Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992)

Excess is an art form, as much as anything else. Many filmmakers go for broke, whether through striking images, sprawling storytelling or splashy sex and violence (or all three), but it's difficult to achieve high art instead of mere self-indulgence. The line separating, say, the controlled excess of Luchino Visconti and Baz Luhrmann's inane monstrosities is razor-thin.

With Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992), Francis Ford Coppola tramples that line to dust. This lurid adaptation of the venerable vampire tale ranks among Hollywood's most schizophrenic films. It's a wildly uneven mixture of the sublime and ridiculous: beautiful imagery and lurid set pieces, operatic storytelling and absurd dramaturgy, solid acting and histrionic buffoonery.

Title aside, Coppola takes considerable liberties with Stoker's novel. He explicitly ties Dracula (Gary Oldman) with Vlad the Impaler, the Romanian ruler who terrorized the Turks with abominable cruelty. After Vlad's wife commits suicide, he renounces God and becomes Dracula. Centuries later, Dracula lures Jonathan Harker (Keanu Reeves) to his lair, absconding to London while trapping Harker in his castle. Dracula snacks on Lucy Westerna (Sadie Frost), but he's intrigued by Harker's wife Mina (Winona Ryder), the spitting image of his long-lost wife. Harker joins Professor Abraham Van Helsing (Anthony Hopkins) and Lucy's vengeful suitors to destroy Dracula.

No one can deny Bram Stoker's Dracula is a richly crafted film. Coppola employs a riot of visual treats, all impressive practical effects: Michael Ballhaus's otherworldly color schemes, matte effects, warped set design, ludicrous costumes. He excludes no lurid idea: elegant dresses swirl in windstorms, characters self-inject morphine, Mina and Lucy gleefully make out. Coppola marshals influences from German expressionism (Dracula's eyes brooding over Harker) to Mario Bava's horror flicks (a ghostly carriage out of Black Sunday). He serves up bloody decapitations and bestiality, then adds a running gun battle in the Carpathian Mountains! Why the hell not?

If one accepts the insane craftsmanship, Dracula's dramatic silliness becomes easier to swallow. Many Dracula films turn the Count from walking venereal disease to supernatural lothario, but Coppola's is the most egregious. Writer James V. Hart imagines Dracula as a hopeless romantic, pursing Elisabeth/Mina across the centuries. That's fine in theory, but how to reconcile it with the shape-shifting demon ravishing Lucy and causing animals to shudder at his approach? There's an awkward dissonance that Coppola never quite reconciles, veering between Gothic melodrama and absurdist horror film.
 
Coppola's all-star cast proves a mixed blessing. Gary Oldman reconciles Dracula's crazy-quilt characterization in a tragic, richly textured performance: brooding lover, blood-crazed demon, tormented soul. If anything here is an unqualified success, it's Oldman's Dracula. Winona Ryder, dodgy accent aside, gives the right mixture of haughtiness and vulnerability. Sadie Frost spends most of the show writhing seductively, something she excels at. Tom Waits proves especially inspired casting, playing Renfield as an intelligent, cunning madman rather than a drooling lunatic.

These effective stars are balanced by atrocious supporting players. Keanu Reeves's non-emoting and London-via-Venice Beach accent are infamously bad; just his uttering "Carfax Abbey" inspires raucous laughter. Cary Elwes, Billy Campbell and Richard E. Grant compensate for limited screen time with shameless overacting. But they're rank amateurs compared to Anthony Hopkins. Taking his dubious Oscar win as a license to ham, Hopkins raves, shrieks, gesticulates madly, spews over-baked dialogue and frothy curses in a slurred Dutch accent. By film's end he's painful to watch.

Bram Stoker's Dracula defies easy characterization. Is it a baroque masterpiece or cinematic vomit? After two viewings I'm not sure myself. Watch at your own peril.

The Conversation

"I'm not afraid of death, but I am afraid of murder."

The unsung masterpiece of '70s cinema, Francis Ford Coppola's The Conversation (1974) is every bit as accomplished as The Godfather. Coppola seamlessly blends paranoid thriller with incisive character study, anchored by Gene Hackman's incomparable performance.

Harry Caul (Gene Hackman) heads a crack audio surveillance team. They're contracted by the director (Robert Duvall) of a major corporation to spy on a young couple (Cindy Williams and Frederic Forrest). Harry's habitual distance from his work disintegrates after listening to the tapes: it sounds like his subjects fear being murdered. Harry gets no answers from his contractor and no support from his partners; against his better judgment he starts investigating the case.

