The Conversation

Coppola, 1974, 113m

Harry Caul is a professional snooper, a state of the art surveillance man proud of his wizardry with all kinds of electronic gadgetry. The movie dates after Watergate  in which wire tapping was a major issue. It starts with Caul at work recording the conversation of a couple as they move around in a crowded public place, an amazing but credible feat. The eves dropping is being being paid for-a hefty amount-by the woman's husband, a powerful non-person, referred to somewhat disparagingly as the Director. The possibility of the operation culminating in murder hangs throughout the film, and the suspense, laced with humor, builds up smoothly till a bloody culmination.

This is a low key superbly crafted suspense drama. The inner workings of this seedy, esoteric profession with the rivalries of it's small fraternity of experts, is skillfully and comically presented. The variety and sophistication of the gadgetry is displayed in an exhibition, like a display of the latest in burglary tools. The line beyond which spying on people becomes illegal is never clear. Obviously, if you have the money, it is possible to listen on to anything anybody whispers anywhere.

Saul, played by Gene Hackman, comes out as a poor dear, a helpless, confused, amusing prodigy. He just happens to be in the profession, and proud to be the best man in it. Talk of technology taking over. He is neurotic, if not paranoid, and can scarcely trust his own shadow. He is troubled by conscience, no great asset in his line. And finally he demonstrates courage, knowing lives are at stake.

The opening sequence is memorable. The quiet camera glides down from eagle height on a bustling and colorful American street scene. We are soon immersed in the crowd and picking the threads of the ingenious plot, as the clandestine couple and the hapless surveillance man move around in their assigned roles. The equipment is parked in different places, the center being inside a van parked on the side. It is a superb opening which plunges us directly into the heart of the film..

The Wild Bunch

Sam Peckinpah, 1969, 144m

Three sets of brigands, white or chocolate skinned, some in military uniforms, real or stolen, engage in a prolonged shooting spree sprawled over the Mexican-US border. Who was shooting whom and why was less than crystal clear to me and did not seem particularly important. I was drawn to this movie as the magnum opus of a celebrated director whose work I am unfamiliar with but it did not prove to be my cup of tea, and it was something of an achievement to complete the marathon in about twenty interruptions spread out over two days, to be able to add Peckinpah's Wild Bunch to my array of scalps. There is much scenic splendor of a colorfully barren landscape, and the quaint Mexican villages with their poor, bawdy and ragged inhabitants belong to a medieval age, though the year is 1913. The villainous General treats us to a feast of women, killings and and drunkenness. But it is make believe violence and the bodies collapsing like nine-pins might as well be dummies. The male camaraderie is rather self conscious and the style of speech also sounds stereotyped. The attempted humanization of the outlaws does not touch any chord. Everything is deja vu. Maybe Westerns, like War movies, is an extinct genre. More likely, at some point, movie watching itself becomes wearisome.

Godfather Part III

Coppola, 1990, 170m 

The film came seventeen years after part 2 and twenty years have advanced in the story. A tense, furrowed and diabetic Michael Corleone desperately seeks to erase the past and buy respectability for the family. The series could well serve as a model for the depth of in-family ties, with the scepter of fratricide thrown in. The film starts with a ceremony where the Vatican confers a distinction on him in return for a donation of a hundred million (dollars, of-course). But then he is tied up in the knots of the past and the harder he tries and the higher he goes the dirtier and messier it gets. He is haunted by the murder of his elder brother which he ordered. His wife Kay has been separated since long.

The chain of evil and corruption leads right up to the papacy and the poisoning of a newly elected pope. This is yet another feast of killings, each served with the love , artistry and craftsmanship of a master chef. The movie is further spiced with a love interest in the infatuation of Michael's daughter Mary, played by Coppola's daughter Mary, for her ultra-violent first cousin and future Don Vincent. All three films break free from the dark brown interiors which set the pervasive mood, with tracts in the beauty and charm of the sun drenched Sicilian landscape, with it's quaint and weathered villas and timeless gardens and vineyards, a land of olives and tomatoes.

