1977: Annie Hall.

Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) and Annie Hall (Diane Keaton)
"meet cute" and fall in love - for a little while...

Release Date: Mar. 27, 1977. Running Time: 93 minutes. Written by: Woody Allen, Marshall Brickman. Producer: Charles H. Joffe. Director: Woody Allen.


THE PLOT:

Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) is a successful comedian, but he lives his life like a failure. He is anxious and neurotic, and he's obsessed with death. He states that life is "full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly." His neuroses have plagued his relationships, resulting in failed marriages to two intelligent, accomplished young women.

Then Alvy meets Annie Hall (Diane Keaton). She's the polar opposite of his previous partners: an insecure, unsophisticated WASP from Wisconsin. They fall hopelessly in love, and they are very happy together... for a little while. But Alvy's paranoid and passive-aggressive tendencies just keep growing. As time passes, the once-insecure Annie begins to feel that the man she loves is suffocating her, and that it might just be time to move on...

Alvy shares an awkward meal with Annie's family.

CHARACTERS:

Alvy Singer: Like most of Woody Allen's roles, Alvy is a version of himself. Alvy is a comedian, and some of his jokes are funny - but those same jokes are his defense mechanism. When his relationship with Annie starts, he makes sure to use big words and make lots of intellectual references, reinforcing her worry that she's "not smart enough for him." He nudges her into college courses and therapy so that she can improve herself and communicate on his level. Then he becomes paranoid, likely realizing that a more confident Annie will be less inclined to put up with him.

Annie Hall: Diane Keaton, as the title character, actually has the more dynamic role. Annie is nervous and awkward when she first meets Alvy, certain that she's not smart enough to be with him, and she allows him to be the dominant figure in their early relationship. Unlike Alvy, she changes and grows. She takes the adult education courses he pushes on her, she sees a therapist recommended by his therapist, and she becomes self-assured. When we first see her singing in a club, she is practically wincing and cringing at every sound. Later on, she sings with confidence - and by this point, she's already noticing and kicking against Alvy's controlling tendencies.

Rob: Alvy's laid-back best friend, Rob (Tony Roberts) tries to persuade him to move to California, where there is more sun and less crime. Eventually, Rob makes that move, and he is happy in his superficial new life: shooting a low-effort sitcom that requires a laugh track because the jokes aren't funny and spending his considerable free time chasing much younger women... including 16-year-olds, something he loudly brags about at one point. Yeah, um, I could have lived without that mental image, Rob, thanks.

Allison Portchnik: Alvy's first wife, whom he meets when performing at a political function. It's a small role, with Allison glimpsed only in flashback, but Carol Kane is remarkably appealing. There's no question that she's "smart enough" to keep up with Alvy. When he tries to dominate their first conversation by making a series of assumptions, she drolly responds: "I love being reduced to a cultural stereotype." At which point Alvy comes as close as we ever see to... well, if not apologizing, then at least acknowledging bad behavior.

The Hall Family: Colleen Dewhurst and Donald Symington are Annie's parents, who look like the absolute stereotype of a middle American family. They assure Annie that they find Alvy to be "adorable," but they stare blankly at his jokes, while Grammy Hall (Helen Ludlam) glares at him with anti-Semitic hatred. A young Christopher Walken swipes the entire "family visit" sequence when he talks about his suicidal urges while driving, the night before he takes Alvy and Annie to the airport.

Christopher Walken as Annie's brother, Duane, sets up one of the film's best laughs.

MY COMPLICATED REACTION TO WOODY ALLEN:

I have never been a Woody Allen fan.

I tried to get into his work in the '90s, when the prevailing attitude was that you didn't love movies if you didn't love his movies. Even then, I struggled to connect with a lot of his output. Many of his films struck me as pretentious and self-impressed. I also felt that his comedy persona often crossed the line from self-deprecation to mere self-pity - never a good quality, and a particularly poor one for a successful, respected multi-millionaire.

This isn't me trying to stake out morally superior ground now that he's persona non grata ("I hated him before it was cool"). There are films of his that I really like. I think The Purple Rose of Cairo and Hannah and Her Sisters are terrific. I legitimately enjoyed Manhattan, even if the entire thread with Mariel Hemingway now plays uncomfortably like a confession. I'm also fond of Zelig, which pulled off the Forrest Gump feat of seamlessly inserting its title character into historical events before CGI was a thing, and without taking 2 1/2 hours to tell its story. A good film from a problematic filmmaker remains a good film, and Woody Allen has made some good films.

But I'm not a fan of his work overall - and though I respect its accomplishment as a movie, that extends to Annie Hall.

During their first meeting, Annie's and Alvy's secret thoughts are revealed through subtitles,
one of several clever moments in a clever and well-made movie.

IT'S A FINE MOVIE...:

Let me clear: Annie Hall is a very good movie. Star Wars was obviously the "big" film of 1977, and with benefit of hindsight should have won on the basis of cultural impact alone. Still, within the romantic comedy genre, Annie Hall is almost as influential, and its script is far more substantial.

Allen plays with a lot of different techniques. The movie opens with a fourth wall break, establishing that what we see isn't the actual relationship, but rather Alvy going through it in his mind. He admits that he probably didn't actually grow up in an apartment under an amusement park, but that is what we see every time the film returns to his childhood home. When he and Annie are bickering, Alvy envisions them as characters in the animated Snow White, with Annie as the wicked stepmother; when he tries to blame her bad mood on her period, she points out that she's a cartoon and therefore doesn't have periods. The movie continuously reminds us that what we're watching Alvy's memories, which may not perfectly match the events he's remembering.

There are plenty of clever touches. When Alvy and Annie first meet, they launch into a conversation about photography, each trying to come across as knowledgeable. Subtitles fill in their thoughts, with Annie worrying that she can't keep up with his intellect and Alvy fretting that he's coming across as shallow... right before Alvy begins to wonder what she looks like naked while she hopes that he doesn't turn out to be "a schmuck like the others." The scene is genuinely funny, and it demonstrates both characters: Annie wanting to grow, while Alvy frets about how he appears to other people.

On this viewing, I was particularly struck by how beautifully shot the film is. This was Woody Allen's first collaboration with Gordon Willis, the cinematographer best known for The Godfather. Annie Hall doesn't call attention to its photography - but every shot is perfectly framed and lit, not only for aesthetics but also for setting the mood of the scene. Characters are meticulously positioned within shots, ready not only for initial positions but to accommodate movements, while also - sometimes more critically - capturing reactions.

Alvy, alone. This movie's photography is stunning in a way that doesn't call attention to itself.