At first glance, The Conversation fits neatly alongside Nixon-era thrillers like All the President's Men. But Coppola makes few references to contemporary events: one character mentions bugging presidential candidates, while Harry watches a news report on Watergate. Coppola's concerned with paranoia of a more visceral sort: individuals using technology to pry into others' lives. Let's face it: Web cams, Facebook and data mining make privacy obsolete. Who cares about NSA info gathering when anyone with a laptop can access your personal history?

The Conversation closely resembles Blowup with shades of Rear Window: the protagonist thinks he witnesses a murder, but can never prove his suspicions. Like David Hemmings in the Antonioni film, Harry's limited by both the technology employed and his own perception. He plays the tapes endlessly until he deciphers a cryptic message. The suspicious actions of the Director's assistant (Harrison Ford) fuel rather than dissuade his interest. Yet is he really hearing what he thinks? Harry only places himself in danger by prying.

Coppola delivers a film comfortably experimental in a way modern Hollywood scarcely tolerates. The opening long shot of San Francisco's Union Square accompanied by electronic buzzing sets the tone; when we first see Harry's crew they're arranged like snipers. Coppola films mostly in long and medium shot, allowing the viewer to share Harry's uncertainty. And how about that ghoulish shot of blood gushing from a toilet? Walter Murch's sound design plays an integral role, whether Harry's rewinding tapes and focused noise or letting his nightmares bleed into reality. It's hauntingly accompanied by David Shire's minimalist piano score.

But The Conversation also shows a palpable portrait of loneliness. Unattractive, poorly dressed and introverted, Harry lives in a tiny apartment, finding solace only in jazz and Catholicism. His unwillingness to connect with people drives away his partner Stan (John Cazale). There's no Grace Kelly to spur his quest, only a sad girlfriend (Teri Garr) who doesn't know his birthday. He's thoroughly uncomfortable at a buggers' convention and its pathetic after-party. Nor does he enjoy his work: he's hounded by competitors like Bernie (Allen Garfield) and guilt-ridden over a job resulting in murder. He's not content to remain a voyeur, but his imperfect understanding seems to make things worse.

Gene Hackman never had the attractive charisma of contemporaries like Dustin Hoffman and Al Pacino, yet his gruff, low-key style landed him diverse roles: Bonnie & Clyde, The French Connection, even Young Frankenstein. He portrays Harry Caul masterfully, hiding the character's isolation and self-loathing beneath an impassive exterior, revealing his backstory only in a dream sequence. Anyone who habitually spends their Saturday nights alone (raises hand) can empathize with Harry's plight, even in its extreme incarnations. This isn't only Hackman's best work, but among the finest performances in screen history.

John Cazale adds another pitiable sad sack to his resume. Stan worships Harry, endlessly talking him up to strangers, yet even he grows tired of his partner's coldness. Young Harrison Ford makes a strong impression as a shifty villain. Allen Garfield (The Stunt Man) steals his scenes as Harry's snotty competitor; Teri Garr and Elizabeth McRae provide a sympathetic female presence. Frederic Forrest's small but pivotal role presages appearances in Coppola's Apocalypse Now and One from the Heart. Robert Duvall appears unbilled.

If The Conversation lacks the commercial hook of The Godfather or the wild surrealism of Apocalypse Now, it's still one of Francis Ford Coppola's greatest achievements. It culminates in Harry destroying his apartment looking for a bug, then collapsing, exhausted, playing his sax amidst the wreckage. Never has isolation felt so poignant, paranoia so frightfully raw.

The Great Gatsby (1974)

The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite novels. F. Scott Fitzgerald's rich masterpiece functions on multiple levels: a deconstruction of the American Dream, a condemnation of high society decadence, a tragedy showing the price of obsession. Yet the five extant film adaptations are forgettable clunkers, from a '20s silent version to the hip-hop inflected G. (2002). I've been roped into seeing Baz Luhrmann's gaudy-looking adaptation this weekend. Forgive me for doubting the Moulin Rouge! auteur's appropriateness for this literary classic.

The most famous version is Jack Clayton's 1974 take. This Gatsby is a petrified rendering of the novel's most obvious aspects, well-made but dull. Strict literary fidelity at the expense of the cinematic results in a pedestrian exercise.

