Blog Directory CineVerse

Rico suave

Wednesday, November 27, 2024

The gangster film became a sturdy and stirring subgenre starting in the early 1930s, thanks in large part to the success of Little Caesar (1931), directed by Mervyn LeRoy and based on W.R. Burnett’s 1929 novel. The plot follows Caesar Enrico "Rico" Bandello, a small-time criminal whose ruthless ambition propels him to the top of the underworld. Played with intensity by Edward G. Robinson, Rico embodies the archetypal gangster, willing to betray or kill to maintain power. However, his obsession with control and fame ultimately leads to his downfall, as law enforcement and betrayal from within his ranks close in on him.

Robinson’s star-making portrayal of Rico set the standard for the morally complex antihero, and the film captured societal anxieties of the Great Depression era. Its unflinching depiction of crime and violence came before the Hays Code imposed stricter censorship, making it a pivotal work in early Hollywood.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Little Caesar, conducted last week, click here.


Unfortunately, this film hasn’t aged well due to banal direction, mediocre acting from everyone but the lead, and a threadbare yarn that’s easy to predict. This was an early example of a talkie, during the transition from silent to sound, and the end product suffers because LeRoy and his collaborators play matters cautiously, as this was an experimental era where filmmakers needed to find their footing technically and narratively. Nevertheless, Robinson shines in this role, elevating an otherwise dull crime drama to a curious character study.

“Little Caesar endures because of Robinson, not so much because he’s tough but because he’s got a Napoleon-sized ego and a schoolboy’s smile when things are going his way. He enjoys living like a rich pig so much, we’ve got to mourn his loss when he’s sent back to the gutter,” wrote Slant Magazine reviewer Jeremiah Kipp.

Ironically, despite being made during the pre-code era when filmmakers weren’t yet restricted from depicting more extreme violence, sexuality, and adult situations, Little Caesar doesn’t fully exploit these elements or push the envelope as contemporaries The Public Enemy (released the same year) or Scarface (1932) did. Instead, it feels more like a movie made under the watchful eye of Hollywood censors due to its Biblical title card preachiness up front: “For all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.”

Robinson’s Rico Bandello, loosely based on Al Capone, set the mold for many forthcoming ruthless gangster sociopath personalities in cinema. Rico, and by extension Robinson, introduced traits that defined the genre: an ambitious and ruthless drive for power, a mix of charm and menace, and an obsession with control that alienates allies. Rico’s layered personality—confident yet insecure, commanding yet vulnerable—made him both compelling and tragic, establishing the archetype of the gangster who rises to power but ultimately falls due to hubris and isolation. His sharp style, iconic mannerisms, and dramatic downfall influenced generations of cinematic gangsters, from Michael Corleone to Tony Montana.

DVD Savant critic Glenn Erickson wrote: “Little Caesar establishes the template for every urban gangland bio to come. Punk hoodlum Rico has ambition and drive but little judgment. He fastidiously refuses to drink but cannot resist the temptation of power. Whether it be taking over his little gang or hurrying to rub out a squealer, all of Rico's moves have an impatient, urgent quality that accelerates the story tempo far faster than the typical talkie of the day.”

The film can be properly credited for setting in motion many of the traits of early gangster pictures, from armed robberies, fights for power, and internal backstabbing to drive-by killings, the closing in of the long arm of the law, and the rise and fall of the overly-ambitious.

Little Caesar is historically and culturally significant also because, while it wasn’t the first gangster film (D.W. Griffith’s The Musketeers of Pig Alley from 1912, and Lights of New York from 1928, preceded it), it’s regarded as the first early sound film to delve into the lives of underworld figures beyond the confines of prison. It also established the trope that tough guy mafioso characters chomp on cigars.

Curiously, this film is notable for suggesting a homosexual attraction between Rico and Joe. Interestingly, Rico isn’t shown expressing interest in any female character romantically, and expresses a jealous outrage when Joe mentions his love for Olga. Joe personifies classic heteronormative qualities and a more sophisticated mindset, coupled with a talent for dancing, that have us question what he gets out of his relationship with Rico.