...BUT IT'S ONE THAT I DON'T ENJOY:

By any reasonable measure, this is a very good movie. I just don't particularly like it. I didn't enjoy it when I first saw it, back in the 1990s. I held out some hope that maybe, now that I'm a fair bit older than Allen was when he made it, that I'd get more out of it than I did in my twenties.

For what it's worth, I did in terms of appreciating its themes. Sure, there are references that flew over my head because: I'm not Jewish; I have never lived in New York; and in 1977, I was less concerned with art and culture than with which objects would fit in my nose and which would fit in my ears. But I recognize the artistry and sincerity in a way that I couldn't when I was younger.

But even on this viewing, curmudgeonly middle-aged me still doesn't actually enjoy it very much, and I'm not entirely sure why. Yes, I find Alvy to be borderline unbearable. But I think that's intentional. Woody Allen cranks up the dial on the most annoying tendencies of his comic persona, making himself more irritating than usual. Objectively, his character in Manhattan is more objectionable than Alvy (a lot more), but he doesn't annoy as much because in that movie, Allen is less fidgety and occasionally even shuts up.

"Shutting up" is something that Alvy Singer resolutely refuses to do. He is incessantly complaining about how things are affecting or inconveniencing him. Everything is selfish: Even when he congratulates Annie for singing well, he filters that through him having refused to allow her to quit - and he immediately becomes closed off when a record producer (Paul Simon) stops by to express his appreciation.

Basically, the script portrays a toxic relationship long before the term "toxic" was coined. It does so convincingly, not least because Alvy and Annie have clear chemistry together and are seen in genuinely happy moments, making it believable that they stick together for so long after they stop enjoying each other's company. The script even allows Alvy a smidgeon of growth, albeit only at the very end.

As I said, it's a good movie. I absolutely respect it as a work of art. And yet, save for individual scenes and moments, I feel at a distance while watching it.

Alvy and Annie share a miserable plane flight, to the point of not even looking at each other.

OVERALL:

Annie Hall tells a substantial story, and it utilizes a variety of techniques - nonlinear storytelling, an unreliable narrator, split screen, an animated sequence, bits of low-key surrealism - and it utilizes all of them well. The cinematography is gorgeous, and it's all the more impressive for being unostentatious. There is no artistic measure by which Annie Hall could be said to fail.

Historically, most viewers have enjoyed it a lot more than me. I will even admit that there are individual moments that I love: the conversation with subtitles revealing inner thoughts; the family dinner; a perfectly set-up visual gag involving cocaine.

Ultimately, however, it is not a movie that I enjoy. It's superbly realized; as art, it deserves at least a "9," with a "10" not being out of the question. But my score has to also reflect my own viewing experience, and as an entertainment for me, it comes in around a "4."

So splitting the difference, and with a giant asterisk next to this score, I'm going to award it...


Rating: 6/10. The emperor isn't naked, and his clothes are in fact beautifully tailored - I'm just not a fan of the resulting outfit.

Best Picture - 1976: Rocky
Best Picture - 1978: The Deer Hunter (not yet reviewed)

Review Index

To receive new review updates, follow me:

On BlueSky:

Follow @RandomMusings09 on BlueSky

On Threads:

Follow@randommusings09 on Threads

1976: Rocky.

Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone) trains for an unlikely fight.

Release Date: Nov. 20, 1976. Running Time: 119 minutes. Written by: Sylvester Stallone. Producer: Irwin Winkler, Robert Chartoff. Director: John G. Avildsen.


THE PLOT:

Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone) is, in a word, a loser. Though he has some talent as a boxer, he's remained small-time, in part because he's left-handed and other boxers don't want to fight a "southpaw." He earns a meager living working as a collector for loan shark Gazzo (Joe Spinell). His only noticeable ambition is to successfully woo shy pet shop worker Adrian (Talia Shire), sister of his rough-hewn friend Paulie (Burt Young), and he has no real prospects to look forward to.

Fate intervenes when a boxer pulls out of a scheduled bicentennial fight against Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers), the undefeated heavyweight champion. With the bicentennial a mere five weeks off, there's no time to find a name contender. So Apollo hits upon a gimmick: He will grant an unknown a chance at the title. He notices Rocky's nickname, "The Italian Stallion," and he instantly loves the style: "Apollo Creed meets the Italian Stallion. Sounds like a damn monster movie!"

Rocky knows that he's being set up for humiliation... but both the payday and the opportunity are too good to pass up, so he goes along, insisting that the mockery in the press doesn't bother him. Knowing that he realistically cannot win the fight, he sets his mind to do the next best thing: Go the distance and still be standing when the final bell sounds.

Rocky awkwardly flirts with Adrian (Talia Shire).

CHARACTERS:

Rocky Balboa: In contrast to most of writer/star Sylvester Stallone's later roles, Rocky is very much an everyman. He spends much of the movie taking disrespect from others, and it's apparent from his extreme self-deprecation that he's internalized it. When Paulie remarks that Creed and the boxing officials are "taking cheap shots" at him on television, he insists that it "don't bother me none" - though he admits to Adrian that it does bother him. Stallone is excellent in his starmaking role, using his physicality to emphasize Rocky's awkwardness in his early scenes, then showing the character's growing confidence as his movements become more controlled and precise.

Adrian: The object of Rocky's affections, she's been similarly wounded by a lifetime of insults and humiliation. On their date, Rocky's remark about how he needs to develop his body because he hasn't got much of a brain prompts her first real response: "My mother, she said the opposite thing... She said you weren't born with much of a body, so you better develop your brain." Rocky talks to Paulie about how he and Adrian fill "gaps" in each other, and the second half of the movie sees both becoming more relaxed thanks to the genuine affection and appreciation of the other.

Paulie: The sequels would reinvent him as comic relief, but he's an unlikable, borderline abusive figure here. He describes his sister, Adrian, as a "loser" and blames her for his life not turning out better, though it's obvious that he's the architect of his own problems. He hates his job, and he constantly pesters Rocky to help him get something else, first asking him to talk to Gazzo and later trying to get Rocky to employ him for the coming fight. He has a hair-trigger temper, and in one outburst seems an inch away from erupting into violence. Burt Young manages to make the character relatable despite his faults, and his whimpering during his outburst sounds almost like something from a wounded animal.

Apollo Creed: Carl Weathers sparkles as the charismatic, Muhammed Ali-like champ. Creed is as much businessman as boxer. Most of his scenes take place in fight promoter Jergens (Thayer David)'s office, and Apollo seems absolutely at home in a suit planning publicity and tax issues. He considers the outcome of the fight to be a given, dismissing concerns about Rocky being left-handed: "I'll drop him in three" - while probably thinking that he'll have to hold back until then just so that there's something approximating a show.

