1972: The Godfather.

Don Vito Corleone (Marlon Brando) hears petitions on the day of his daughter's wedding.

Release Date: Mar. 14, 1972. Running Time: 175 minutes. Screenplay: Mario Puzo, Francis Ford Coppola. Based on the novel by: Mario Puzo. Producer: Albert S. Ruddy. Director: Francis Ford Coppola.


THE PLOT:

Vito Corleone (Marlon Brando) is the don of the Corleone Family, the most powerful of the organized crime families operating in New York, 1945. Vito has police, judges, and politicians on his payroll, with rising mob figure Sollozzo (Al Lettieri) observing that he carries them "in (his) pocket, like so many nickels and dimes." When Sollozzo asks Vito to provide protection while he sets up a narcotics distribution network, Vito refuses, fearing that his contacts "wouldn't be friendly very long" if his business shifted to include drugs.

Sollozzo is not a man to take "no" for an answer, and Vito is shot not long after. He survives - just barely - but his recovery will be long, leaving his short-fused eldest son, Santino "Sonny" Corleone (James Caan), in charge. Against the advice of family consigliere Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall), Sonny goes to war with Sollozzo and his sponsors, the Tattaglia Family.

Caught in the middle is Michael (Al Pacino), Vito's youngest son. Michael forged a separate path, joining the army and becoming a hero during World War II. He has a non-Italian girlfriend, Kay (Diane Keaton), and he's emphatic that he wants no part of the family business. But as it becomes clear that his father is still a target for the Corleones' enemies, he realizes that he has only one way to save the old man and give the family space to negotiate peace: Kill Sollozzo himself!

Vito negotiates with his rivals.

MARLON BRANDO AS DON VITO CORLEONE:

Rarely do I think that a role had to be played by a particular actor, no matter how well the casting worked out, but I cannot imagine anyone other than Marlon Brando as Vito Corleone. Vito's actual screen time is limited, yet the nature of the story requires that he be its dominant figure. Brando makes this look effortless. When he's on screen, you can't take your eyes off him. When he's not (which is most of the time), his absence is equally tangible.

Much of this comes from sheer physical presence, along with excellent use of makeup and costuming. Vito takes care with his appearance, his thin hair slicked back and his mustache perfectly trimmed. He dresses impeccably, and he's almost always seen in some form of suit and tie, from the formal wear at his daughter's wedding to business suits in more casual settings. The only time he's untidy is when he's recovering from being shot, barely back on his feet. Even in this diminished condition, when he meets with someone outside the family less than an hour later, he is again wearing a suit and tie.

Brando is excellent. The voice he uses is perfectly judged: quiet and slow, reflecting the don's care in choosing each word. Vito initially seems to be an unknowable cipher - until he's alone with trusted members of his family, when he gives tiny rolls of his eyes or little exhales of weariness to show his exhaustion at the parade of petitioners. This reveals his humanity, with flashes of humor and annoyance, which makes it fully consistent when he gets a couple of larger emotional moments later. He has one line, about how a person close to him was "massacred," that is spoken with naked emotion that would be effective on its own, and that is made all the more powerful by its contrast with Vito's normal soft reserve.

It's a great performance on its own. It's also one of the very few times that I think a piece of film casting was not just well-advised, but indispensable to the success of the movie (so of course Coppola had to fight the studio to cast him).

Michael Corleone (Al Pacino), glaring coldly while attending a funeral.

AL PACINO AS MICHAEL CORLEONE:

"That's my family, Kay, it's not me."

Though Vito is the movie's center of gravity, Michael is its true main character, and he has the most significant arc. He shares stories with Kay about his father's business, being open with her about where he comes from. That openness drops away as the story unfolds. When it becomes clear that his father will remain in danger as long as Sollozzo lives, he's the one who devises the plan to kill him - a plan that depends on their enemies seeing him as a non-threatening "civilian."

This was Al Pacino's starmaking role, and he's mesmerizing. His performance is characterized by stillness. The scene in which he lays out the plan for Sonny and Tom is when he takes control, and he does so quietly. He sits in the center of frame, barely moving as he lays out his plan, step by careful step. The camera moves slowly in on him until we're right in front of his eyes, which are cold and focused.

Pacino does a lot of acting with his eyes. In the scene in which Michael carries out the shooting, Michael seems to hesitate. His eyes dart about wildly as Sollozzo speaks (in Italian, untranslated), until the moment finally comes to take action. He shoots Sollozzo before moving onto the second target - and it's then, as he shoots the second man, that his eyes display all of the character's rage.

It's a performance that's both complementary to and in contrast with Brando's. Pacino's Michael has his father's patience and tactical sense. But Vito is a warm figure, particularly around his family. By the time Michael is actively working with The Family, his few flashes of warmth are reserved only for his father. He is cold to everyone else, trusted advisors and siblings as well as rivals. At one point, he warns one of his brothers, "Don't ever take sides with anyone against the Family again." The threat is all the more chilling for his absolute lack of visible emotion.

Sonny (James Caan) is too impulsive to be a good leader.

JAMES CAAN AS SANTINO "SONNY" CORLEONE:

"Never tell anybody outside the Family what you're thinking!"

Vito snaps this to Sonny, trying to impart a lesson, but he's asking the impossible. Throughout the movie, Sonny's every emotion is written on his face and clearly audible in his voice. Sonny isn't stupid, but he is governed by impulse. This, in combination with a lack of patience to think before acting, makes his reactions predictable and thus easily manipulated.

James Caan makes his Sonny the opposite of Pacino's Michael. Pacino is still, speaking with little emotion and acting with his eyes. Caan is almost constantly in motion, pacing the room like a trapped animal. He acts with his hands, gesturing with almost every word he speaks. Because his emotions are so open, his Sonny has the warmth that Pacino's Michael lacks. One senses that, in happier times, he's likely as generous to his friends as he is dangerous to his enemies.

He has a close bond with his adopted brother, Tom Hagen. He's the one who found Tom and brought him into the Corleone family. Even when they clash, Sonny is quick to flare up, but equally quick to apologize. These qualities and Caan's performance make him more likable than his actions would suggest... but he's not cut out to be a leader, and Vito later acknowledges as much.

The Corleones pose for a family photo at Connie's wedding.

