The Godfather, Part II

With The Godfather, you have one of the greatest movies—if not the greatest movie—ever made. That being said, the question that naturally comes to mind is, how can a sequel to such a monumental film do the original justice? Well, The Godfather, Part II didn't just do the original justice . . . it completely equalled the original, and damn near surpassed it in its grander, epic scope! Directed again by Francis Ford Coppola and written by him and Mario Puzo, the original author of the novel The Godfather, this sequel tells the story of Michael Corleone as he runs the Corleone empire in Nevada. Michael, as we see, is still the sensitive family man but utterly ruthless Don from the first movie, a man to be feared and respected, just like his father before him.

But The Godfather, Part II tells of a more Shakespearean tragedy than the original. For while The Godfather told the story of the corruption of the prodigal son, The Godfather, Part II chronicles the damnation of the prodigal son. And how both father and son, two men born into two different generations, follow the same path . . . but don't reap the same benefits.

In telling the story of The Godfather, Part II, Coppola employs a beautiful storytelling technique whereby parallel stories of father and son unfold: the story of Michael advancing the Corleone interests in Nevada, Florida, and Cuba; and the story of the very young Vito Corleone, who escapes Sicily as a young boy and comes to America in 1901. His arrival at Ellis Island is heartbreakingly beautiful, for it shows America in its infancy, with the Statue of Liberty genuinely serving as the beacon of hope and opportunity for the immigrants who came here to find a better life. (And for me personally, when the Statue of Liberty materializes on the screen, I'm filled with a hope that, in my modern cynicism, I thought had been lost.) We see how the young Vito mistakenly takes on the name Corleone (his given last name was Andolini), and how as the years pass by, this young boy moves past his humble beginnings as a poor immigrant to grow into the man who will one day become the most powerful Don in all of New York.

Michael, on the other hand, must contend with modern burdens. He must temporarily cede power to Tom Hagen (again played by Robert Duvall) after an attempt is made on his life at his family compound in Lake Tahoe, and go on the road to Miami where he must do business with aging syndicate boss Hyman Roth (played by legendary stage actor Lee Strasberg). Michael's goal with Roth is to create a partnership where they can do business in Cuba—only Roth's intentions might not be so sincere, because he alternates between being Michael's friend and enemy . . . and he tries to take Michael down through Fredo, who was completely unaware that he was being used. It doesn't help that, in the meantime, Kay is starting to have serious doubts about her marriage to Michael, and her attempts at getting to Michael hit much closer to home.

Essentially, Vito's story is one of hope, prosperity, and rising the top, whereas Michael's story is one of downfall. For Michael still focuses on the same values that his father held dear—i.e., his family—but as the times change and values get traded off, Michael isn't able to sustain his stronghold on both his business and his family. So that begs the most serious question of all for Michael: when you've risen to the top, just how much can your power isolate you? Is power really important if it costs you everything that's near and dear to you?

The scenes of turn-of-the-century New York were a remarkable recreation, I thought. And losing myself in young Vito's world was a welcome retreat. Robert De Niro portrayed the young Vito—and I think what he did was pretty much mimic Marlon Brando in every way possible! Voice, mannerisms, demeanor, vocabulary. Which was a smart move on De Niro's part, because that way he stayed true to the character. Granted, it may have been Brando's conception of the character, but by this time Brando's Vito was firmly embedded in the movie-going subconscious, so I commend De Niro for not reinterpreting the character, because I don't think it would have been received well if he had.

The casting was wonderful, as before. Everyone from the Corleone family makes an appearance—even James Caan in a flashback at the end of the film (my favorite scene, actually)! Michael V. Gazzo completely stole the show as the clumsy yet bullheaded Frankie Pentangelli, and Diane Keaton shined even brighter in this film than the first. The scene at the end where she stands up to Michael and tells him the truth about why she's leaving is truly amazing, and it disappoints me that Keaton didn't receive an Oscar nomination. But it's John Cazale who does some of the best supporting work as the tragically-manipulated Fredo—who serves as the very core of Michael's damnation when Michael orders the death of Fredo, his older brother, at the end of the film. When Michael is seen standing against the large bay window and that final shot echoes across the lake, no matter how many times I see it, it cuts me like a knife. This unspeakable act, done almost entirely on principle alone, totally ostracizes Michael and leaves him the most powerful yet completely abandoned man. The final scene of the movie, with Michael sitting alone under the tree, bundled up against the wind, with nobody left in his life, says more than words could possibly ever convey.

I wish I could find the YouTube clip of Fredo's death, but the scene where the two brothers have their final falling out is equally as powerful. Because in this scene, Fredo's anger finally comes out—his crushed hopes, his resentment of Michael, all spill over despite his obvious fear of his younger brother. Worse yet, he knows he's about to become a marked man. (I love the camerawork in this scene, too. The tension gradually builds from not seeing their faces at first, but only their silhouettes against the bay window—where silences speaks more strongly than words.)



I've noticed that all three Godfather movies kind of follow a common template. They start off at a party (Connie's wedding in the first, Anthony's first Communion in the second, and Michael's religious award in the third), immediately followed by a hit on someone in the family (the Don's open-market hit in the first, the hit on Michael's Lake Tahoe compound in the second, the Atlantic City massacre in the third), followed by Michael going into hiding somewhere, and ultimately ending with a death of someone major in the Corleone family (Sonny and the Don in the first, Fredo in the second, and Mary in the third).

Running for a full half hour longer than the first (totalling 3 hours and 20 minutes), The Godfather, Part II is actually even more epic than the original. I attribute that to the telling of two stories rather than one (i.e., the respective father and son stories). Between the two films, I honestly don't know which I like better. The second was a towering achievement that damn near eclipsed the first, but there was something very special and sentimental about the first that draws me back to it every time. I think it's the sight of the legendary Don in his prime, with his trusted associates Clemenza and Tessio, his young sons Michael, Sonny, and Fredo. In fact, during the flashback at the end of Part II, when the whole family is gathered for the surprise party for the elder Don on the same day as the Pearl Harbor attack, a certain sentimental note is struck in me when Sonny enters the dining room, followed by Carlo and Tessio—all familiar faces that are still missed.

The Godfather, Part II practically cleaned up at the Oscars in 1974. It was the first sequel to ever win Best Picture, and landed Oscars for director Coppola, Supporting Actor for De Niro (though both Lee Strasberg and Michael V. Gazzo were wonderful and Award-worthy in their own right; though Talia Shire's nomination still puzzles me), but Al Pacino's failure to win the Best Actor gold (Art Carney won it that year) has left a bad taste in the mouth of many a Godfather fan. I rank Part II a perfect 10, just like its predecessor, though the jury is still out on which installment I like better. Maybe it's better that I don't choose one over the other, for then I can love them both on equal footing.