Stock broker Nick Carraway (Sam Waterston) makes the acquaintance of Jay Gatsby (Robert Redford), a mysterious millionaire who throws swanky parties on Long Island but never attends himself. Through Nick, Gatsby reunites with his old flame Daisy (Mia Farrow), trapped in an unhappy marriage with snobbish, unfaithful Tom Buchanan (Bruce Dern). Tom gets suspicious, digging into Gatsby's past, dredging up ties to organized crime. Tragedy strikes when Tom's affair with lower class Myrtle Wilson (Karen Black) results in an accident.

The obvious problem is that Gatsby's too damned literal. Francis Ford Coppola's script remains painfully reverent to the source material, trying unsuccessfully to render Fitzgerald's rich interior world. The book requires Nick's fly-on-the-wall narration; the movie drowns in it, his unnecessary presence weighing down every scene. Gatsby clumsily tells Nick his background, other bits filled in by mechanical flashbacks. Characters endlessly declaim exposition and recite Fitzgerald's prose without conviction. The show takes on a Classics Illustrated feel, rigidly faithful but lifeless.

The literalness extends to the imagery. Fitzgerald's poetic symbolism reads beautifully on the page, conjuring up misty visions of midnight parties, bygone opulence and broken dreams. In the directness of film, touches like Daisy's green light (accompanied by an abrasive musical sting), the billboard eyeglasses and amorous jello moulds seem gauche. The Wilsons' ratty gas station feels more appropriate to Bonnie and Clyde than upscale Long Island; how on Earth would Tom and Myrtle have met? Through clunky presentation, Gatsby forfeits credibility the novel effortlessly earns.

It must be said Clayton mounts a beautiful production. The sumptuous costumes, parties and upscale mansions are gorgeously presented by David Lean's collaborator John Box. Backed by Nelson Riddle's jazz-infused score and its appealing leads, Gatsby provides the glamorous spectacle expected of a '20s period piece. Yet this beauty undercuts Fitzgerald's satirical intent: you don't ridicule the rich by making them desirable. I could imagine Luchino Visconti or Billy Wilder nailing Gatsby; Clayton misses the point.

Robert Redford gives a commendable interpretation. He handles the mealy-mouthed script with conviction, suggesting Gatsby's hidden depths and inner turmoil through pointed delivery and meaningful glances. At the same time, having someone with Redford's screen baggage play a character designed as a cipher feels awkward. A sharper adaptation might have resulted in one of Redford's best performances. Instead, he's respectable rather than impressive.

Mia Farrow's fine, but Daisy proves too much of a featherweight to generate interest. The best that can be said of Sam Waterston is he gives a useless part dignity. Lanky Bruce Dern feels miscast as a snotty, football-playing blue blood. Karen Black (Family Plot) makes the strongest impression, investing Myrtle with desperation and low cunning. Scott Wilson (In Cold Blood) has some powerful scenes that seem imported from another movie. Howard Da Silva (Meyer Wolfsheim, a Jewish gangster) previously appeared in a 1949 adaptation.

The Great Gatsby is a handsomely mounted bore. Here's hoping that the new version gets the story right - though I'm not holding my breath.

The Godfather

As a birthday gift for my dad, I'll review one of his favorite movies.

Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather (1972) is rightfully acknowledged as one of the all-time greats. It's a near-perfect movie that brilliantly blends entertainment and art: it's just as appealing to the mass audience as to the arthouse crowd. Richly textured, beautifully shot, perfectly cast and enjoyable on many levels, it is a masterpiece.

Don Vito Corleone (Marlon Brando) is a 1940's-era crime boss in New York City, controlling a huge empire of vice and racketeering. Sons Fredo (John Cazale), Sonny (James Caan) and Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall) happily follow him into the family business, but college-educated Michael (Al Pacino), a decorated WWII veteran, hopes to go straight. When business rival Solozzo (Al Lettieri) tries to kill Don Vito for refusing a narcotics deal, Michael is forced into business and volunteers to kill Solozzo and crooked cop McCluskey (Sterling Hayden). While Michael hides in Sicily, the hot-headed Sonny initiates an all-out war with the family's rivals, with tragic results. Don Vito successfully negotiates a truce upon recovering, leaving Michael to settle accounts.