OTHER CHARACTERS:

Tom Hagen: Though not a Corleone by blood, he was raised by Vito, and his personality seems to halve the difference between Michael and Sonny. Like Michael, he is calm and patient. He lacks Michael's tactical shrewdness, but he is able to recognize the complicated realities of a given situation. Unlike Michael, he isn't cold. Even as he advises caution in responding to Vito's shooting, he is visibly shaken by what's happened. When another tragedy strikes, he has to stop and pour himself a drink before reporting it, and he seems to be just barely holding himself back from tears. Robert Duvall is more contained than Caan and less intense than Pacino, but he's every bit as good as them. He's more often than not in the background, but he reacts to other people's words - or, in some cases, carefully not reacting.

Clemenza: We first hear his name when Vito, after agreeing to provide "justice" to the undertaker, tells Tom to assign that job to him, with Clemenza (Richard Castellano) chosen specifically because he doesn't want this taken care of by someone who will go overboard. This shows that Vito trusts his judgment as much as his loyalty. Clemenza presents a casual front, giving Michael an impromptu cooking lesson during a crisis and chatting about how "they should have stopped Hitler at Munich." This is probably his authentic personality, but he uses it to his advantage. He puts a victim at ease with banter during a car ride, then has the man pull over so that he can "take a leak" while the hit is carried out. His loyalty to Vito definitely extends to Sonny, but he's more wary of Michael, seeming to see the youngest Corleone son as weak.

Sollozzo: The most visible villain of the piece, though it's made clear from the start that he has powerful backers and that he's not really in charge. Vito grants him a meeting as a sign of respect to "a serious man." When Tom reads his background to Vito, he observes that Sollozzo uses violence "only in matters of business or some sort of reasonable complaint." When he tells Michael that he respects his father, he means it... but he also means it when he says that Vito is "slipping." Al Lettieri feels absolutely authentic in the role, and he presents just the right amount of a threat: Enough to be taken seriously, but not quite enough to ever feel like the Corleones' true adversary.

Kay: Michael's girlfriend, Kay (Diane Keaton) is the perfect embodiment of middle America: well-educated and independent enough to push back when Michael goes to work for his father, but not so independent that she doesn't allow him to take charge. She shows flashes of a strong will, but she also comes across as sheltered and more than a little naive. Her role is very much a supporting one (if memory serves, she gets more in the sequel), but Diane Keaton does some excellent nonverbal acting in two scenes: when Kay passes a newsstand and sees that Vito has been shot; and at the very end, as she realizes exactly who Michael has become.

Connie/Fredo: The remaining Corleone siblings. Connie (Talia Shire) seems a lot like Sonny, reacting to situations with strong emotion instead of stopping and thinking. Not surprisingly, she seems to have a very close relationship with Sonny, far more so than with Michael. Fredo (John Cazale, excellent as always) is the weakest of the Corleone children. He has poor judgment, giving trust to the wrong people on two occasions. He's emotional, weeping openly when Vito is shot. Later, after he's sent to Las Vegas to keep him away from the conflict, he comes to fancy himself a big shot - and he's likely the only person in the room who doesn't realize how pathetically unearned his swagger really is.

Vito reflects upon his life to Michael.

THOUGHTS:

"I worked my whole life, I don't apologize, to take care of my family. And I refused to be a fool, dancing on a string held by all those big shots. I don't apologize, that's my life."
-Vito Corleone (Marlon Brando), talking about his life, expresses both regret and defiance.

The Godfather is all but undisputed as one of the "great films" of American cinema. Its plot really isn't anything special - with slight adjustments, the same story could have been told in the mid-1940s in which the movie's set, and the result likely would have been an entertaining 90-minute programmer. What makes it special is the way all the elements come together to form something larger, from the impeccable period detail to the casting to composer Nino Rota's instantly recognizable main theme. All the individual parts are good, and the whole that they build is even greater.

This is a movie featuring Marlon Brando, Al Pacino, James Caan, and Robert Duvall - and it's a movie in which all of them give performances that rank among their best. The actors are well-cast, feeling convincing as members of the same family. When Al Pacino, James Caan, and Robert Duvall interact, I don't feel like I'm being told that they're brothers - I can see that they are, and that each has his own individual relationship with the others.

Beyond the acting, this is a remarkably cinematic film. Each frame is beautifully lit and shot. You can find long essays about the way The Godfather uses light and shadow to convey characters' shifts in morality. Francis Ford Coppola kicked off his greatest period as a director here, and he's in absolute control of his craft.

The scene in which Michael proposes the plan to kill Sollozzo is a particular example. The scene begins with its focus on Sonny and Tom, drawing attention to them as they argue in loud voices and with strong gestures. Then Michael speaks up - softly, calmly. The camera slowly moves to him, sitting still in a chair in the center of the room. The contrast of his stillness versus the others' motion makes him an instantly compelling presence. Tom moves to the opposite side of the room, so that Michael is between him and Sonny, and he agrees when Michael says that Sollozzo will keep trying to kill their father.

Sonny tries to regain control by mocking his brother, but Michael doesn't take the bait. The camera creeps in as he lays out his plan, ending on his eyes, which are pure ice. All the pieces - staging, acting, lighting, camera - come together in this moment, a significant one: Not only does Michael move from being outside the Family to inside it, he also is transformed from a member of the movie's ensemble to its central character.

Throughout the film, Coppola and his production team continue to use cinematic techniques in this way to completement each beat of the script. No visual flourish is ever "just" a flourish. Even in the justly climax, it never just feels like Coppolas is showing off. Every shot, every music choice, every cut and line and bit of staging is there to support the story being told.

Michael comes up with a plan, in the scene that transforms him into the movie's main character.

"IT'S NOT PERSONAL, SONNY. IT'S STRICTLY BUSINESS."

The characters insist on a separation between what's "personal" and what's "business," but this divide is never successfully maintained. At Connie's wedding, Don Vito Corleone takes a parade of requests, mere yards from where his guests are celebrating. The FBI takes photos of the license plates of the guests, while Don Barzini (Richard Conte) rips up the film of a wedding photographer who made the mistake of taking his picture.