Duke: I don't think the character actually gets a name until the 1979 sequel, but Tony Burton already stands out in this first film as Apollo's trainer. He is the one person on Apollo's staff who takes the fight seriously. He's hesitant about the match, wanting Apollo to pick a different challenger because "southpaws, they do everything backwards." When he sees Rocky training in an interview, he realizes that the upcoming fight isn't going to be as one-sided as everyone assumes, though Apollo is too distracted planning his show to pay any heed to the warning: "He doesn't know it's a damn show, he thinks it's a damn fight!"

Mickey: The crusty owner of the gym where Rocky trains, Mickey (Burgess Meredith) is downright hostile to Rocky, taking his locker away even after he wins a fight. When Rocky demands to know the reason for this treatment, Mickey condemns him for trading away his talent to work for a loan shark, calling it "a waste of life." His attitude shifts quickly when Rocky lands the fight with Apollo, approaching him to act as his manager, but he has enough self-awareness to walk away when Rocky throws years of mistreatment back in his face. Rocky actually has to run after him once he's gotten the anger out of his system in order to accept the offer... a good decision, as Mickey's expertise is something he genuinely does need.

Mickey (Burgess Meredith) persuades Rocky to hire him as his manager.

ROCKY, THE '70s, AND THE AMERICAN DREAM:

I'll be up front and state that I don't consider it the best of the nominees for 1976's Best Picture. I haven't seen Bound for Glory - but I would rate All the President's Men, Taxi Driver, and Network all as comfortably better movies than Rocky.

That said, Rocky had an almost immediate cultural impact on release, to such an extent that I still can't fully argue against its selection.

This is unmistakably a '70s film. For the first 90 minutes, the tone is surprisingly downbeat. Rocky, Paulie, Adrian, and even Mickey are damaged people, each dealing with their own variety of desperation. Each has at least one moment of anger (viewers of the sequels may be surprised at just how angry a man the Paulie of the original film is). Rocky is treated with dismissive condescension by both Apollo and the press. The night before the fight, he points out an error in promotional posters to the fight's promoter, only to be told that it doesn't matter - the implication being that Rocky doesn't particularly matter beyond his presence being needed for the show.

But underneath the grittiness, the anger, and the cynicism lurks a story about a decent man getting an unlikely shot at the American Dream - a dream that most films of the era portrayed as battered, corrupted, or downright unachievable. The public, like Network's Howard Beale, may have been "mad as hell" - but seeing the classic American mythology delivered so earnestly filled a hunger in a way that darker fare like Network and Taxi Driver, for all their quality, couldn't match.

Also, Rocky has something that can't be faked, not even by very talented filmmakers. You can feel it while watching: This movie is genuinely heartfelt.

Sylvester Stallone famously wrote the script during a time when his career wasn't even properly getting started. He had spent years knocking about in minor supporting roles, and the biggest break he had managed to get was as one of four leads in low-budget indie film The Lords of Flatbush. When Rocky vents to Mickey about how he's gone nowhere and how "everything's going... nobody's getting nothing," there's a sense that Stallone is expressing his own frustration at working hard and being given almost no opportunities in return.

Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers) puts on a show by showing up to the fight dressed as George Washington.

OTHER MUSINGS:

There is startlingly little actual boxing in this "boxing movie." In between a short, awkward opening match and the championship fight, most of the scenes are devoted to building the characters, the setting, and the relationships. Rocky isn't even offered the fight until the halfway mark!

The emotion centers mainly around Rocky's romance with Adrian, with their relationship making both of them more confident. In the first half, Rocky is so self-deprecating that at one point he all but calls himself a "creep," while Adrian speaks rarely and hesitantly, seemingly believing that her voice isn't worth hearing. After they become a couple, Rocky is more willing to stand up to himself, calling out Mickey for years of scornful treatment and making it clear to Paulie that he isn't interested in hearing him denigrate Adrian. She becomes considerably more relaxed, particularly in Rocky's company, and begins to dress in a way that makes her look attractive rather than dowdy.

The ending firmly demonstrates that these two are the true focus. I won't spoil the excellent final scene, but it absolutely foregrounds Rocky and Adrian. The camera is tight on them, and they are at the center of the ending minutes. The actual boxing results are announced in the background, rendered into noise that no longer really matters.

Though the script is focused on the characters, it does an excellent job of setting up plot elements. Everyone knows about the famous montage that ends with Rocky's triumphant run up the steps leading to Philadelphia's Art Museum. A smaller moment earlier in the film gives that meaning, however. When Rocky begins training, we see him ending a run by going up the steps. By the time he reaches the top, he's winded and exhausted. Because we've been shown how difficult the run is, when he makes it at full speed, this small victory has significance to the viewer as well as the character.

Another example is the short fight at the movie's start. It's awkward and sloppy, with Rocky mostly looking like the "bum" one spectator calls him. Then his opponent head-butts him, giving him an eye injury that persists for the entire movie (and affects the next one). Rocky responds immediately - with a succession of hard punches that foreshadow his later attacks on Apollo during the championship event.

Rocky and Apollo fight for the heavyweight championship.

OVERALL:

There isn't much about the film to criticize. The first date between Rocky and Adrian ends with a scene in his apartment that has aged a bit poorly, thanks to changing standards, but that's more or less something that has to be accepted when watching a 50 year old movie (see also: Randle McMurphy's "minor crime" in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which plays as anything but minor today). Also, the sound quality is a bit uneven, and there are scenes that on every viewing have me switching on the subtitles.

The low budget mostly plays in Rocky's favor. The lack of polish and the use of real locations greatly elevate the atmosphere, making the story feel a lot more authentic. Sylvester Stallone's screenplay is well put-together, and it ranks among the best use of the sports movie formula I've seen, the formula granting structure even as the film's real concern is its characters.

It would not have been my choice as 1976's Best Picture - but it was a movie that had enormous impact, and it stands up as a fine film in its own right.


Rating: 8/10.

Best Picture - 1975: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Best Picture - 1977: Annie Hall

Review Index

To receive new review updates, follow me:

On BlueSky:

Follow @RandomMusings09 on BlueSky

On Threads:

Follow@randommusings09 on Threads

At the Midpoint: A Backward Glance at Best Pictures from 1927 to 1975.

A scene from 1927's Wings, which won the award
for Outstanding Picture at the first Academy Awards.

With my review of One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, I have now reviewed 49 Best Picture Winners (with an asterisk for Sunrise) out of a total of 98, putting me at the midpoint of this project. So this seems like a good moment to take a look back before moving forward.

One thing that this tour of (English language) film history has brought home to me is what a young medium motion pictures are. There are people who are alive now who had already been born when Wings and Sunrise were released. I'm only about halfway through, and this point will be a fair bit short of the midpoint by the time I fully catch up. Even so, I have already reached movies released within my lifetime, some of them ones that I wouldn't have considered "old" when I first viewed them.


