upon his anger towards Amerigo Bonasera—he is a man, “not a murderer”—which would demonstrate a childish weakness that cannot be associated with the patriarch of a family, let alone the Family; and (2) given that the image of a cat often carries both feminine and sexual connotations, Vito’s intensifying hold shows him flexing his masculine power and exerting his dominance, his full control.

Michael, on the other hand, is less composed and constrained in his physical mannerisms—his body is seemingly riddled with anxiety. After Michael’s return from Sicily, he makes significant decisions as the new “head of the Family,” including relocating the business transactions to Las Vegas and replacing Tom Hagen as consigliere. During this scene, Michael is twiddling a zippo lighter between his fingers, smoking a cigarette, and prolongedly pressing it into an ashtray.

Michael is adjusting to the fluidity of his new power as the Don, and this is reflected in his body language, as he is both looser in the movement of his limbs and firmer in the way he carries himself among the other men. When Vito tries to be sympathetic with the suspension of Tom’s position, resting a hand on his shoulder, Michael tells him in a sturdy voice, “you’re out.” After Tom exits, Michael slackens his collar, leaving his tie more disheveled than before. His newfound power possesses a chokehold over him, as it is still an extension of his father’s hand.

Different Strokes

Both Vito and Michael stroke their heads during times of great stress, and the repeated gesture underlines how both of them confront the emergencies they face. Combing their hair is a coping mechanism, a gesture made to maintain their cool, or at least the image of such.

After the opening scene, Don Vito runs a hand against his grey, slicked-backed hair and qualifies his terms for the mortician’s debt: “We’re not murderers, despite what this undertaker says.” In this scene, Vito is literally scratching his head at his decision to expand the scope of the Family to meet the pleas of an acquaintance who has deliberately avoided them. Yet Vito’s grooming habit is second nature to him—he stays in character as the cool and collected Don.

This gesture is replayed in a different key in the pivotal scene at the Italian restaurant, in which Michael struggles to carry out the plot he proposed—to kill Sollozzo and his police guard. Just after he retrieves the gun from the restaurant’s toilet, Michael stands in front of the bathroom’s mirror and presses both hands against his hair in an attempt to gather himself. Here, Michael is on the edge of becoming a part of the family — a family that he had pointedly described, to his girlfriend Kay, as “not me”. His fingers are pushed against his head—he is trying to wrap his brain around his decision. By executing his plan, he not only will be initiated into the business, but also will finally be able to feel like a part of the Corleone family by embodying the role of his father. With the gun concealed in his jacket, Michael seats himself at the table with Sollozzo and his police guard; he brushes his hair back and switches from speaking in Italian to English when staking his claim: “What’s most important to me is that I have a guarantee: no more attempts on my father’s life.” By protecting the patriarch, Michael secures his succession.

Unlike Father, Unlike Son

In the divergences between Vito and Michael’s mannerisms, the film suggests the differences in how the two men play their parts in the Corleone patriarchy.

When Vito meets with Sollozzo to listen to his proposition (only to decline), his blazer is unbuttoned, and he droops one arm over the chair while the other dangles from his hip. Vito gives the appearance of approachability while still upholding his authority—he does not need to exercise his dominance in the situation because his mere presence is enough. Vito’s amiability is not so much a sign of respect for Sollozzo, but a means of maintaining respectability as a representative of the Corleone tribe. As Vito turns down Sollozzo’s request, his hands are clasped, but not fastened together, and he strokes and shrugs his thumbs: “It doesn’t make any difference to me what a man does for a living.” Vito is not interested in what can be done to advance his enterprise, but in what he can do to preserve the relationships with his current business partners.

Michael is not as gentle, however, when he arrives in Las Vegas to buy Moe Greene’s casino and offer Johnny Fontaine a new contract.  In this scene, Michael clasps his hands as well, except with his thumbs pressed together. Not only is he steadfast in his position, but also he’s confident that no one in the room can “refuse” him nor the strength he flexes. Moe Greene then barges in and argues with Michael over the notion that he can “buy [him] out,” and Fredo defends Moe and questions Michael’s reasoning. Echoing the earlier scene in which his father advised Sonny to “never tell anyone outside the family what [he thinks] again,” Michael warns Fredo never to “take sides with anyone against the family again.”

Both Dons are strict in these commands, but Vito’s raised eyebrows and shifting gaze reveal concern, whereas Michael’s unrelenting stare silences anyone who rises to test his supremacy. Vito exercises his power as a means of protecting his family, whereas Michael flashes his influence to uphold his place and ensure the progress of the Family.

Connect to Disconnect

In their final interaction in the film, Michael is already Don of the Family and Vito is “retired.” The viewer can sense a shift in Vito’s demeanor; he is smiling, joking, drinking wine, and sitting with his right leg folded above the other. He is not hunched over, as he had been in many previous scenes. The burden of the Family business has been removed from his shoulders, and he can take it easy, if only for an instant.

Michael is hunched over, however, with his arms pressed into his thighs. He feels the weight of death looming over his shoulder: Vito predicts, in a surprisingly casual manner, about how the train of events will unfold: “And at that meeting you’ll be assassinated.” Vito’s gestures in this scene may be read as a relinquishing of his patriarchal position out of respect for the new male head of the family. Michael leans in because he still displays an insecurity regarding his power and position as a man. He still looks to his father to be the Don for him. When Vito struggles from the chair and shuffles to sit near Michael, Michael leans back. He wants to be close to his father, but only at a certain distance, as intimacy often necessitates an emotional and physical vulnerability, one that threatens his male assertiveness.

Tellingly, when Vito positions himself in his seat, he obscures the image of Michael. The camera work suggests how succession works in this family: the importance of the patriarch means that there’s no room for others, just the single male head. To be powerful, to be head of the family: this aspiration is tied to Michael becoming singular, with a way of moving his body that—however indebted to his father—is his and his alone.

Alex Chellsen (Cal ’19) is a junior majoring in English and minoring in Creative Writing. He is an avid reader and writer of poetry and plays keys and synths in the band Dream Without Sleep.

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