The blurring of "personal" and "business" is shown throughout. Corleone family issues that would be counted as "personal" are used by rivals to manipulate Sonny. When Michael lays out his plan, Sonny scoffs that he's "taking this very, very personal." Michael calmly denies it - but when he shoots Sollozzo and a second target, the anger in his eyes shows that Sonny wasn't actually wrong. Assassins later attempt to kill Michael and end up killing someone else - inflicting a "personal" loss while conducting "business." Michael later does the same on a larger scale, using a personal function to "settle all Family business."

The characters may insist that there is separation, but the opposite is what is shown (to sometimes tragic effect)... and, more than once, the people insisting that this divide exists are doing so with absolute, self-serving hypocrisy.

Michael visits middle brother Fredo (John Cazale) in Las Vegas.

SEQUELS AND AN ALTERNATE VERSION:

Gangster pictures were nothing new, having been a mainstay of 1930s and '40s cinema. The Godfather revitalized the genre by combining period and cultural authenticity with an almost operatic quality. It draws the viewer into its world, one that feels both real and larger-than-life at the same time - and moviegoers responded, resulting in it becoming the highest grossing film of 1972.

Naturally, a sequel followed two years later... and would itself go on to win Best Picture, so I'll be discussing it fairly soon. A third entry, The Godfather, Part III, came out more than 15 years later; though it proved to be a financial success, it is almost universally regarded as far weaker than the two 1970s movies.

An alternate version was released to television as a 1977 mini-series, The Godfather Saga. Authorized by Francis Ford Coppola in large part to raise more money for Apocalypse Now, this version re-edits the first two Godfather movies, rearranging them into strictly chronological order, while also integrating many deleted scenes.

It's worth a watch after viewing the two movies individually, but I consider the theatrical films superior. Amerigo Bonasera's, "I believe in America," and Connie's wedding create the perfect introduction to this world; and while the deleted scenes are interesting to see, most of them were cut for good reason.

Vito and Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall) comfort each other after a family tragedy.

OVERALL:

The Godfather runs just shy of three hours, but it never feels long. The individual filmmaking elements combine with meticulous period detail to create a world that we're drawn into. The film's world is absolutely consistent. At no point does anything jar us out of the internal reality. From the opening minutes, we are immersed in this particular time, place, and culture.

The result has been justifiably labeled a cinematic masterpiece. It's a movie that anyone who genuinely loves film should see, and probably more than once.


Rating: 10/10.

Best Picture - 1971: The French Connection
Best Picture - 1973: The Sting (not yet reviewed)

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1971: The French Connection.

NYPD detective Jimmy "Popeye" Doyle (Gene Hackman) catches the case of his life.

Release Date: Oct. 7, 1971. Running Time: 104 minutes. Screenplay: Ernest Tidyman. Based on the book by: Robin Moore. Producer: Philip D'Antoni. Director: William Friedkin.


THE PLOT:

NYPD narcotics detective Jimmy "Popeye" Doyle (Gene Hackman) takes his partner, Buddy Russo (Roy Scheider) out for drinks. It's meant to be a bit of after-work relaxation... until Doyle notices small-time criminal Sal Boca (Tony Lo Bianco) making a show of being a big spender for a group of mobsters. On a hunch, the two detectives spend a week following Sal. When they link him to Joel Weinstock (Harold Gary), a laywer known for bankrolling drug buys, they go to their captain (Eddie Egan) to open an official investigation.

A wiretap eventually turns up a meeting between Sal and a Frenchman, Alain Charnier (Fernando Rey). It's clear enough that Charnier is bringing drugs into New York, and that Sal is facilitating the deal. But as their surveillance drags on, their captain's support starts to falter - just as Charnier begins to worry that Doyle represents a threat to his plans...

An angry Doyle argues with his colleagues, as his partner (Roy Scheider) looks on.

CHARACTERS:

Jimmy "Popeye" Doyle: The French Connection doesn't do much direct characterization, preferring to let the audience observe the characters' behavior. Several mentions are made of a past incident in which one of Doyle's hunches ended with the death of another officer. We never learn exactly what happened, leaving us to draw our own conclusions - though it's clear that FBI agent Mulderig (Bill Hickman) blames Doyle. The detective stumbles across the case by chance, sensing something "off" about Sal and insisting on tailing him. He then refuses to let go, clinging to the pursuit like a junkyard dog who's found a meaty bone. Things take on a personal dimension after he tails Charnier. The Frenchman shakes him off at the subway, smirking and waving as his train leaves the angry policeman behind. A humiliated Doyle neither forgives nor forgets, as shown by him reciprocating that gesture at the movie's end.

Charnier: He's Doyle's opposite. The detective is "a mess," by his own partner's description, living in a dingy apartment, wearing frayed and off-rack clothes, and indulging in one-night stands. Charnier carries himself with dignity and confidence. He lives in a mansion in Marseilles and seems happily married to a much younger woman (Ann Rebbot). Doyle has a hair trigger temper, while Charnier is eternally calm. Fernando Rey lends the presence of a classic European aristocrat to the role. His poise is so perfect that it's telling when even small cracks emerge near the end.

Russo: Doyle's partner, whose job includes the unofficial duty of keeping him in check. When the two run down a suspect early in the movie, Russo is happy to deliver a few kicks - but he also stops his partner from going further. He holds back Doyle repeatedly during verbal spats with Agent Mulderig, inserting himself between the two to keep their disputes verbal instead of physical. He also disapproves of his partner's casual racism. When Doyle says of a recent arrest, "Never trust a (racial slur)," Russo replies that the man could just as easily have been white - prompting Doyle's more accurate, "Never trust anyone." For all that he clearly recognizes Doyle's faults, he remains unwavering in his support. Doyle finally snaps that, first through a reckless action and then - more critically - by showing that he doesn't care about what he just did. Actor Roy Scheider's shocked reaction is superbly played, as we see Russo's faith in Doyle drain away in an instant.

Sal Boca: A small-time criminal who is trying to push his way up the ladder by facilitating the deal with Charnier. He tries to present himself as unflappable, but the police presence makes him anxious, as does moneyman Joel Weinstock's caution. Both Weinstock and Charnier size him up accurately. Weinstock remarks on his inexperience and observes that he needs to move more cautiously, while Charnier quips that Sal "sees police in his soup." Tony Lo Bianco, in probably his most notable role, manages to capture both the surface slickness and the thinly veiled nervousness.