EARLY FILM HISTORY AND PRE-HISTORY:

Film itself far predates the Academy Awards. Inventors experimented with creating moving images from mulitple static ones from the first half of the 19th century through devices such as the phenokistascope, later improved into the zoetrope. Thomas Edison (more accurately, his employee William Dickson)'s kinetoscope, invented in 1893, allowed exhibition of a film reel to a single viewer via a "peep box." But it was only with the creation of the Lumière Brothers' cinématographe in 1895 that mass exhibition became possible.

To all intents, motion pictures began with that invention, with the rest basically being prehistory. Now, 1895 is outside of living memory... but not by all that much, and it wasn't until after the turn of the 20th century that filmmakers started to deliver more complex narrative films, such as Edwin S. Porter's The Great Train Robbery and Georges Méliès's Le Voyage dans la Lune. The latter of which saw Thomas Edison become the first significant movie pirate by selling his own prints of Méliès's film under the English title, A Trip to the Moon, without permission, payment, or credit.

The Kelly Gang performs a robbery in one of
the few surviving scenes from this 1906 feature.

The first recorded feature-length film was Australia's The Story of the Kelly Gang (1906), a 70 minute narrative film of which roughly 17 minutes still survive; a restoration was released by Australia's National Film and Sound Archive in 2006, combining the existing clips with still photos to recreate the original movie as closely as possible (National Film and Sound Archive of Australia, https://www.nfsa.gov.au/latest/story-kelly-gang).

It was D. W. Griffith's 1915 epic, The Birth of a Nation, that revolutionized film technique... sadly, in the service of what amounts to a 3-hour recruitment film for the Ku Klux Klan. I've already written about its content (link). The film was simultaneously a product of, and a fuel for, the period of history that historians have dubbed the nadir of American race relations.

Divorced of that content, however, The Birth of a Nation was a technical marvel. A lot of film language we take for granted can be traced to this motion picture: intercutting close-ups and long shots within a scene; fade-outs to show transitions in time and place; and large-scale battle scenes using a variety of methods to convey carnage, including the use of still frames to make living actors seem like lifeless corpses. Its content is odious - but its technical achievement is indisputable, and it fully merits its place in the Library of Congress's National Film Registry.

The Broadway Melody is an "all-talking" film... meaning
the camera doesn't move and the actors barely do.

FROM SILENT TO SOUND:

All of this history is a prelude to the very first thing I noticed in this review series - namely, the way film technique actually moved backward with the introduction of sound.

Silent film was already on its way out by the time of the first Academy Awards ceremony. Wings and its twin "Best Unique and Artistic Motion Picture," Sunrise, would be the only silent films to win Best Picture until 2011's The Artist. The contrast in filmmaking sophistication between these two silent films and the early talkies that followed is jaw-dropping. Save for featuring synchronized sound, the Best Picture recipients from The Broadway Melody to Cavalcade seem far older and creakier than the two silent winners.

The reasons for this have to do with early sound recording technology, which Fiveable's article, Technological and Artistic Challenges of Early Talkies, observes was as cumbersome as it was expensive. Cameras had to be encased in soundproof booths to avoid recording the sound of the camera itself, which limited camera movement, while actors had to remain close to microphones to capture clear audio. The resulting films feel almost painfully primitive and static.

Filmmakers did their best to push against these limitations. The Broadway Melody cuts regularly between different camera setups to try to keep some sense of visual motion, and it pioneered the technique of dubbing singing over musical numbers rather than recording the songs live. Cimarron and All Quiet on the Western Front feature set pieces that were "shot silent," with sound later dubbed over, allowing individual sequences to draw on the wealth of tools that had been perfected before the introduction of sound. All Quiet was one of several early talkies that simultaneously shot a silent version. The silent version still exists, and it's often regarded as the better one, not having to contend with the limited camerawork and the sometimes stilted line deliveries.

I also couldn't help but notice how many early talkies feature elements of silent film, from exaggerated, overly emotive acting (Cimarron is very guilty of this) to intertitles. In hindsight, the run of Best Picture Winners up to 1934 plays like a transitional period, with filmmakers gradually learning how to best use the new sound technology, as well as how to minimize the limitations imposed by it.

The motion picture as an artform seems to regain its confidence in the mid-1930s. Frank Capra's It Happened One Night uses the advantages of synchronized sound to smoothly cut into action while it's in progress and cut out at high points, creating a faster pace than many of its contemporaries. The Great Ziegfeld, for all of its self-indulgence, features a then-extraordinary $250,000 set piece, a mid-film performance of A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody on a giant revolving set, that remains eye-popping.

1939's Gone with the Wind sees the movies finally catch
back up with the technical mastery of the silent era.

CATCHING UP WITH THE PAST - GONE WITH THE WIND:

1939's Gone with the Wind saw the motion picture industry finally "catching up" with the technical mastery of its silent era.

There is a certain irony to this. Silent film's revolutionary leap forward came with Birth of a Nation, a Civil War/Reconstruction epic that is deeply, blatantly racist. Sound film's revolutionary release that saw a full return to technical mastery came with Gone with the Wind, a Civil War/Reconstruction epic based on a novel by Margaret Mitchell - whose own favorite novel, The Clansman, formed the basis for Birth of a Nation.

It should be noted that, unlike its pro-KKK predecessor, Gone with the Wind avoided any deliberate racism on the insistence of David O. Selznick. The novel's references to the Klan were removed entirely from the movie, along with racial slurs. The film's most prominent black character, Mammy (Hattie McDaniel), is a fully-realized character who is arguably one of the best-written characters in the movie.

Gone with the Wind is a better movie than Birth of a Nation on a basic story and character level. It also offers several indelible moments: The shot that begins close on Scarlet; then, still moving to follow her, gradually pulls back to reveal a sea of wounded soldiers. The set piece that is the burning of Atlanta. The intimate and perfectly-edited moment in which Scarlet shoots a deserter, then rifles through his pockets for anything that can help her and her people survive.

As I noted in my review, for its first three hours, I was positive I would be awarding full marks. I ended up giving it an "8," mainly because its final hour suffered from a narrowing of scope and direction by Sam Wood that simply was not the equal of the scenes helmed by Victor Fleming or George Cukor. The movie as a whole, however, fully lives up to its reputation as a technical and artistic achievement, and it represents the point at which the visual art of motion pictures caught up with its own past and began to once again move forward.

1922's The Toll of the Sea was made using
Technicolor's early two-strip color process.

FROM BLACK & WHITE TO COLOR:

After silent-to-sound, the next major transition was from black & white to color. From 1927 to 1950, the only color movie to win Best Picture winner was Gone with the Wind.