Most of the classic gangster movies - Little Caesar, The Public Enemy, Howard Hawks's Scarface - were short, violent movies focused on entry-level thugs shooting their way up the criminal ladder. The genre had mostly burned itself out by the '60s, occasional hits like Bonnie and Clyde and The St. Valentine's Day Massacre notwithstanding. Movies that actually explored the inner-workings of organized crime were rare, and even the best gangster pics rarely achieved much depth or significance.

The genre always cynically reworked the "American Dream," with Italian and Irish immigrants clawing to the top with bullets rather than hard work. The Godfather's higher-stakes shows the Mafia operating like a corporation, negotiating zones of control, getting rid of weak employees (the traitorous Paulie (John Martino), the slimy Carlo (Gianni Russo)) and debating whether to sell new products. Aside from colorfully-staged hits of rivals and tratiors, the Syndicate's victims are kept off-screen. Morality is purely subjective: Don Vito has no problem with racketeering and prostitution but feels narcotics are out of line; Michael scoffs at Kay's notion that "Presidents don't have people murdered!" The Godfather is a very cynical, very '70s film.

Coppola and novelist Mario Puzo ingeniously weave a complex, multi-layered tapestry that works on many levels. The Godfather is a quintessential "guy movie" but it's just as much a family melodrama. Each of the Corleones has a "fatal flaw" that causes them to lose their way: Vito's worsening judgment, Sonny's impulsiveness, Tom's weakness, Fredo's gullibility. Michael rises to the top by being more brutal and calculating than his brothers: his transformation from innocent outsider to cold-blooded crime boss is genuinely chilling, as much a natural extension of his strong-willed character as something forced by circumstance. The women are non-existent: victimized, beaten and cheated on, they're cut out of the family business, showing that beneath Don Vito's idealized "family" is something truly rotten - something the sequels would bring out in disturbing detail.

The film would falter if it couldn't make the Corleones interesting. Coppola and Puzo achieve this by focusing squarely on the family; the absence of an outside viewpoint, of Elliot Ness-style cops and victimized prostitutes and drug users, makes the story work. The script develops every character, making them likeable (or at least sympathetic) even as they do horrible things. Accusations that The Godfather glorifies the Mob are beside the point: the Corleones are compelling because they're interesting characters, not because they're gangsters.

Coppola's direction is beyond brilliant: after a decade of B-list studio work (Finian's Rainbow) and screenwriting chores (Patton), Coppola immediately established himself as an auteur. Stylistically, the movie is more akin to Luchino Visconti's Italian epics (The Leopard, The Damned) than a Hollywood product, with its slow, langorous pace, meticulous attention to period detail, handsome photography and focus on family rituals (the wedding, the baptism), taking time to establish character, plot and mood. The movie is full of brilliant set-pieces but Coppola outdoes himself with the baptism finale: its striking use of parallel editing, stylish direction and Nino Rota's foreboding score creates a sequence of unmatched brilliance.

Marlon Brando's oft-parodied portrayal of Don Corleone rescued him from a decade of dismal failures. He makes a Vito a fully sympathetic character, his mannerisms and accent denoting a man who's been powerful for so long that he takes it for granted. He's a tragic figure who loves his sons but is unable to adapt to the changing times. It isn't a patch on the best of his '50s work, but compared to his slumming in The Chase and haminess in Burn!, it's something special.

Much of the supporting cast shot to stardom. Al Pacino's only notable role prior to this was The Panic in Needle Park; he was almost a desperation pick after Warren Beatty, Jack Nicholson, Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford dropped out. James Caan had played a bumbling sidekick to John Wayne in Howard Hawks's El Dorado; Robert Duvall's had starred opposite Brando in Arthur Penn's flop The Chase.

Each of these actors is pitch-perfect: Pacino's chilling descent into criminality, Caan's self-destructive compulsion, Duvall's inner conflict and cool-headedness, are all brilliantly rendered. John Cazale starts his remarkable string of films before his untimely death (The Conversation, Dog Day Afternoon); his Fredo is backgrounded here but will become the sequel's tragic center.

Diane Keaton and Talia Shire also built careers from their small but crucial roles. Shire is obnoxious but Keaton plays Kay with the perfect mixture of naivety and disbelief. Old Hollywood hands Sterling Hayden (Dr. Strangelove) and Richard Conte (13 Rue Madeleine) play villains, but the reptilian Al Lettieri (The Getaway) steals their thunder. Richard S. Castellano and Abe Vigoda get choice supporting roles.