Sal (Tony Lo Bianco) welcomes Charnier (Fernando Rey). It's shown from a distance,
as if to make the audience part of the police surveillance.

THOUGHTS:

The French Connection, along with Bullitt and the original Dirty Harry, effectively invented the "cop antihero" of 1970s and '80s police thrillers. It would be harder to find a '70s or '80s cop film (or series) that didn't borrow from it. That lends it a familiarity, both in content and presentation style, that should blunt the effectiveness of modern viewings.

I still find it spellbinding.

Director William Friedkin made his name as a documentary filmmaker, and he uses those techniques here. There are several scenes that play like they came from a documentary, with camera shots that play as if a documentarian was grabbing shots on the fly and moving the camera to keep up with his subjects. Wide shots, simple pans, and zooms are favored. A scene at an automobile graveyard starts with a close shot on several abandoned cars, then zooms out. The camera pans to follow Charnier, his wife, and another associate as they walk to the auction. The auction itself is covered from just a couple of fixed angles inside a cramped space.

The movie features many scenes of police following suspects. The camera tends to start on one officer following the target, then panning or zooming to pick up a second officer as the first turns off or away to avoid detection. That second officer will be followed to a third, or a wider shot will show both officers to demonstrate their physical proximity to both each other and the target. When Charnier is observed having dinner in a restaurant, he's viewed from outside the window. We see him talking, but we do not hear the conversation.

The movie isn't afraid to take its time, and a surprising amount of it is made up of sequences of surveillance work. This creates an impression of the grind of such work, with long periods of tedium followed by bursts of panic when the target is suddenly not in anyone's view. For much of the movie, Doyle's hunch of a big deal is actively questioned by his colleagues. There's enough evidence for his captain to call in the FBI and support extended surveillance, but there's a limit to how long he'll let it consume the department's limited resources.

The pace picks up in the second half, starting with the scene in which Charnier spots and shakes Doyle at the subway station. From that point, plot developments come faster, with a greater sense of urgency. This is particularly apparent in the movie's most famous sequence...

Doyle collides with another car during the movie's famous chase scene.

THE CHASE SCENE:

The French Connection is often cited as having one of the best car chases ever put to film. It's a fine action set piece, and it honestly makes for an excellent short film in its own right.

The meat of the sequence sees Doyle pursuing a would-be assassin who is escaping on an elevated subway express. Doyle follows in a car, frantically driving beneath the train. A handheld camera inside Doyle's car catches his reactions, while other handheld shots follow the car as he drives recklessly to keep pace with his quarry.

This is intercut with the criminal inside the train car, with shots that are also handheld, though initially with less haphazardness than the Doyle shots. As the tension rises, the camera inside the train becomes less steady, matching the frenetic style of the Doyle moments, and the shot lengths shorten to match the quick cutting of Doyle's car as it pursues below.

The cinematic language retains the documentary feel. Both the shots inside Doyle's car and the shots int the train could be taken by a passenger. Most shots outside the car are presented as if filmed by a third party a safe distance away, with momentum created more by the rapid editing than by the visuals themselves. It's masterfully done, and I suspect Gerald B. Greenberg's Oscar for Film Editing had a lot to do with this scene in particular.

I have two criticisms of the chase scene, or rather its impact on the plot. First is that it doesn't actually have much narrative impact. There's an attempt to make it relevant, with Doyle's captain taking him off the case just before the chase, with the confrontation resulting in him staying on... but it's blatantly obvious that this minor and brief complication is there only to justify the set piece. If you were to remove the chase and the bit with Doyle's captain from right before it, the only sign that anything is missing would be the disappearance of one minor supporting character.

My second criticism is that, realistically, this incident should have ended Charnier's deal. Weinstock was already shown to be wary... and then a French associate of Charnier's attempts to kill a police officer before making the kind of scene on a public subway that would ignite a media firestorm. Rather than buying his drugs, I would think Weinstock and his associates would decide that this sort of violent amateurishness is dangerous and insist the Frenchman leave the city and never return.

But this is outweighed by the scene's cinematic function, which it achieves brilliantly. The set piece gives the audience a jolt, essentially waking them up for the final Act. Doyle is put in direct danger for the first time in the story, which adds to his personal stake. We see how he responds to danger: He reacts quickly, with sharp instincts as he anticipates the train's next stop; however, he's reckless and entirely willing to put civilians in danger. Notably, this is one of the few times he is not accompanied by Russo. The end of the set piece foreshadows the way Doyle will act at the end of the movie - setting it up for the viewer, while at the same time preserving the shock for Russo.

Charnier waves mockingly at Doyle. He'll come to regret that.

SPIRITUAL SUCCESSORS AND A SEQUEL:

1973's The Seven-Ups was directed by French Connection producer Philip D'Antoni, and starred French Connection cast members Roy Scheider, Tony Lo Bianco, and Bill Hickman. Scheider's Buddy Manucci is - like Buddy Russo - based on Sonny Grosso, and he's pretty definitely the same character. It's no French Connection, but it's entertaining, with a clever story and a nicely suspenseful car chase.

The same cannot be said of Badge 373, with Robert Duvall as an Eddie Egan-inspired detective (basically "Popeye" Doyle). I didn't manage to finish the movie, but what I saw was quite bad, both tedious and filled with the types of melodramatic clichés that The French Connection avoided.

There was one direct sequel, director John Frankenheimer's French Connection II. Unimaginative title aside, it's a surprisingly decent thriller that takes Gene Hackman's Popeye Doyle out of his New York City comfort zone, planting him in Marseilles. This creates a different feel than the original, and the film boasts a very effective sequence in which a character becomes addicted to heroin. Most of the rest is pretty standard, and Doyle is "safer" - and therefore less interesting - than in the original. Hackman's still good, though, and the ending chase is memorable. It's not in the same league as its predecessor, but it's worth watching, which is more than I expected.

Doyle and Russo follow a suspect.

OVERALL:

The French Connection helped to create the template for the cop thriller subgenre as we know it. Elements of it have been borrowed, expanded on, copied, and even parodied, with the car dismantling scene memorably sent up by an episode of Zucker/Abrahams/Zucker's short-lived Police Squad!