Now, color was not remotely new, not even in the 1930s. Many early silent films had sequences that were colored by hand, frame-by-frame; some restorations replicate the process, including Wings with its colored flames during the aerial dogfights. Meanwhile, Technicolor utilized a two-strip color recording process, which was used for the entirety of 1922's The Toll of the Sea. This process was also used for individual sequences, big set pieces in movies such as the 1923 version of The Ten Commandments and the 1925 Ben-Hur.

The early Technicolor processes were cumbersome, though, as well as expensive. Also, like early sound, early color introduced limitations. The Artifice notes in its article, A History of Colour: The Difficult Transition from Black and White Cinematography, that cameras were so heavy that outdoor shooting was impossible. The article also notes the need for extremely bright lighting, limiting the use of shadows and restricting complex camera work.

Talkies imposed even greater restrictions, of course... but audiences quickly demanded talking films. The same audiences were perfectly satisfied with black & white, however, and so the expensive and cumbersome color process was saved for a few, lavish exceptions.

As the technology improved, color became more affordable, more effective, and less restrictive. The 1950s saw a steady increase in color motion pictures, and this was reflected in the Oscar winners. 1951's An American in Paris was only the second color movie to win Best Picture. After 1956's Around the World in 80 Days, however, 1960's The Apartment was the only black & white film to win the award until Schindler's List in 1993.

The Apartment (1960) was the last black & white film
to win Best Picture until Schindler's List in 1993.

REFLECTING THE TIMES:

The one constant, throughout this series (and, really, any other decades-spanning look at artworks) is one that I've circled back to in multiple reviews and assorted musings: that the films in this series very much reflect the times in which they were made.

This is visibly true throughout the span of this review series. I've written about how portrayals of African-Americans on film reflected racial attitudes between 1915 and 1939; how views toward sexuality led to the fall of the Hays Code and the rise of the MPAA ratings; and how a turbulent social period overlaps a time in which the musical suddenly dominated the Academy Awards. The movies that are the most popular and/or honored often don't hold up as the actual best of their respective years - but movies, good and bad alike, always reflect something of the times that created them.


CONCLUSION:

I think it's appropriate that my look back comes here, not only because it's the current midpoint of this series, but also because the next Best Picture winner will be 1976's Rocky. If my memory holds true (and it hasn't been all that long since my last viewing), the first Rocky is very much a '70s film, but it also signals a shift in the overall tone of major motion pictures that would carry through into the following decade.

Past that, I have no particular conclusion here. I really did just want to blow off the cobwebs a bit by looking back at the first half of this review series before starting to move forward again.


Review Index

To receive new review updates, follow me:

On BlueSky:

Follow @RandomMusings09 on BlueSky

On Threads:

Follow@randommusings09 on Threads

1975: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Randle McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) feigns insanity to avoid prison.

Release Date: Nov. 19, 1975. Running Time: 135 minutes. Screenplay by: Lawrence Hauben, Bo Goldman. Based on the Novel by: Ken Kesey. Producer: Saul Zaentz, Michael Douglas. Director: Miloš Forman.


THE PLOT:

Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) has absolute control over her ward at a mental institution. Everything goes according to her schedule, with even the moments of chaos among the patients being carefully constrained. This is noticed by doctors and staff, with Dr. Spivey (Dean Brooks) referring to her as "one of the finest nurses we've got."

Into this palace of order comes an agent of chaos: Randle P. McMurphy (Jack Nicholson). An inmate sentenced to a brief stint on a prison work farm, McMurphy has come up with the perfect way to get out of his work detail: by faking insanity. No one is fooled, least of all Dr. Spivey, but he's just convincing enough to be referred for a period of observation.

McMurphy and Ratched despise each other on sight. The charismatic McMurphy is a threat to her dominance; Ratched's inflexible adherence to schedules and procedures ticks off every one of his anti-authoritarian instincts. Their mutual hatred quickly turns into a battle of wills - but what McMurphy doesn't realize is that the terms of his referral leave him in a position to potentially lose his freedom forever!

McMurphy rallies the other patients by faking a World Series broadcast.

JACK NICHOLSON AS RANDLE McMURTRY:

He first knocks heads with Nurse Ratched over personal annoyances, from music that he finds too loud to a World Series game that he desperately wants to watch. He practically sneers at the patients who just go along with Ratched's bullying. He may have been denied seeing his game, he observes - "But I tried, didn't I? ...At least I did that."

He maintains a carefree front, and he seems to legitimately enjoy the awe with which the others look upon his acts of rebellion. Still, he notices the injustices on the ward. Even at the beginning, when he's at his most selfish, he watches with visible disgust as Ratched wields her power, and that only grows as their conflict continues. He rallies the other patients with his boisterousness... but as the camera lingers on his face, it catches micro-expressions that show a steadily building anger. This finally gets released in a moment that is simultaneously shocking and inevitable.

If Al Pacino's Dog Day Afternoon had fallen in any other year, I would have said he was robbed of the Oscar... but Jack Nicholson is completely, utterly magnetic, and his performance is startlingly layered; this was one of the roles that created his star persona, but he isn't relying on it here. I'd rate this as a strong candidate for Nicholson's best work, and I would have to agree with his Best Actor Oscar.

Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) watches the patients on the exercise yard.

LOUISE FLETCHER AS NURSE RATCHED:

The American Film Institute ranked Nurse Ratched #5 on their list of the greatest movie villains. She presents herself as a kindly figure, phrasing her edicts as if they are for the good of patients or the group, but she cares nothing about her charges as people. They aren't even numbers and statistics - They are her subjects, and what matters is her total control of them.

Louise Fletcher makes this character into McMurphy's opposite. He is loud, rakishly unkempt, and proudly lewd and angry; she is perfectly composed, soft-spoken, and proper. He is open, loud in displaying his emotions and appearing to have no filter; she reveals nothing, with the only indication of a life outside the ward being her (unreliable) statement that she's an old friend of patient Billy Bibbit (Brad Dourif)'s mother. McMurphy makes a spectacle of himself often just by being in the room; she is often shown silently watching.

It's a perfectly judged performance. By making Ratched so utterly poised, it shows her stress when she finally begins snapping and even shouting in the latter part of the film, when she senses her control starting to slip.

McMurphy with Chief (Will Sampson), who isn't as catatonic as he pretends.

OTHER CHARACTERS:

Chief: The large-statured Native American patient has perfected what McMurphy merely feigns, convincing everyone on the ward that he is catatonic. We're tipped off otherwise courtesy of quick reaction shots, but it's more than halfway through the film before McMurphy learns the truth, with Chief revealing himself in secret because the other man has earned his respect. He attempts to warn McMurphy about the trouble he's inviting with his rebelliousness, comparing him to his late father: "My poppa's real big, he did like he pleased. That's why everybody worked on him... I'm not saying they killed him. They just worked on him, the way they're working on you."