The film is marked with pageants and ceremonies like the first two. The murders, mostly of rival crooks, are events of victorious jubilation, to the accompaniment of music, fireworks and crowds. Murder in Coppola's films is cathartic more than foul, nor really so serious, any more than in Hitchcock or Agatha Christie. Michael's remorse seems comical at times (like a poor cousin of Macbeth) as though the movie had tired of it's own genre.

On the whole, comparisons aside, the film is an engrossing conclusion to the series. Unfortunately there does not seem room for yet another sequel, although the movie does leave a third generation Godfather , the illegitimate son of the late headstrong Santino of Part 1, whose temper cost him his life, on the loose. But if ever there were to be one, I'm sure it would do well, since the Corleones are as addictive as Harry Potter.

Apocalypse Now

Coppola, 1979, 147m

The Vietnam war was a while ago and this film does not arouse the sense of immediacy it might have done in it's time and place. At best it is a lecture on the gruesomeness of war. The brilliantly colored photography captures the grandeur of the natural landscape. However, the continuous and prolonged scenes of villages on flame, the rattle of machine gun fire and swarms of helicopters swooping like birds of prey becomes tedious. The human story is weakly developed and one is held captive by the expectation of Brando's appearance at the end which proves the greatest disappointment. He is a bloated Godfather (a role which may have clung to him) who is scarcely visible, more comical than charismatic, as he is supposed to be. His speech expressing his admiration for the grit of the Vietnamese (mutilation of children inoculated by the Americans) makes them look perversely barbaric more than heroic. The film appears to be wallowing in narcissism in it's heavy tone  of contrition. The repentance seems weak and watery for an outsider. For all it's visual splendor, the film is lacking in substance and is quite burdensome.

Godfather Part I (or just Godfather)

Francis Ford Coppola, 1972, 177m

The story of Vito Corleone, the first Godfather, unforgettably played by a hardly recognizable Brando, has become part of folk-lore and lexicon. Often classed as one of the best ever, I can at least say it had me glued for three hours, in my third viewing over the years. It is thriller-noire, a dark, brooding, elegantly violent, solidly constructed chunk of celluloid. To compare it with Part 2 is unnecessary since they are very different kinds of movies. The canvas of 1 is tightly knit and is confined to the bloody feuds of the "five families" who control the illegal businesses. Part 2 is more ambitious in it's portrayal of the immigrant's experience as it takes us across several generations. 2 is a vivid picture of the rich complexities that constitute the US.

The palette is sepia and it is a film of darkness and golden brown. Nina Rota's melancholy score goes well with the lives of these very human creatures eking out their own survival and ambitions in the crevices of society. The Don yearns for the day when the family will buy it's way to the daylight of legitimacy, maybe even become Senators. Michael wants to steer clear of the family business, but destiny sucks him into becoming it's most ruthless practitioner. This is Brando's film, even though he is on the screen only for a few small intervals. He rarely shows emotion (twice, in fact, to chastise his godson Johnny and eldest son Santino). His voice rarely rises above a purr as he straightens his hair in a contemplative gesture, a picture of leashed power. He does not directly order a single killing. He even has the magnanimity to forgo revenge for the brutal assassination of Santino, in the larger interests of "business" and the safety of his youngest son Michael, his ablest offspring and successor to be. One of the most dramatic sequences is the Summit where the bloody lords of the gang-world assemble to negotiate a truce and settle the differences around the narcotics trade. Another memorable sequence is the Don's grief when he learns of Santino's killing, his veins bursting as his lips spread out in a silent sob. Or the glad smile bursting through his semi-consciousness when Michael tells him that he will hereafter be part of the family business. And the heart attack that strikes him down finally as he childishly plays with his grandson.

It is difficult to lay one's finger as to where the magic of the movie lies. Perhaps the dish of violence has been served with refinement and artistry without passing judgement. The characters ring true and authentic and it shows us the world in all it's complexities which goes beyond simple categories and descriptions. Perhaps it is a a voyeuristic delight to gain admission into an inaccessible world, like the British aristocracy.