Despite its individual elements now being familiar, the movie holds up. Its documentary style, real locations, and naturalistic performances combine with a screenplay that demonstrates its characters through behavior rather than directly telling us who the characters are. It's not quite William Friedkin's best film, because I think The Exorcist is even better, but it remains a sharp, absorbing crime drama that earned its awards and also its place in film history.


Rating: 9/10.

Best Picture - 1970: Patton
Best Picture - 1972: The Godfather

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1970: Patton.

Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. (George C. Scott) salutes the audience in the iconic opening scene.

Release Date: Feb. 5, 1970. Running Time: 172 minutes. Screenplay: Francis Ford Coppola, Edmund H. North. Based on the books: Patton, Ordeal and Triumph, by Ladislas Farago; and A Soldier's Story, by Omar N. Bradley. Producer: Frank McCarthy. Director: Franklin J. Schaffner.


THE PLOT:

The disastrous Battle of Kasserine Pass leads to major American losses in northern Africa. Gen. George S. Patton Jr. (George C. Scott) is given command of the surviving II Corps, and he goes to work instilling a sense of discipline and pride in the men. He quickly clashes with the British forces over supplies, plans, and air cover, and he enters into a rivalry with Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery (Michael Bates), the British hero Patton regards as a prima donna.

After the Allies achieve victory in Africa, Patton and Montgomery submit separate plans for an invasion of Sicily. To Patton's annoyance, Montgomery's cautious unified assault is favored over his own more aggressive approach. When Montgomery gets bogged down in the southeast, Patton makes a push to capture the key cities of Palermo and Messina... something that doesn't sit well with his second-in-command, Omar Bradley (Karl Malden), who views this as sacrificing lives for the sake of one man's glory.

The fall of Sicily makes Patton into a hero... but not for long. During the campaign, he slapped a soldier with combat fatigue and shouted that the man should be shot as a coward. The incident goes public, causing a loss of support. Patton is passed over for command of the invasion of Europe, with Bradley given that plum assignment. As he's relegated to staging a distraction, he is told to consider himself on probation.

After the landing at Normandy, he is given another chance. He's made commander of the Third Army, and he begins a rapid advance across France. He becomes frustrated when his desire to advance to Berlin is thwarted (for the second time) in favor of an ill-fated rival plan by Montgomery. But when the Germans launch their counteroffensive, the Battle of the Bulge, Patton's aggressiveness suddenly becomes the very thing the Allies need!

Patton finds success on the battlefield, but he sabotages himself in the press.

GEORGE C. SCOTT AS GENERAL GEORGE S. PATTON:

"No (soldier) ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor, dumb (soldier) die for HIS country!"

42-year-old George C. Scott plays the 60-year-old general... and it works. It helps that Scott was one of those people who looked old when he was still fairly young. The only, very slight giveaway is the occasional shot in which lighting makes it obvious that his hair has been artificially whitened. These are relatively rare single shots, however; given how magnetic Scott's performance is, it's doubtful many viewers will notice.

Though it's evident that the filmmakers genuinely like their bellicose subject, they avoid making this a hagiography. Patton is presented sympathetically, and the movie clearly wants us to believe that he's in the right when he disagrees with official strategy - but the script and actor don't shy away from showing his vanity and ego. He loves being the center of attention. There's a moment when, while his army advances across France, the movie cuts to Omar Bradley approving a front-page article, proclaiming, "Give George a headline, and he's good for another thirty miles!"

George C. Scott is superb, delivering not a single false note. There is a potential danger in reducing Patton to an eternally shouty caricature. Scott makes sure to vary his deliveries, and the script makes sure to give him moments of quiet and contemplation. Patton is also played as part showman, and Scott keeps a twinkle in his eye as he barks orders, savoring that his men are never quite certain when he's serious and when he's acting. "It isn't important for them to know," he observes. "It's only important for me to know."

Scott became the first actor to refuse to accept his Oscar, condemning the entire concept of the Academy Awards as "degrading." I would argue for the Oscars' worth, not because Scott was wrong (he wasn't) and not because they always get it right (they often don't), but because the awards provide a glimpse at what is valued and even celebrated in a given year. Co-star Karl Malden expressed sympathy for Scott's reasons, but he felt that he could have been less blunt in his refusal - the two actors' statements making a perfect parallel to the roles they played in the movie.

Gen. Omar Bradley (Karl Malden) is appalled when Patton jeopardizes lives for the sake of ego.

KARL MALDEN AS GENERAL OMAR BRADLEY:

Malden's Bradley is this film's moral center (and it's probably no coincidence that the real Bradley consulted on the film). He recommends Patton for the North Africa posting, seeing him as well-suited to getting the demoralized troops back into fighting shape. He recognizes Patton's quirks and flaws, but he's still supportive of him... during the North Africa campaign.

This changes in the Sicily campaign, when Patton creatively interprets his orders - or just ignores them as "garbled" - in his rush to reach Messina ahead of Field Marshal Montgomery. Bradley doesn't directly clash with his superior, but he lets his disapproval show in his tone and in the look in his eyes. When he rebuffs Patton's offer to accompany him into Messina with a simple, "I'm not very good at that, George," his judgment is as fierce as it is quiet. When he later states that he would have relieved Patton had he been in charge in Sicily, we remember this moment and know that he means it.

That quality of quiet strength makes him a perfect foil to the bellicose title character. Bradley is low-key, plain and unshowy. Karl Malden's unassuming yet solid presence is both opposite and equal to George C. Scott's showy bravado, and I think Malden's performance is every bit as crucial to the movie's success as Scott's own.

Rommel (Karl Michael Vogler, center) is frustrated when his superiors
refuse to commit all forces to defending Normandy.

OTHER CHARACTERS:

Col. Charles Codman: Paul Stevens plays Patton's aide, who stays at his side even when the general tells him that he's "hitched (his) wagon to a falling star." Codman knows how to play to the general's ego. When he takes over as aide, Patton's ego has just been stung by learning that he did not actually face Rommel in North Africa. Codman smoothly points out that he defeated Rommel's plan, which is the same as defeating the man himself. He's unwaveringly loyal, but he isn't blind to the man's faults. There's a hint of weariness and frustration in his voice when he vainly attempts to remind him to mention the Russians in a speech, with Patton's failure to do so compounding his problems with his superiors..