The Godfather is fully deserving of its peerless reputation. I prefer Part II for its added depth and complexity, the way it builds on existing characters and achieves Shakesperean heights of tragedy, but the original stands on its own merits as a masterpiece.

Is Paris Burning?

Part The Longest Day, part Battle of Algiers, Is Paris Burning? (1966) is a muddled attempt at a cinema verite epic. The interesting story, well-shot action scenes and surprisingly brisk pace keep it from being a chore, but its convoluted plot, nonexistent characters and overwritten script prevent it from achieving full potential.

August, 1944. Allied armies tear through exhausted German armies in France, but the Allies seem to neglect Paris. General Dietrich Von Choltitz (Gert Frobe) is appointed to defend Paris, and is personally ordered by Adolf Hitler (Billy Frick) to destroy the city if its fall becomes imminent. While Choltitz equivocates, the French Resistance's disparate factions debate how to handle the situation. The situation comes to a head when the impetuous FFI starts seizing government buildings, initating vicious streetfighting with the Germans. All the while, Choltitz prepares to destroy the city, while the Resistance desperately tries to convince the Americans under General Omar Bradley (Glenn Ford) to liberate Paris.

Is Paris Burning? is ambitious but frustrating. The overwritten script - credited to Francis Ford Coppola and Gore Vidal, but also doctored by French and German writers - has little sense of scope or dramatic economy. It's not that the film is long or slow - for a 173-minute feature, it's surprisingly fast-moving - but it is clogged, confused and only sporadically gripping. The relationships between the disparate Resistance factions are poorly defined, and the poorly-drawn characters don't help. Instead of being complex, the film is convoluted and often dramatically inert, with an occasional brilliant set-piece or inspired detail bringing it alive.

The cast consists of more or less every French actor working in 1966. Like most Hollywood "all-star" epics, however, the sheer number of stars prevents them from registering as characters. I spotted Alain Delon (The Leopard), Leslie Caron (Gigi), Jean-Louis Trintigant (Z) and Jean-Paul Belmondo (Breathless), but the rest - even favorites like Michel Piccoli and Michel Lonsdale - are virtually invisible. Few of these actors make an impression, save Pierre Vaneck's Major who convinces the Allies to liberate Paris, and their inclusion is of value only to star spotters.

The Americans are even worse off: Orson Welles is good as a Swedish diplomat caught between the two sides, and Anthony Perkins (The Tin Star) has a decent bit, but Kirk Douglas, Glenn Ford and Robert Stack are poorly cast and badly used. Their inclusion seems a cynical grab at American box office, but one wonders if any Kirk Douglas fan would want to watch him putter around in a nightshirt for two minutes.

The one actor who comes off perfectly is Gert Frobe (Goldfinger). He's given a difficult role, a dedicated career soldier who chafes at the needless destruction of Paris. The 20 July plot is alluded to a few times - in the opening, Choltitz visits the headquarters where Hitler narrowly survived - highlighting the General's dilemna: by 1944 the Wehrmacht high command recognized Hitler as insane, and were torn between their duty as soldiers and revulsion at obeying a lunatic. Frobe gives a performance of unusual subtlety, making Choltitz a sympathetic, complex and ultimately tragic character.

Fortunately, Is Paris Burning? does have its share of virtues. Rene Clement's direction is straightforward yet striking, with heavy use of Paris locations and deep focus photography. Archival footage is often overused, but the actual battle scenes are intense and gripping. Maurice Jarre's jaunty, celebratory score is among his very best. A number of individual set-pieces - a night-time massacre of French students, Resistance fighters humorlessly interrupting a wedding, Jean-Paul Belmondo and girlfriend using their bicycles as cover against German snipers - are quite striking. And despite the problematic road getting there, the incredibly joyous, exuberant ending, with all of Paris celebrating the end of the nightmarish occupation, is a wonderful conclusion.

Is Paris Burning? is a mixed bag, a fairly middling historical epic. Perhaps a TV miniseries would have given the story a proper depth and scope; perhaps a better-drawn script would have helped with the convoluted-plot and poorly-rendered characters. Still, it has enough high points to make it worth a look.

Patton

Franklin J. Schaffner's Patton (1970) is one of the greatest and most iconic war films of the last fifty years. A complex exploration of a flawed and fascinating man, the movie succeeds on many levels, from epic spectacular to thoughtful war film to complex character study. Like most biopics, the movie rises or falls on its protagonist, and in this regard, Patton succeeds with flying colors. It simultaneously celebrates and damns Patton as a great military hero and a man out of step with his time, and George C. Scott's incredible performance turns him into a film icon.

