I saw the film in August 1974 – at ABC cinema in Catford – and have never seen it again despite the iconic status it has acquired since. I remember only three things about it: a horse’s head in a bed (of course), a lot of people attending a wedding and a great deal of violence. At the time I didn’t understand it. I had difficulty keeping track of who was who and Marlon Brando’s near incomprehensible drawl didn’t help. Then, a few weeks later, I read Mario Puzo’s marvellous 1969 novel and it all fell into place. I always was better with books than films or TV adaptations – something my students used to tease me about.
A friend recently told me that The Godfather is her 80-something husband’s favourite film and that reminded me of all this and triggered an urge to revisit the novel – and I’m astonished all over again. It may be 56 years old but it has more than stood the test of time.
It’s 1945 and America is in post-war recovery. Five Sicilian Mafia families dominate New York. They run and control almost everything ruthlessly – and that much is based on fact although, of course, Puzo’s characters are fictional. The Corleone family is the dominant one and the novel opens at the wedding of Connie Corleone, the Don’s only daughter. Her eldest brother Sonny is being groomed to take over the “family business” which is ostensibly olive oil. Freddie is a bit of a drop-out and Michael is supposed to be the one with the brains (and a brave war record) who can be kept out of things but of course fate has other ideas as the novel moves through its ten year time span.
Two fascinating things emerge from all this and one senses that Puzo really has penetrated the Mafia mentality. These people have a totally different sense of honour and respect from (most of) the rest of us. They believe that enemies have to be killed, trusted collaborators rewarded financially and objectors taught appalling physical lessons to ensure compliance or submission. None of the men believes any of this is wrong. They simply live in an alternative parallel morality although obviously they take steps to protect themselves from mainstream forces of law and order. Occasionally we get a glimpse of how it looks from outside. Would Kay Adams’s family want her to marry into a family of “gangsters” for example?
Second, there are the women most of whom are tightly bound into their ancestral Catholicism in which godfathers, confirmation and the like are very important. Mama Corleone (who never gets a given name) goes to mass every morning. How can any form of Christianity be reconciled with all that killing and revenge? What happened to “turn the other cheek” and “whatsoever ye would have that men should do to you, do ye unto them”? Well, traditionally, Catholics were never encouraged to read the Bible freely. Moreover, how much do these women actually know about what’s going on? The answer, of course, is that they half-know but mostly deny it to themselves while living very comfortably on family money, an uneasy mindset which Puzo understands very well. And it makes the last few paragraphs of the novel almost unbearably poignant.
He is very good at making unusual characters plausible too. The Don, for example, is a wise, patient, calm, authoritative, loving, scheming. regal and ruthless tactician and leader. It’s a very strange mix but we believe in him totally. Then there’s Michael Corleone whose character, attitude and stature evolve gradually as the novel progresses and he is irreversibly changed by events. And Tom Hagen, the only family “member” (adopted) who isn’t Sicilian, is a calm, efficient, totally trustworthy fixer with law training. He’s very likeable and, as you get sucked into the Corleone mores, you have to keep reminding yourself what he’s actually doing.
It’s a very compelling novel and I’m pleased to have rediscovered it although I shan’t be going back to the film. I am wimpish about on-screen blood and gore. Even when I’m reading, imagination in overdrive, I sometimes have to skim over the worst pages. And The Godfather certainly isn’t a narrative for the faint-hearted.