Field Marshal Montgomery: While the film acknowledges Montgomery's effectiveness in pushing the Germans back in North Africa, it does so only in words. What it shown is a smug man who plays politics, trying to steer the course of the war in a way that will build his own reputation. The irony that much of this describes Patton himself isn't lost on the title character, who acknowledges to Bradley: "I'm a prima donna, I admit it. What I can't stand about Monty is, he won't admit it!" I won't call the film's portrayal character assassination; the real-life Montgomery was hardly a well-liked figure even before he proposed making South African apartheid into a model for the entire continent. Still, there's no question that the movie plays up his arrogance while downplaying his military successes.

Field Marshal Erwin Rommel: He refuses to celebrate the victory against the Americans at Kasserene Pass. He recognizes that the Americans were poorly led and knows that this is a correctable weakness. He is quick to recognize Patton's skill, but he doesn't make the mistake of mythologizing the man. During the attack on Normandy, he urges all forces be brought to bear to repel the attack. His frustration is tangible when his superior refuses, insisting that the assault is a distraction, and that the real invasion will be led by Patton. Karl Michael Vogler does a splendid job of showing Rommel's intelligence and instincts, making the most of very limited screen time.

The opening scene makes an instant and indelible impression.

OPENING SEQUENCE - A MAN AND A FLAG:

"Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser."

The opening is striking. There is no studio logo, no lead-in. The screen simply fades in on a giant American flag. George C. Scott's Patton strides up onto the screen and delivers a sharp salute, quick cuts focusing on the salute and his eyes, on the Ivory-handled revolver, on his riding crop, on his medals.

For the next six minutes, Patton delivers a (PG-safe) profanity-laced speech to rouse the morale of the men, who are unseen. He extolls the virtue of winning and the shame of losing. He denounces the idea of individuality, then makes a gory call to not just defeat the enemy, but to "cut out their living guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks!"

Scott is masterful, his Patton as colorful and witty as he is aggressive. At some points, he speaks in quieter tones, as if reflecting on his words while speaking them. Then his ramrod-straight posture somehow gets even straighter as he all but bellows the next line in his speech. We gain an impression of the general's combative nature and also of his showmanship... and, in Scott's hands, we also sense the intellect lurking underneath the pugnacity. 

It is six minutes with only one actor on screen, against that flag backdrop, talking (and sometimes shouting), and it is instantly and absolutely compelling. I'd label it as one of the great openings in film history.

Patton loses his temper at a shell-shocked soldier, a moment that will come back to haunt him.

OTHER MUSINGS:

"God help me, I do love it so."
-Patton reflects on war in the aftermath of a battle.

Patton is a strange sort of epic. It offers the large-scale battle scenes you expect from a big-studio war movie, but those scenes are not at the center of the story. The focus is much more on the mercurial, self-sabotaging title character. More time in spent with characters in rooms, talking and planning and arguing, than is spent in the midst of action.

The script earned Francis Ford Coppola his first Academy Award (alongside co-writer Edmund H. North), and I doubt it's a coincidence that he was able to direct The Godfather not long after. The story is carefully crafted. Most of what's portrayed is reasonably accurate by Hollywood standards, but incidents are selected and used to fashion a neat arc out of messy reality. There are quiet stretches, with the entire middle of the film moving away from the battlefield to focus on Patton's time in the wilderness, and yet the pace never flags. At nearly three hours, the film goes by remarkably quickly.

George C. Scott's performance and sheer screen presence anchors this, with Karl Malden is every bit his equal. Supporting performances are also strong, from Paul Stevens' loyal aide, who often seems more politically savvy than his superior, to Siegfried Rauch's Steiger, a German officer tasked with researching the general, who comes to identify with his subject.

Patton is well made, with several memorable visual moments, though I don't think it ever quite reaches the heights of David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia, another Oscar winning war biography centered around a brilliant but flawed central figure. There's a certain self-consciousness in some of the visuals, as if director Franklin J. Schaffner wants you to know which moments are the most "important" ones. It's not quite a problem with this film - few directors could compete with David Lean at his height - but it is something I noticed a few times while watching.

The movie gets a big lift from its music. Jerry Goldsmith's main theme is stirring and atmospheric. It doesn't simply play unaltered throughout the movie, with slight variations to match changes in mood and setting, while snatches of it also play within the general incidentals. No disrespect to Francis Lai's score for Love Story, and I suppose that film was such a huge hit that it needed to win something... but I find Patton's score to be richer, more memorable, and simply better.

The film offers several striking visuals, but some of them feel a bit self-conscious.

SEQUEL:

In 1986, CBS aired The Last Days of Patton, which saw George C. Scott returning to his most famous role. This telefilm, which aired in a 3-hour time slot (2.5 hours without commercials), covered the last part of Patton's life, from his short-lived governorship of Bavaria to his paralysis and eventual death after a car accident.

George C. Scott was much closer in age to the real Patton than he had been for the 1970 motion picture, and his performance is again excellent. The first part, which covers Patton's time in Bavaria, is interesting. The pace sags afterward, however, and the final hour becomes a slog.

Had this been limited to a 2-hour slot, with a tighter script, I think it would have been a fine companion piece to the movie. But I suspect Scott reprising Patton was too strong an incentive for the network to limit the ad space it could sell. The movie has merit, but there just isn't enough story to fill the time. I'd still label it worth watching for fans of the original film, particularly since it can regularly be found streaming free-with-ads on various services.

A defiant Patton is determined to secure victory.

OVERALL:

Patton is highly entertaining, and a sharp character study of a difficult and complex figure. Though entirely sympathetic to the title character, it doesn't skimp on portraying his many faults. This helps to bring Patton to life in a way that a hagiography wouldn't achieve.

Some of the visual moments feel oddly self-conscious to me, I think because they are directed with a precision that isn't necessarily present in other scenes. Still, it's well made and thoroughly engaging throughout, and it's bolstered by an outstanding central performance by George C. Scott.  At just shy of three hours, I can't think of a single second that left me even slightly restless - and the iconic opening is worth a point all on its own.


Rating: 8/10.