May 1943. American forces are engaging in their first battles in the European theater of World War II, being humiliated by the better-armed, better-trained German Afrika Korps under Erwin Rommel (Karl Michael Vogler) at Kasserine Pass. Flamboyant, eccentric, foul-mouthed General George S. Patton (George C. Scott) is brought in to whip the American II Corps into shape. Patton shows an aggression and tactical daring that makes him invaluable to the Allied armies, but his eccentricities and egomania get him into trouble with his superiors time and again. Made into a punching bag by the press, a scapegoat for Army failings, Patton balances military glory with public relations disasters - much to the chagrin of his second-in-command (and later commander) Omar Bradley (Karl Malden), who has the unenviable task of keeping Patton in line through Africa, Sicily, and France.

It's easy to see why Patton has such wide and enduring appeal. In its apparent celebration of a badass who views war as the ultimate, undying glory, it has an obvious appeal to war movie buffs and conservatives - and young, impressionable history/film buffs like yours truly circa 1998. On the other hand, it simultaneously sees him as a posturing, bellowing caricature of militarism with no sense of reality. The script by Francis Ford Coppola and Edmund H. North is careful in its portrayal of Patton, building him to absurd proportions while keeping him human, shying away from neither the positive nor negative of his complex personality. The film makes few overt anti-war statements, allowing the gory, unromantic reality of modern war to contrast Patton's gung-ho speeches and bluster.

Patton is, as a German officer (Siegfried Rauch) calls him, a "magnificent anachronism". A man with an outdated sense of chivalry, remarkable eccentricities (wearing an ivory-handled pistol, writing poetry, musing over reincarnation) a horribly vulgar and blunt manner of expression, and incredible vanity, he is a man who gets things done, and he expects to be honored on the basis of his undeniable talents. In twentieth century coalition warfare, however, it's not that easy. The concerns of his Allies, particularly British Field Marshall Montgomery (Michael Bates), are as big an obstacle as the German Army. Seemingly trivial incidents - his slapping of a shell-shocked soldier (Tim Considine), implicitly insulting Russians while speaking at a woman's club in London - cause more damage to Patton's reputation than any of his battlefield actions. Trapped by his own antiquated notions of warfare and glory - which are themselves demolished by political realities and the carnage around him - Patton can only seek solace in his anachronistic view of warfare and honor: "God help me, I do love it so." Like so many soldiers before him, Patton lives and dies by the sword; his post-war life will be short and unsatisfying, as the film's epitaph notes: "All glory is fleeting."

Schaffner handles the film effectively, providing a plethora of striking images and iconic moments: the oft-parodied opening, with Patton giving a bellicose speech before a huge American flag; Patton exchanging gunfire with a duo of German bombers; the recitation of a "fair weather prayer" as American troops are slaughtered in Bastogne; a German battle map dissolving into ash. Battle action is mostly restricted to brief montages of troops on the move, with a major set-piece battle at the forty-five minute mark, but its well-handled enough to make an impression. Fred Koenenkamp's cinematography is beautiful, providing the larger-than-life mis-en-scene necessary to contain such a flamboyant figure. Jerry Goldsmith provides one of his very best scores, with the instantly recognizable echoing trumpets and soaring march themes among the most recognizable music in film history.

George C. Scott gives a career-defining performance. His turn as the manic Buck Turgidson in Kubrick's Doctor Strangelove was a good trial run, but he makes Patton into something else entirely. Scott captures all the facets of his complex character, handling both the broad caricature and the subtle humanity and introspection with equal skill. Regardless of fidelity to historical record, Scott makes the role his own, capturing Patton's every tic, all of the complexities, contradcitions and anguish inherent in the man. It is simply one of the most remarkable performances in film history.

The supporting cast are mostly foils to Scott. Karl Malden (On the Waterfront) gets the juiciest supporting role as Omar Bradley, Patton's devoted yet frustrated friend who is in every way his opposite. Michael Bates (Frenzy) portrays Montgomery as a broad, almost Monty Python-esque caricature of the British general; smaller roles by Jack Gwillim (Lawrence of Arabia), Edward Binns (North by Northwest) and James Edwards (The Manchurian Candidate) are more effective. The German cast - Karl Michael Vogel, Siegfried Rauch - acquit themselves well.

