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The Sound of Nostalgia: Nino Rota’s “Godfather Waltz”

in The Craft of The Godfather/Tropes and Leitmotifs

By Rebekah Gonzalez

Nino Rota once said, about his work as a composer, “They reckon my music’s just a bit of nostalgia plus lots of good humor and optimism? Well, that’s exactly how I’d like to be remembered.”

It is ironic, then, that his best-known work is the score to The Godfather—a film that, on the surface, offers violence and loss rather than “good humor and optimism.” Yet Rota’s Godfather score draws out aspects of the film that lie beneath the surface— its dark humor and its nostalgia —and helps give the film’s nostalgia its emotional pull and complexity. As a period film, its story set in the mid-1940s, though filmed through the scope of a 1970s camera, The Godfather cannot help but become subject to the yearning for a time before. That general nostalgia is amplified through another more specific nostalgia found within the film—the nostalgia that gives a charge to Vito and Michael Corleone’s relationship. This type of nostalgia is concerned with the future, but a future that has been tenuously predetermined.

It’s as if “The Godfather Waltz” says, “I never wanted this for you, Michael,” before Vito Corleone himself can say it.

Rota, we’ll see, translates the nostalgia of the father-son relationship into the music of the Main Title or “The Godfather Waltz.” Rota focuses on the dualities of the relationship. While the song serves as a roadmap for Michael’s future, it simultaneously explores Vito’s struggle with granting the reins of his deadly business to his son. The film seems to be cognizant of what the future holds, but while Coppola makes the audience, as well as the characters in the film, work towards this ending, Rota surreptitiously clues them in through his Main Title. It’s as if the “Godfather Waltz” says, “I never wanted this for you, Michael,” before Vito Corleone himself can say it.

***

(Nino Rota, “The Godfather Waltz,” from the soundtrack to The Godfather)

The film opens with a black screen, making the viewer’s first engagement with the film a purely auditory one. The trumpet plays the main melodic line of the waltz as the title of the movie appears and fades from the screen. After it plays through it once, Bonasera’s monologue begins. The only two characters on screen are Bonasera and Vito Corleone. It is clear that Vito is in a position of power. This is the first time the trumpet is attached to a scene with Vito. However, the connection is not made clear until the next time we hear the trumpet line at 46:05, when Vito is shot. As the dying Vito slides off his car and onto the ground, the melody is played at a higher key, making the powerful line of music sound frail.

At this point, it is clear that the trumpet is meant to represent Vito. It is never played when Vito is not somewhere in the shot. Directly after, the film dissolves into a shot of Radio City Music Hall, where Michael and Kay are leaving after watching a show. Although the trumpet fades away before Michael is on screen, this placement of the theme puts Michael in close proximity to his father’s haunting song. It also important to note that this is the last time we see Michael living a carefree and “normal” life; one not centered around the family business.

When Rota has the main melody played by oboe, not the trumpet we associate with Vito, he foreshadows how the role of Don will be passed onto Michael

The waltz is next used is at 58:08, and for the first time we hear past the trumpet solo. The trumpet solo is skipped and Rota instead uses an oboe to play the main melody. This choice solidifies the sense that the trumpet represents Vito, who has been sidelined by the hit on his life: the instrument that stood for him has gone quiet, and now other instruments must take up his theme. There is another dissolve into a shot of Michael; he is sitting outside looking down at his shoes. This time, instead of the trumpet solo fading out, the music continues into the traditional waltz portion of the piece: we sense, through the playing of theme, how the future of Vito’s business and legacy hangs over Michael’s head. During this particular moment of the waltz, the main melody has moved, once again, to the oboe. This orchestration foreshadows how the role of Don will be passed onto Michael, even though none of the characters expect it at this point in the film.

***

While Michael is hiding out in Sicily, the Waltz does not follow him there, which is surprising given its folkloric elements. At 1:20 on the soundtrack version of the “Godfather Waltz,” Rota has an accordion play a couple of bars of the main melody before switching back to the oboe. The use of the accordion can directly be associated with Italian folk music. This moment in the score foreshadows Michael’s stay in Sicily. It would seem logical, then, that this specific moment in the piece would be used in tandem with the scene that it is derived from. However, its absence speaks to the physical separation between Michael and Vito, and roots the Waltz to the specific nostalgia found in their father-son relationship. Vito is upset when he learns that Michael has committed murders in the name of the family business.

We might say that, just as the film uses its geographical locations to show that they are physically separated, Rota’s score— specifically the fact that the “Godfather Waltz” is not played—expresses that the two are also emotionally separated at this point in the film. More generally, we might observe that, despite being the main theme of the film, the “Godfather Waltz” is used strikingly sparely across the film. This scarce use of the theme aligns with the scarce number of scenes that Michael and Vito share alone. Because these scenes are rare, they also become packed with meaning and purpose.

It is also important to note that the waltz is never used during a scene in which Michael and Vito are alone. Rather, the waltz is placed in between scenes that transition from Vito to Michael. It is used to link their two characters as well as to dramatize the tension between the two of them while Michael is on his way to becoming the Don. The tension is not personal, but it does affect their relationship. There seems to be a barrier, which derives partly from Vito’s pride and partly from their lack of alone time, which keeps Vito from speaking directly with Michael.

Through the waltz, Rota is able to verbalize, through the melancholic minor mode of the theme’s melody, what Vito struggles to tell Michael. The Waltz formulates Vito’s emotions throughout the film until he can say them himself, in a scene that Coppola added during filming because he felt that the two of them—and the film itself—needed this moment of emotional connection. It is not until we are over two hours into the film that Vito tells Michael that he once pictured his son as “Senator Corleone, Governor Corleone,” and confesses that “I never wanted this for you.”

***

The “Godfather Waltz” is not heard again until the film’s closing scene. Although it is not technically considered the “Godfather Waltz,” the Finale draws upon the same waltz structure as well as the melody. The trumpet—lonely no more—blends with the rest of the orchestra as Michael’s hand is kissed and as he’s called, for the first time, “Don Corleone”; the swell of the music underlines that he has fully transitioned into his father’s position of power. The return of the trumpet also suggests that the trumpet was never associated with Vito himself, but rather with Vito as the Don. This, along with the cyclical structure of the waltz, alludes to the possibility that the family’s power might revive itself in this way again and again. Looking toward the past while announcing an eminent future, Rota’s “Godfather Waltz” establishes the particular nature of the Corleone family’s power: rooted in a never-ending nostalgia, and ever-seeking renewal.

Rebekah Gonzalez is a senior at UC Berkeley, where she is majoring in English and minoring in Music and Journalism. As the head of photography at the B-Side, a student-run music publication, she covers live concerts around the Bay Area. When she is not at a show, she spends her time thinking and writing about music.

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

in Anatomy of a Scene/The Craft of The Godfather

By Max Sala

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

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

***

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

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

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

I just want the right to love you

All of my life

Just the right to take care of you

All of my life

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

KAY: When will I see you again?

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

KAY: When will I see you again, Michael?

MICHAEL: I don’t know.

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

***

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

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

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

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