Best Picture - 1969: Midnight Cowboy
Best Picture - 1971: The French Connection

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Midnight Cowboy, the MPAA, and the Brief Rise and Rapid Fall of the "X" Rating.

Bob Hope, representing Hollywood' s Old Guard
while hosting the 42nd Academy Awards.

"This will go down in history as the cinema season that proved that crime doesn’t pay, but there’s a fortune in adultery, incest and homosexuality."

This was one of several acid observations from comedian Bob Hope, who didn't even try to hide his dismay at changing standards when he hosted the 42nd Academy Awards on April 7, 1970. In a retrospective article, Variety's Bret Lang reflects on the divisions in that year's Oscar nominees. The two major contenders were Hello, Dolly, a musical extravaganza of the kind that had been very popular over the past decade, but whose popularity was starting to wane; and Midnight Cowboy, a grimy, street-level drama with homosexual overtones that had earned an "X" rating.

Midnight Cowboy's win was no upset. The movie had been all but universally praised by critics and had become one of 1969's biggest box office successes, while Hello, Dolly was largely greeted as "more of the same." It had also cost so much to make that, despite healthy ticket sales, it ended up losing money.

But it was notable that a movie carrying the "X" rating had been named as Best Picture of 1969. Times were changing, and many of the old Hollywood guard must have felt, as Bob Hope clearly did, that the film industry was moving in a direction they didn't particularly recognize and certainly didn't much like.

The Hays Code seal, certifying a motion picture's approval.

THE DEATH OF THE HAYS CODE:

"No picture shall be produced which will lower the moral standards of those who see it. Hence the sympathy of the audience should never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, evil or sin."
-the first stated principle of the Motion Picture Production Code, better known as the Hays Code.

I've previously discussed the tendency of the American motion picture industry to avoid government regulation by policing itself. The Hays Code, introduced in 1930, applied a rigid set of rules that movies needed to follow in order to receive Hays certification. In the 1930s and '40s, Hays certification was largely a requirement for a US theatrical release. I've also discussed the Hollywood Blacklist, the industry's response to the Second Red Scare. Movie professionals who were blacklisted became unemployable (at least under their own names) for the bulk of the 1950s.

A constant throughout history is that social standards change. Neither the Hays Code nor the blacklist was particularly adaptable. It took little time for studios to start finding ways around the blacklist, and it was less than a decade after its implementation before major producers and directors began flat out defying it. The Hays Code at least could be amended, and it was on occasion. But the Code itself was specific in what it forbade and therefore rigid.

European-born directors such as Billy Wilder and Otto Preminger decided to just ignore that straitjacket, releasing movies with no Hays Certification. The lack of the Hays seal did nothing to harm their 1950s releases, which struck a chord with audiences and were highly successful. The Code lurched along until 1968 (and I'll admit to being surprised that it lasted that long), but it was neutered by the end of the 1950s.

With the Hays Code no longer effective, the industry was faced with a problem. Movies were becoming increasingly sexually frank, changing to address the tastes of much of the public. Without regulation, it would only be a matter of time before Hollywood drew the eye of the government. Some sort of replacement Code was needed.

A 1968 poster explains the new Movie Rating System.

THE MPAA RATING SYSTEM:

"Jack (Valenti, President of the MPAA) set up the system in a way that accounts for changing values... how to reflect standards rather than set them."
-former Classification and Ratings Administration Chair Joan Grave, quoted in the MPAA's publication, G is for Golden: The MPAA Film Ratings at 50.

By 1968, it was obvious that contemporary audiences wanted movies to be able to feature explicit content and to directly tackle mature themes. Jack Valenti, who had become president of the MPAA in 1966, recognized that the Hays Code had become a relic, but he also knew that something was needed to take its place, if only to keep at bay those "who saw adult-themed movies as a threat to America's moral fiber."

After some back and forth, Valenti and the MPAA eventually settled on replacing the increasingly irrelevant censorship code with an age classification system. There were four initial ratings: G, for general audiences; M, for mature audiences, with parental discretion advised; R, for restricted audiences, with children under age 16 not admitted without a parent or guardian; and X, with admittance strictly for people ages 17 and up.


THE RATINGS EVOLVE:

"The PG rating probably had too much latitude. The net it cast over content was wide enough to encompass a movie with a little bit of implied violence, like Walt Disney’s The Black Hole or Star Trek: The Motion Picture. Also, movies so corrosively upsetting in tone... such as The Mechanic, The Outlaw Josey Wales, The Killer Elite, (and) The Legend of Hell House..."
-Roger Ebert, Some Material May Be Inappropriate.

The ratings evolved, a process that started almost immediately. In 1969, the M rating was changed to PG to better distinguish it from the harder R rating. This made sense. Think about it from the perspective of a parent in the late 1960s: if you're casually perusing film listings, would you know that the new "Mature" rating involved less objectionable content that the new "Restricted" rating?

The next change occurred because of a shift in perceptions of the "G" and "PG" ratings. G - "general audiences" - was initially a default rating for a movie with no objectionable content. It did not mean "kids movie," as can be seen from several decidedly adult-oriented titles from the 1960s and '70s, including 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Andromeda Strain, and Silent Running.

But the highest profile G-rated movies were released by Disney. A flood of Disney films, both cartoons and family-friendly live action fare, led to audiences gradually reinterpreting "G" as "children's movie." Since adults and older kids generally don't want to watch "children's movies," studios started actively inserting curse words to secure a "PG" instead. The result was that the "PG" rating became overly broad.

The MPAA addressed this by introducing "PG-13" in 1984. This created a middle ground for movies that were not explicit enough to warrant an "R," but that also were not suitable for younger viewers... which, yes, was what "PG" rating had been originally intended to be.

A final ratings swap occurred in 1990 - but before I get into that, I'm going to wind back to 1968 and the release, and commercial and awards success, of Midnight Cowboy.

Midnight Cowboy's X rating didn't stop it from becoming a hit.
But it was an exception to the rule.

MIDNIGHT COWBOY AND THE RISE AND FALL OF THE "X" RATING:

"When they first trademarked our ratings, they didn't trademark the 'X'... It was an adult rating, so anybody could indicate something was adult; they didn't need to trademark it. What happened is the sex industry took it over."
-Joan Graves, former Board Chair of the MPAA Ratings Board, in an interview with the Los Angeles Times.

