OK, I’ll just come right out and say it: I never understood the fuss about The Godfather.
As a supposed critique of capitalism/the American Dream/family values and relations, it’s pretty tame. Nobody comes away from watching The Godfather going, “Wow, the scales have certainly fallen from my eyes!”
No, they say, “Heh — ‘leave the gun, take the canolli‘! That was hilarious, dude!!”
Except it wasn’t hilarious. What does it even mean? Taking the canolli I get, but leaving the gun? Are you an idiot?
And note to the director: the past wasn’t actually sepia, m’kay?
Plus one minute, Michael is all “I hate my father’s business” and the next, he’s the new crime lord. Why??? Crappy character development.
Yes, I am prejudiced. If I want to see a bunch of loud Italians hugging and yelling I’ll move back to Hamilton.
Admit it: The Godfather isn’t that great a movie. If you dig the macho vibe and the violence and the atmospherics and the exotic touches, just admit it.
But don’t excuse your affection for this workmanlike soap opera by calling it the greatest film of all time.
Anyway, this article by Mario Puzo provides a disenchanting peek into a typical professional writer’s life and mind. Sorry in advance if this makes you think any less of us:
Read More...I was 45 years old and tired of being an artist. Besides, I owed $20,000 to relatives, finance companies, banks, and assorted bookmakers and shylocks. It was time to grow up and sell out, as Lenny Bruce once advised.
(…)