Dale Harding: The most verbose of the ward's patients, Harding (William Redfield) has the look and manner of a middle-class accountant. He's more than a little full of himself, which makes him a target of mockery by other patients - particularly the belligerent Taber (Christopher Lloyd). Early on, he snaps at Taber verbally when the other man insinuates that he's a closeted homosexual, but that's all he does. Later, seemingly as a result of McMurphy's influence, he gets back at Taber by giving him a hotfoot in group, and he seems giddy at getting away with it.

Billy Bibbit: Brad Dourif's first screen role (at least, the first one that didn't end up on the cutting room floor), and it's a memorable debut. Billy is the youngest patient on the ward, a shy stutterer who has attempted suicide multiple times. He's sexually frustrated, and he is enchanted when McMurphy brings a prostitute (Marya Small) on the mid-film fishing trip. Nurse Ratched makes him into a particular target, deliberately quashing any sign of self-confidence. He tells a harmless lie in group therapy, detailing an encounter with a young woman the way he wished it had happened, and smiles for a moment to enjoy the group's approval - only for Ratched to call him out on the lie to reduce him to a stammering nonentity.

Other Patients: Sydney Lassick has some amusing scenes as the comically anxious Cheswick, while a startlingly young Danny DeVito steals several bits with (probably improvised) physical comedy as Martini. Christopher Lloyd stands out as the angry Max Taber, one of the few patients on the ward who isn't there by choice. Vincent Schiavelli lends strong physical presence to the hulking, silent Frederickson, though we never actually learn anything about him. All of the supporting actors do their jobs well, never intruding on the central conflict between McMurphy and Ratched while still getting the most of small moments and making it believable that McMurphy would feel a growing protectiveness toward them.

Billy Bibbit (Brad Dourif), the youngest of the patients on Nurse Ratched's ward.

THOUGHTS:

"You guys do nothing but complain about how you can't stand it in this place here, and you don't have the guts just to walk out? What do you think you are... crazy or something? Well, you're not! You're not! You're no crazier than the average **** out walkin' around on the streets!"
-Randle P. McMurphy is appalled by the passiveness of his fellow patients.

What is there to say about One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? It's a fixture on all lists of "great movies." It works on multiple levels: as a story about a contest of wills between two equally stubborn polar opposites; as an allegory about the cost of individuality in a cold, unfeeling system; as a look at abuses within the mental health industry (I'd wager one scene represented most contemporary viewers' first exposure to electroshock therapy). It's even a pretty good character comedy that seamlessly mutates into a searing drama.

Performances are superb, with Jack Nicholson and Louise Fletcher portraying vivid characters who instantly became iconic. Just as important to the film's success is Miloš Forman's directorial style. There are many scenes composed of characters talking, and Forman uses his camera to move slowly in on key characters across these scenes.

This is particularly effective when he's moving in on reaction shots. During an early group therapy scene, the camera closes on McMurphy from one angle and Ratched from another - not on them talking, but instead picking up their reactions. Ratched ignores the other patients as they argue amongst themselves, instead glaring at this new threat to her control. McMurphy, in turn, recognizes her for the domineering figure that she is, and tries to throw off her concentration by noisily shuffling his deck of cards. He barely speaks during the scene, but he makes absolutely clear his disdain for this authority figure whom he's already decided "ain't honest."

This scene is mirrored by a later group therapy session. This occurs after McMurphy learns that Ratched has the power to keep him in the ward indefinitely, and he's now endeavoring to behave. She is smug as he carefully asks why no one warned him of his situation. Once again, chaos breaks out, not because of anything McMurphy is doing, but because of the rebellion he's stoked across weeks of individual incidents. The usually meek Cheswick decides he wants access to his cigarettes, which Nurse Ratched has confiscated and is keeping at the nurse's station, and he ignores all instructions to sit down.

Less than five minutes of screen time earlier, McMurphy would have basked in this as a triumph. Now the stakes have changed, with his fate now entirely in the hands of his worst enemy. What would have been more comedy antics are now a source of tension, with both McMurphy and the viewers seeing that every bit of pushback from the other patients is one more nail locking him in his cage for good.

McMurphy's greatest act of rebellion: Taking the patients out for a fishing trip.
Inevitably, this high is swiftly answered with a fall.

A SHIFT IN TONE:

The shift in tone is beautifully executed. Though the first half is mostly light-hearted, there are enough edges to keep it from ever feeling completely like a comedy. Nurse Ratched's baleful glares promise retribution, and her soft-spoken bullying of Billy is an early tipoff of her malevolence. McMurphy's doomed attempt to lift a water fixture to escape is almost disturbing as his face literally turns red from the effort before he finally gives up.

Throughout the first half, McMurphy seems to "win" the contest of wills. After Ratched refuses his request to watch the World Series, he glares balefully for a second - then, refusing to allow her the victory, he fakes the game, staring at the blank screen of the television and reading off plays with a sports announcer's patter. The result is that the other patients flock to him even more than if Ratched had allowed them to watch the actual game.

Little incidents and episodes build to the mid-film set piece: McMurphy "borrowing" the bus to take the other patients on an impromptu fishing trip. This is the only sequence in the film that takes place outside the confines of the institution, and it's like a weight is lifted as they steal a boat and go out onto the water, all of them enjoying a moment of pure freedom.

Even the color palette brightens; in contrast to the institution, where everything is white or light blue and antiseptic, on the fishing trip there are bright colors, with each patient granted a red life vest. The editing is faster, and there is more motion, all conveying a sense of freedom that contrasts with the rest of the movie.

Nurse Ratched enforces her will on her suddenly unruly ward.

The tone changes immediately after. There's an ominously quiet scene as Ratched, Dr. Spivey, and Spivey's colleagues debate McMurphy's fate. Spivey is on the cusp of sending him back to prison (where, in fairness, he belongs), when Ratched interferes, insisting that sending him away would be dereliction of their duties. It's then that McMurphy learns the reality of his situation, that he is now serving an indefinite sentence with Nurse Ratched as both judge and jailer.

The movie's final sequence is haunting and beautiful, a succession of wonderful visual shots that are perfectly accompanied by Jack Nitzsche's score. I won't give anything away - but I will say that on rewatch, it is remarkable just how many small moments earlier in the film foreshadow each and every piece of this ending.


OVERALL:

There are plenty of aspects to this movie that I'm not touching on. In the interest of avoiding spoilers, I'm not touching on anything from the movie's final third, but the way the film moves between different styles is beautiful to behold, elements of French farce giving way to moments of great suspense.