Thematically, Little Caesar continues to serve as an obvious “pride goeth before the fall” warning, and a Hollywood-ized examination of the consequences of ruthless ambition coupled with untethered arrogance. In the 21st Century, it’s also inadvertently coded in toxic masculinity tropes that remind us how far we’ve progressed socioculturally—to some extent, anyway. Additionally, there’s a lesser “practice what you preach” message afoot; recall that Rico’s decision to spare his friend Joe clashes with his ethos to wipe out his enemies without remorse. Earlier, we hear him tell Joe “This game ain’t for sissies.” Perhaps this hypocrisy proves to be Rico’s ultimate undoing.

Similar works

  • Scarface
  • The Public Enemy
  • Other films in the first cycle of gangster pictures, including Doorway to Hell, Smart Money, The Hatchet Man, The Beast of the City, and The Secret Six

Other works by Mervyn LeRoy

  • I Am A Fugitive From a Chain Gang
  • Quo Vadis?
  • Mister Roberts
  • The Bad Seed
  • Gypsy

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Gushing over the golden greatness of Godfather Part II

Tuesday, November 19, 2024

It’s not even up for debate. The greatest sequel of all time remains The Godfather Part II, directed by Francis Ford Coppola and released 50 years ago this December. Serving as both a sequel and a prequel to The Godfather (1972), the movie continues the story of the Corleone crime family while exploring its origins. The screenplay is based on Mario Puzo's novel and masterfully intertwines two narratives. One follows Michael Corleone as he leads the family’s empire in the 1950s, dealing with betrayal and personal tragedy, while the other delves into young Vito Corleone’s rise to power in the early 1900s, showing his journey from Sicily to becoming a respected Mafia leader in New York City.

To listen to our CineVerse group discussion of The Godfather Part II, conducted last week, click here. To hear the latest Cineversary podcast episode, which spotlights this film, click here.


Why is this film worthy of celebration 50 years later? What elements make it a masterpiece that holds up five decades onward? It’s arguably at least as good, if not better in many ways, than the first film (released two years earlier in 1972), which is a rarity for a sequel. The vast majority of cinematic follow-ups disappoint audiences because they can’t maintain the same level of quality as a beloved original.

Part II benefits as a true, seamless continuation of the first film in which most of the same creators and actors participated. Coppola returned as director and co-wrote the screenplay again with Puzo, co-producer Gray Frederickson, composer Nino Rota, cinematographer Gordon Willis, and production designer Dean Tavoularis were aboard again, as were Al Pacino, Diane Keaton, Talia Shire, Robert Duvall, John Cazale, and James Caan (Marlon Brando and Richard Castellano backed out). In other words, it’s hard for Part II to fail when almost all the same stellar talent is back on the team and The Godfather magic is still fresh only two years later.

Part II is also longer and more epic in scope, taking us dramatically deeper and fascinatingly further into the world of the Corleone family and its enemies. Unlike the first film, which is primarily set in New York and secondarily in Sicily, the events in the sequel involve multiple locations around the world, including Las Vegas, Havana, Miami, Lake Tahoe, Sicily, and New York. And there are more new characters in the second film to capture our interest and add depth to this continued narrative.

Viewers require more patience and concentration because the film regularly shifts between two timelines and presents a nonlinear narrative that can be a bit offputting but enriching to those watchers who enjoy looking for connections between the past and the present, which can add more resonance to the saga and especially the increasingly complex character given the most attention: Michael Corleone. There are 12 shifts between the present (Michael in the late 1950s) and the past that occur over the film’s extended runtime.

Part II boasts one great performance after another from one of the all-time best casts, with many regarding Pacino’s work here as the best of his career. In 2009, Total Film placed him in fourth place on its list of "The 150 Greatest Performances of All Time," and in 2006 Premiere positioned it at #20 on its ranking of "The 100 Greatest Performances of All Time." A bit of trivia: Pacino is one of only six actors to be Oscar-nominated two times for portraying the same character.

Slant Magazine reviewer Matt Noller wrote: “Pacino’s work in the first two Godfather films, the second in particular, ranks among the finest performances in film history. They came during a time when the young actor still knew the benefits of subtlety, and his performance is an exquisitely balanced combination of strength, dignity, doubt, and moral decay, all accomplished with next to nothing in the way of histrionic displays.”