Patton is one of the best biopics and war films of all time. In its depiction of a tortured, complex man standing astride the crossroads of history, it has rarely been bettered.

The Godfather, Part II

Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather (1972) was an instant masterpiece, a critical and box-office smash that immediately become both a pop culture touchstone and one of Hollywood’s most acclaimed films. While the original remains the favorite of most viewers, many critics and film buffs prefer Coppola’s equally successful 1974 follow-up. The Godfather Part II is a true epic, building on the already brilliant original to create a tragedy of monumental proportions. If ever a movie approached the depth and complexity of a Shakespeare play or classic novel, or deserved to be called a work of art, Coppola’s film fits the bill.

The film tells the parallel stories of Michael Corleone (Al Pacino), who has now assumed control over the Corleone crime syndicate, and his father Vito (Robert De Niro). Vito arrives in turn-of-the-century New York fleeing the vengeance of a Sicilian mob boss (Giuseppe Sillato). Struggling to make ends meet as a menial laborer, Vito teams up with Peter Clemenza (Bruno Kirby) and Salvatore Tessio (John Aprea) to knock off extortionist Don Fanucci (Gaston Moschin) and set up his own racket. Forty years later, his youngest son Michael, so reluctantly dragged into the family business in the original, has moved to Lake Tahoe, Nevada and is ambitiously planning to expand the family’s power and influence – much to the dismay of his wife Kay (Diane Keaton), who grows increasingly disgusted with her husband’s ambitions. Michael survives a botched assassination attempt, and tries to root out the perpetrator – either his father’s old business partner Hyman Roth (Lee Strasberg) or hot-headed underboss Frank Pentangeli (Michael V. Gazzo). Michael must deal with an attempted business deal in pre-revolutionary Cuba, a Senate probe orchestrated by Roth and featuring Pentangeli as its star witness, family problems with Kay and reckless sister Connie (Talia Shire) – and, most tragically of all, the treachery of his jealous older brother Fredo (John Cazale).

Part II is not so much a sequel to The Godfather as a continuation of the same story. The film is rich enough in character, story and thematic depth to accommodate its lengthy run-time; not a frame of film is wasted or superfluous. Even more than the original, Part II works on a number of levels: as a bustling, sprawling crime epic, as a cynical exploration of the American Dream and its collapse, as an examination of the effects of crime, corruption and capitalism on American society, and most of all, as a tragic, sweeping family melodrama.

Vito Andolini’s success story is a wonderfully subversive version of the American Dream. With his family massacred by a Mafia chieftain in Sicily, Vito finds things no better in America; Little Italy is dominated by extortionist Fanucci, a seemingly dangerous figure pulling a bluff on his fellow immigrants. Vito’s attempts to make an honest living as a grocer are ruined by Fanucci, and plunges into a life of crime out of necessity – with his growing family, even temporary unemployment is a dangerous proposition. Vito’s ambitious nature leads him not into a life of petty crime, but straight to the top, almost immediately forming the foundation of America’s largest crime syndicate. Vito is still a criminal, but his ambitions are borne out of necessity and the best of motives, in this case supporting his family; in the crooked world he inhabits, he is indeed an admirable figure.

When we first met Michael, he was a cheery, idealistic WWII vet, accepting his father’s business but wanting nothing to do with it, but circumstances beyond his control forced him to follow in Vito's footsteps. The ending of the original showed how Michael had transformed into a cold-blood criminal, but Part II makes clear the full breadth of the transformation and the attendant personal tragedy. Unlike Vito, Michael becomes a domineering, power-hungry bully who blackmails, bullies and humiliates his family and underlings into submission, and shows his enemies no quarter. His murders of the weak Fredo and terminally ill Roth serve no practical purpose; they are simply cold-blooded power plays, carried out simply because Michael can get away with them. He genuinely believes that his actions are in the best interest of the family, even as Kay, Fredo and Connie drift away from him; but in the end, Michael views the “Family” as the organization rather than the actual blood ties. The film’s postscript, a flashback to younger Michael confronting Tom and Sonny (James Caan) over their “plans” for his future, suggests that Michael’s current problems are a toxic combination of his natural character and the demands of Mafia life. Michael was always the loner, the individual, the ambitious one, and put in a position of absolute, illicit power, these seeds germinated into something evil and destructive.