This is, simply put, a great motion picture, one that fully lives up to its towering reputation - and lest that put you off, it's also compulsively watchable.


Rating: 10/10.

Related Post: At the Midpoint: A Backward Glance at Best Pictures from 1927 to 1975.

Best Picture - 1974: The Godfather, Part II
Best Picture - 1976: Rocky

Review Index

To receive new review updates, follow me:

On BlueSky:

Follow @RandomMusings09 on BlueSky

On Threads:

Follow@randommusings09 on Threads

Supplemental Review: The Godfather, Part III (1990).

An aging Michael Corleone makes an ambitious final effort to redeem his family name.

Release Date: Dec. 20, 1990. Running Time: 162 minutes (theatrical), 170 minutes (director's cut), 158 minutes (re-release). Screenplay by: Mario Puzo, Francis Ford Coppola. Producer: Francis Ford Coppola. Director: Francis Ford Coppola.

Note: This review is based on the 1991 "Final Director's Cut."


THE PLOT:

The year is 1979 and, after decades of investment in legitimate businesses, Michael believes he has finally freed himself and his family from ties to organized crime. "We've sold the casinos, all businesses having to do with gambling. We have no interests or investments in anything illegitimate."

He plans to cement his turn from mafia don to respected businessman by purchasing control of Immobiliare, a company with deep ties to the Catholic Church. The deal is contingent on personal approval by the Pope himself, but Archbishop Gilday (Donal Donnelly), head of the Vatican Bank, assures him that this is little more than a formality.

Then the Pope falls ill, leaving ratification of the agreement in limbo. If the Pope dies, one of the corrupt executives smirks, "all bets are off" - with Michael potentially left with nothing.

Even as he navigates this mess, problems are brewing in New York. Vincent Mancini (Andy Garcia), the illegitimate son of Michael's late brother Sonny, has come into conflict with gangster Joey Zasa (Joe Mantegna). Zasa has taken control of the territory once protected by Michael's father, and he has turned it into a crime-infested sewer. Michael extends his protection to Vincent, taking the hotheaded young man under his wing in hopes of teaching him patience. Outside of that, however, he refuses to get involved.

That isn't good enough for Joey Zasa. With backing from an unidentified enemy, he makes a move - one that threatens to pull Michael right back into the world he left behind!

Michael attempts to purchase a company with ties to the Vatican.

AL PACINO AS DON MICHAEL CORLEONE:

My opinion of Al Pacino's performance in The Godfather, Part III is similar to my opinion of the movie itself. On its own terms, it's a good performance, suffering mainly by comparison to the two 1970s films.

Pacino is particularly good at capturing Michael's physical weariness. He walks with a stoop and seeming to be contracting into himself, diminishing before our eyes. He's uncomfortable even when he sits, as if he doesn't quite fit into the chair, and he regularly slumps his head or even entire body to one side. His visible exhaustion makes his moments of strong emotion more effective, notably a scene in which he falls into tears when confessing his sins to an honest Cardinal.

"I would burn in hell to keep you safe," he tells his daughter, Mary (Sofia Coppola) - and indeed, he believes himself to be beyond any kind of redemption, his only solace the hope that he's protected his children from the world he fell into. He protests to Kay that he never had a choice, that he had to act as he did to protect the people he loved, only to lose them anyway.

However - again, like the movie itself - there's no question that he isn't at the same level here as in the first two movies. In The Godfather and particularly The Godfather, Part II, Pacino didn't so much play Michael as inhabit him. Even now, when I rewatch the earlier movies, I don't see Pacino playing Michael; I see the character. By contrast, in this third entry, I mostly see Al Pacino.

Joey Zasa (Joe Mantegna) prepares to move against Michael.

OTHER CHARACTERS:

Kay Adams Corleone: The opening scenes indicate that she's had minimal contact with Michael since their marriage ended, but they mutually agreed for her to take charge of their children's education... which is absolutely not inconsistent with him wordlessly slamming the door in her face while she was saying goodbye to the children at the end of the The Godfather, Part II. She still has unresolved feelings for him, rushing to his side when he has a medical emergency, but she remains wary of the danger surrounding him. Diane Keaton is good as ever, but she unfortunately gets stuck with some of the clunkiest dialogue, notably when she complains that Michael is more dangerous now than when he was "just a common Mafia hood."

Connie Corleone: One thing that can be said for The Godfather, Part III is that it gives a lot more to its female cast than the first two films. Nowhere is this more evident than with Talia Shire's Connie, a decidedly supporting character in the earlier entries who graduates to a central role here. She has retained contact with Kay, and she also brings Vincent to Michael. She is a direct advisor to Michael (almost certainly a case of Talia Shire inheriting some of what would have been Robert Duvall's role), authorizing Vincent to respond to actions against the Corleones while Michael is in the hospital and directly participating in the opera house climax. I'm not sure most of this is really a natural extension of Connie's established character, but at the very least Talia Shire plays her scenes well, convincingly making Michael's sister into a formidable presence.

Vincent Mancini: Andy Garcia's Vincent is a hothead, like his father, and Garcia even borrows a few of James Caan's mannerisms. I don't think Vincent's arc really works - not because of Garcia, who is perfectly fine, but because the script never makes him the focus. In the original movie, Marlon Brando's Vito was all but removed for the middle hour, allowing Al Pacino's Michael to emerge as the main character. The Godfather, Part III is centered entirely around Michael, with everyone else being a supporting character. This leaves little time for Vincent's transformation from short-tempered loose cannon to calculating leader, and as a result I'm unconvinced when he's given (quite literally just given) the title of "Don Corleone" in the final half hour.

Don Altobello: Eli Wallach as an elderly, retired-but-not-retired Sicilian don sounds like casting out of a Mel Brooks movie. I can't help but wonder if Francis Ford Coppola and Mario Puzo couldn't have tweaked the character to make him a Jewish advisor who has gained power through sheer shrewdness; yes, that would be repeating Hyman Roth, but it would also allow the character to fit the casting. That dissonance aside, Wallach's performance is good, the actor turning the character's outward meekness into a thin mask. The more he protests his own powerlessness, his need to "please the world around me," the clearer it becomes that he is one of the most dangerous characters in the story.

Joey Zasa: A flashy mobster who enjoys public attention, winking at his mob status while dismissing it as "fantasy," he's basically a fictionalized John Gotti - and he is easily the movie's most entertaining character. Zasa swaggers into frame, all but openly disrespectful of the Corleones from his first appearance. Michael dismisses him as "small time" - even after Zasa makes his move, Michael knows that he could not have done this alone. In my opinion, Zasa should have been the film's most visible antagonist. Joe Mantegna is excellent, and his character's street-level crudeness is an effective contrast to the more formal demeanor of Michael, let alone the various Vatican officials and Immobiliare execs. This creates friction and energy when he's onscreen, qualities that the movie could have used more of.