I noted in my review that, even by the standards of the time, Midnight Cowboy's "X" rating seemed odd. It may deal frankly with sexual topics, but it's not even remotely explicit. Per Nancy Buirksi's documentary, Desperate Souls, Dark City, and the Legend of Midnight Cowboy, the rating was actually requested by United Artists, out of fear that young people would imitate the homosexual behavior portrayed. Frankly, I think most young male viewers would have been more likely to mimic Ratso's limp and speech patterns than Joe Buck's unappealing movie theater escapades, but what do I know?

Midnight Cowboy was far from the only well-received film to initially be released with an "X." Stanley Kubrick's 1971 release, A Clockwork Orange, is probably the most famous example. Director Lindsay Anderson released If... with an "X" in 1968, the year before Midnight Cowboy. Other titles include Bernardo Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris, director Ralph Bakshi's take on artist Robert Crumb's Fritz the Cat, Sam Raimi's The Evil Dead, and John McNaughton's Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer.

Even early on, though, the "X" rating posed a problem for studios. Midnight Cowboy was a hit; but the flat restriction against underage viewers being admitted, even with their parents, automatically meant less revenue for most titles. It should be noted that If..., Midnight Cowboy, and A Clockwork Orange were all re-released with an R rating. Of the three, Midnight Cowboy was the only one that was re-rated without editing.

As Joan Graves observed in the quote above, however, the real death blow for the "X" came from pornographic films. Whether, as Graves indicates, out of a feeling that there was simply no need or (as I suspect) out of a sense of prudishness, the MPAA chose not to trademark the adults only rating. As those few high-profile X-rated movies resulted in a higher profile, pornographic movies began to advertise their fare as "X"... then as "XX"... and finally as "XXX."

This led movie theaters to increasingly refuse to even carry X-rated content, and more and more newspapers refused to advertise X-rated motion pictures. Studios had already been hesitant to accept an "X," in most cases preferring to edit their titles to receive a more audience-friendly rating. Now that hesitance became flat refusal. The handful of legitimate X-rated titles that trickled out in the late 1970s and the 1980s are, to a one, low-budget independent releases and/or foreign films, rather than anything produced by a major studio.

Author Henry Miller (Fred Ward) has an affair with aspiring writer Anaïs Nin (Maria
de Medeiros) in Henry & June, the first motion picture to be rated NC-17.

THE "NC-17" RATING:

"Mad slasher films like the Friday The 13th series routinely get an R rating from the MPAA and play at millions of teenagers... but let an artistic film come along that really sincerely considers the subject, and it’s banished by the MPAA... This must be the only civilized country on Earth that doesn't believe that there is such a thing as an adults only movie."
-Roger Ebert, in a 1990 episode of Siskel & Ebert, expresses frustration while championing Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer.

Film critics Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert discussed (and argued) over movies for more than two decades across multiple movie review shows. They started with PBS's Opening Soon at a Theater Near You, which was later re-titled Sneak Previews. The breakout success of Sneak Previews led them to bigger paychecks and a bigger audience with At the Movies before they finally signed with Disney for the final version of their show, Siskel & Ebert & the Movies. Though many argue about the duo's legacy, they enjoyed a large audience and a surprising amount of influence - and to their credit, they frequently used that influence to champion foreign films and independent cinema.

In April 1990, the two reviewed Peter Greenaway's The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover, a movie that Greenaway released unrated rather than agree to make edits to avoid an "X." In that same episode, they laid into the contemporary state of the MPAA ratings.

I'm sure that it's total coincidence that the MPAA introduced "NC-17" in September of that year, less than six months after that episode aired.

The first motion picture to earn the new NC-17 rating was Henry & June, co-writer/director Philip Kaufman's drama about the relationship among author Henry Miller, his wife June, and budding writer Anaïs Nin (whose memoir was the basis for the film). I have to admit to finding it a bit... well, dull. Kaufman's earlier The Unbearabe Lightness of Being was a better movie on every level, and it was also a lot sexier. Still, Henry & June was both a "real" movie and a serious one (too serious by half); and while its box office performance was unspectacular, it likely made more money because of the controversy created by its rating.

In the years that followed, major studios avoided releasing NC-17 movies the exact way they used to avoid releasing X-rated ones. As a result, most titles were - again - either foreign films or indie fare. Director Paul Verhoeven and screenwriter Joe Eszterhas made one big attempt to pull the rating into the mainstream. They had the clout, building on the success of their hit erotic thriller, Basic Instinct, and their project drew a great deal of press.

I remember, in the weeks leading up to the release of 1995's Showgirls, reading articles that breathlessly wondered if this would be the new Midnight Cowboy, legitimizing the adults only rating. Unfortunately, the resulting film did the opposite. Showgirls turned out to be a hackneyed exploitation film, good for some unintentional (?) comedy and not much else. Its failure doomed most movies with that rating to obscurity. Every so often, an independent picture gets released as "NC-17" - but the major studios have steered well clear. The letters may be different, but the overall situation is exactly the same.

Paul Verhoeven's Showgirls was meant to bring "NC-17" into the mainstream.
It ended up doing the opposite.

CONCLUSION:

Midnight Cowboy's Best Picture win seemed to herald a rising legitimacy for serious movies aimed strictly at adult audiences. This seemed to be borne out by several releases, from Linday Anderson's If... to Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange. But it ended up being a mirage, with even those titles resubmitted or, more often, re-edited in order to gain wider distribution.

The ratings system itself was a success for Jack Valenti's MPAA, enduring for more than two decades longer than the Hays Code it replaced. The ratings don't directly impose direct content restrictions, allowing studios and filmmakers to meet the tastes of contemporary audiences without direct defiance of the board. Also, as a classification system, ratings have been better able to adapt to shifting standards.

That is a simplification. The 1972 New York Times article, Putting the Hex on "R" and "X," observed that, even at that early stage, the ratings allowed the MPAA board to be censors in all but name. The threat of a rating that would greatly limit revenue resulted in the MPAA directing changes to many movies, something that still happens to this day (these days, often to keep movies from even being released with an "R").

Still, the success of the ratings compared to the failure of the Hays Code points to the importance in any system of having the ability to encompass and adapt to changes in times, tastes, and values.


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