As impressive as Michael’s character arc is, he is only one of the film’s huge cast, each of whose destinies are shaped by the film’s protagonist and his increasingly destructive actions. Every character gets a standout moment: Senator Geary (G.D. Spralin)’s pulling back his glad-handing politician persona to reveal a crooked, reptilian schemer; Roth’s speech on the death of his business partner Moe Greene (killed on Michael’s orders, of course); Fredo spewing his repressed anger and frustration at being passed over by Michael; Tom is humiliated and forced into declaring unconditional loyalty to his brother; Kay attempts to force Michael to confront the affects of his life on their marriage and his children. It’s no wonder that seemingly the entire cast received an Oscar nod for their work; the dynamite screenplay by Coppola and novelist Mario Puzo provides each actor with some really meaty material to work with. The character of Pentangeli is a minor flaw; originally Clemenza had been intended for the role, but when Richard S. Castellano demanded too much money, he was written out of the script. Fortunately, Pentangeli is a more than adequate replacement for Clemenza, thanks to a fine performance by Michael V. Gazzo.

If the original film stressed the Mafia as a metaphor for capitalism and big business, Godfather II takes this symbolism even further, showing the degree to which organized crime infiltrates and corrupts American society. We have already discussed the way that Michael’s business creeps into his home and destroys any chance of personal happiness, but his actions have affects far beyond the limits of his Lake Tahoe mansion. This is made most overt during the Cuba sequences, where Michael and Roth join a group of “respectable” businessmen at a reception hosted by dictator Fulgencio Batista (Tito Alba), each of whom desire a slice of Cuba’s lucrative market (represented none-too-subtly by Roth’s birthday cake). The Senate committee is largely ineffectual, its members effectively controlled by Roth, and its investigation easily stonewalled by Michael. Senator Geary is the only politician who knows what Michael’s up to and is in a position to stop him, but he is a crook concerned solely with personal gain and is quickly checkmated by Tom, who uses a gruesome “accident” to blackmail him into submission.

Technically, the film easily matches the original. Coppola distills a variety of filmic sources, from old American masters Griffith and Welles to Italian auteurs Visconti and Fellini, creating a unique and expressive film, both nostalgic and pretty yet gritty and violent. Gordon Wallis’s moody, expressive cinematography is simply a revelation throughout, being both beautiful and ugly at the same time, adding immeasurably to the film’s tragic atmosphere; the use of color throughout is particularly impressive. The movie moves skillfully from Sicily to New York (past and present) to Miami to Lake Tahoe to Cuba to Washington to Vermont, and all of the locations seem authentic, with perfect editing transitioning seamlessly between locations and eras. As a bravura set piece, the sequence where Vito stalks Fanucci through Little Italy before assassinating him nearly matches the brilliant baptism sequence of the original.

The huge cast is remarkable. As mentioned above, all of the major characters get a chance to shine, leading to a whole slew of brilliant performances. Al Pacino gives unquestionably the best performance of his career, showing Michael’s continued decline towards power-hunger and self-imposed isolation – an achievement even more impressive than Orson Welles’ Charles Foster Kane. John Cazale is heart-breaking as Fredo, treacherous and boneheaded but ultimately pathetic and pitiable. Robert De Niro is exceptional as Young Vito. Robert Duvall provides a performance of quiet, restrained dignity, showing Tom’s quiet frustration and anguish with Michael. Diane Keaton has less screen time than the original but she makes an even stronger impression, with her subtle acting in the Senate hearing scenes and her climactic confrontation with Michael showing Kay’s increasing disgust and disillusionment. Lee Strasberg, Michael V. Gazzo and J.D. Spralin do fine work in other key roles. The film’s assorted thugs and criminals are portrayed by some of the best character actors around: Richard Bright, Tom Rosqui, Joe Spinell and Amerigo Tot as Michael’s assorted henchmen, Danny Aiello, Carmine Caridi and Dominic Chianesse as Roth’s goons, Gaston Moschin as Vito’s rival, and Harry Dean Stanton as an FBI agent. The Senate committee includes Peter Donat (later Mulder’s dad on The X-Files), sci-fi author Richard Matheson, and film producers Phil Feldman and Roger Corman.

If the original Godfather is a masterpiece, Part II is perhaps the high point of American cinema. Although the third installment is lacking compared to the first two, it provides a serviceable conclusion to the story, bringing the tragedy of Michael and the Corleone Family full circle. Between them, the Godfather trilogy provide a rich, complex – a work of art, and a truly great American epic.

Rating: 10/10 – Must-See