B. J. Harrison: Robert Duvall declined to return after receiving what he felt was an insulting offer from Paramount. The new family attorney is George Hamilton's Harrison. The absence of Tom diminishes the movie, as without him there really isn't an equivalent voice to argue against Michael's decisions. Beyond that, there's the inevitable temptation to make fun of George Hamilton for... well, being George Hamilton. But honestly? I think he's pretty good here. Harrison isn't the focus of many scenes (I suspect Tom's role would have been larger), but he's often in the background, watching closely, ready to jump in to forestall awkward questions from a reporter or to express worries about the Immobiliare deal.

Mary Corleone: Winona Ryder was cast as Michael's daughter, only to drop out from nervous exhaustion early in production. This put Francis Ford Coppola in a bind - and he made probably the worst decision possible by replacing her with his daughter, Sofia. Even decades on, I feel bad about pointing out the stilted movements and wooden line deliveries of someone who, after, all, was not a professional actress. Still, this is a released feature film - a tentpole film of its year - and Sofia Coppola's performance harms every scene in which she's the focus. Her father seems at least to have recognized this while editing (even in the longest of the three versions, her total screen time is limited) - but in a story that strives to evoke King Lear, it's a bit of a problem that the dutiful daughter ends up being the weakest single aspect of the entire production.

Michael enjoys a peaceful moment with Kay (Diane Keaton)
and their daughter, Mary (Sofia Coppola).

THOUGHTS:

"The mind suffers and the body cries out... Your sins are terrible, and it is just that you suffer. Your life could be redeemed, but I know that you don't believe that. You will not change."
-Cardinal Lamberto, soon to become Pope John Paul I, hears the confession of Michael Corleone.

The Godfather, Part III has plenty of merit as a film. It's rarely less than entertaining; it's lovely to look at, making fine use of excellent studio sets and real-world locations; it is, with one notable exception, very well acted; and it features a handful of terrific set pieces. Taken on its own terms, this is a good movie.

Unfortunately, it's impossible to simply take it on its own merits. Any "Part III" will, by its very nature, be measured against its predecessors. In this case, both of the preceding entries were genuine American masterpieces. When that's the standard, failure to measure up is basically built in.

Granting that, then, it's almost remarkable how well the first half of this movie works. The script, once again by Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola, draws parallels between organized crime and business. Michael wants to purchase Immobiliare to wash clean his family name. Instead, he finds himself not only the target of criminal rivals, but the victim of a swindle by corrupt forces in both the business world and the Vatican. "They're the true mafia," he spits angrily.

The film is absorbing, sometimes witty, and frequently energetic - at least, while the primary setting remains New York. When the action shifts to Sicily, however, that energy drains away. It remains enjoyable, but it becomes too straight-faced. The characters fall into slow, self-conscious speaking styles. Michael's confession is a wonderfully effective scene... but it would be even moreso if it wasn't surrounded by so many other would-be Shakespearian soliloquies.

Cardinal Lamberto (Raf Vallone) reluctantly accepts his new role as Pope John Paul I.

THEMES TOO BIG FOR THE STORY:

This film is not about its plot. Coppola is far more interested in Michael's regrets and his wish for redemption as he faces the price of the life he's lived. He wants his legacy to go through his biological children, for the Corleone name to be associated with business, charity, and art. However, events make it inevitable that his true legacy will run through Vincent, who is destined to carry on the Corleone crime family. It's intended as a Shakespearian tragedy, which is a worthy vision for the series' final bow.

Too bad, then, that these ideas are tied to this plot. I don't hate the Immobiliare plot. There's cleverness in the way Puzo and Coppola weave in the real-world Vatican Bank scandal and the deaths of two Popes, and it's amusing to see Michael be outmanipulated by so-called "legitimate businessmen." However, the mix of shady business dealings, organized crime, and Vatican conspiracy theories feels like the stuff of airport potboilers. It's like a Dan Brown thriller that got released a decade too soon: The DaVinci Don.

Also, because Coppola's focus really isn't on the pulpy plot mechanics, parts of the story feel underdeveloped, even arbitrary. Michael sends Vincent to his enemies to pretend to betray him. Echoes of Luca Brasi in the original, only Vincent actually manages to persuade them and is welcomed into their ranks. This should lead to scenes of him learning information while avoiding discovery - scenes that would also give a needed boost to Vincent's role and show him having to hold his emotions in check.

This does not occur. Instead, once Vincent enters the enemy fold, his subterfuge is... basically ignored until just before the climax, when he pops up with information - at which point it's been so long unmentioned that, on first viewing, I was actually momentarily thrown until I remembered the existence of this neglected plot point.

Vincent (Andy Garcia) becomes the true inheritor of Michael's legacy.

VERSIONS:

After The Godfather, Part III's theatrical run, Francis Ford Coppola added nine minutes of deleted scenes for the 1991 home video release, labeling it his "Final Director's Cut." For a long time, this was the only version commercially available. It's the basis for this review for two versions: It's my preferred cut; and it's the one that I happen to already own.

In 2020, Coppola revisited it with The Godfather Coda: The Death of Michael Corleone. There are various light trims throughout, and the ending scene is dropped. The most notable change, however, is that it re-structures the opening to start with Michael's offer for Immobiliare, a scene that the previous versions place 40 minutes in.

I can see the argument for this, as it establishes up-front both the story and Michael's hopes to use the business to wash clean his old sins. However, I think the 1990/1991 opening is a better tone-setter, with Michael making an appeal to his children for them and Kay to be more a part of his life. The true focus of the movie is on Michael's regrets and his desire to steer his legacy away from crime; the newer cut instead directs viewers to the plot, a plot that is often neglected by the movie that follows.

It should be noted that mine is a minority opinion: The Godafther Coda is widely regarded as more focused and better paced. It ultimately makes little difference, though, whether you're watching the 1990 theatrical cut, the 1991 director's cut, or the 2020 re-edit. All three are ultimately the same movie, with the same virtues and failings, in every variant.


OVERALL:

The Godfather, Part III is flawed, but it's far from the disaster some Godfather fans have labeled it. I think critics at the time had it about right: It's intermittently compelling with some terrific set pieces and worthy themes. It's rarely less than enjoyable, and it's extremely well-made. It simply has the misfortune to be an above-average crime drama trapped in the shadow of two masterpieces.

It's worth watching - but it's also a movie to watch with suitably tempered expectations.


Rating: 7/10.

Preceded by: The Godfather, Part II

Review Index

To receive new review updates, follow me:

On BlueSky:

Follow @RandomMusings09 on BlueSky

On Threads:

Follow@randommusings09 on Threads