De Niro won the Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his role as young Vito, although you could argue that several other thespians in supporting parts were as deserving of that statuette, particularly the outstanding John Cazale (Fredo’s come-to-Jesus meeting with Michael—in which the anger and shame of being the passed-over middle son is expressed in a surprising outburst, followed by Michael’s pitiless renouncement and banishment of Fredo—represents the best sequence in Part II because of its dramatic gravitas and pitch-perfect performance. Ponder that Cazale had a perfect batting average in cinema, appearing in only five films before his untimely death, but with all five being masterpieces). Michael Gazzo as Pentangeli, the legendary Lee Strasberg as Hyman Roth, and even Gastone Moschin as Don Fanucci also particularly shine in their parts.

Part II also delights with the sudden appearance of unexpected faces we can more easily identify 50 years later, like Harry Dean Stanton as an FBI man, Danny Aiello in a tiny part as one of the Rosato brothers, and filmmaker Roger Corman (who gave Coppola his start) as one of the Senators during the congressional hearing.

The second chapter would be nowhere near as compelling without Nina Rota’s insightful music: hauntingly beautiful and appropriately evocative of the first film. Additionally, the period details—vintage 1950s automobiles and apparel, evoking the hardscrabble tenement architecture in 1917-era New York, substituting the Dominican Republic for Cuba to recreate the look of that pre-revolution country—all ring true and add world-building veracity to the film.

Surprisingly, the movie garnered mixed reviews upon its original release, although its reputation significantly rose eventually; today, Part II is now regarded as one of the finest pictures in history. In 1997, the American Film Institute ranked it as the 32nd greatest film in American cinema, and it held onto this spot in the AFI’s list a decade later. It slotted at No. 9 on Sight & Sound's Directors' list of the top 10 films in 1992 and No. 2 in 2002, with critics placing it at No. 4. In Sight and Sound’s 2012 list, the film was ranked No. 31 by critics and No. 30 by directors. The screenplay came in 10th best on the Writers Guild of America's list of the greatest screenplays in 2006. Additionally, The Godfather Part II was listed No. 7 on Entertainment Weekly’s "100 Greatest Movies of All Time" and was ranked No. 1 on TV Guide’s 1999 list of the "50 Greatest Movies of All Time on TV and Video." The Village Voice placed it at No. 31 on its 1999 poll of the "Best Films of the Century," and it appeared on the National Society of Film Critics’ "Top 100 Essential Films of All Time" list in 2002. In 2017, it was ranked No. 12 in Empire magazine’s reader’s poll of "The 100 Greatest Movies" and No. 19 in their 2008 poll of "The 500 Greatest Movies of All Time." Finally, it ranked No. 10 in the BBC's list of the "100 Greatest American Films" in 2015.

Better than the original?

Part II was the first sequel and one of only two sequels to win the Oscar for Best Picture. That honor certainly helps elevate this movie above rivals for the title of all-time greatest sequel. Contenders for that crown include The Bride of Frankenstein, The Empire Strikes Back, Aliens, Terminator 2, The Two Towers and The Return of the King, The Dark Knight, and Mad Max: Fury Road. Tellingly, The Godfather Part II is the only title among this throng that isn’t a genre-heavy sci-fi/fantasy/action picture.

“I think it’s every bit as good as (Godfather) One,” said film critic Kenneth Turan. Peter Bradshaw, film critic for The Guardian, wrote: “It is even better than the first film, and has the greatest single final scene in Hollywood history, a real coup de cinéma.”

“One of the best American films of its generation got one of the best sequels ever made - hardly something that obviously had to happen, and it speaks immensely highly over everyone involved in making Part II that they so consistently took the hard path to making something that could stand head and shoulders with the original, deepening it and expanding it while hardly ever repeating it,” per Alternate Ending writer Tim Brayton. Part II is “a more focused and intensified experience than the first movie, and pretty much everything works towards making sure we feel that intensity.”

“The director somehow managed to turn Part II’s weakness into strengths,” posits RogerEbert.com contributor Gerardo Valero. “For instance, few film series by nature have lost as many characters during their first entry… but their substitutes turned out so well, we don’t end up longing for these alternatives all that much…When trying to assign each of these films their rightful place, the most important factor to consider is that they tend to be even more interesting when looking towards the interior of the family as opposed to when looking outside, and Part II comes second to none in this regard.”

Defenders argue that Part II has more depth and a wider sweep, essentially telling two stories in one with the flashbacks to young Vito in Italy in the early 1900s and crosscutting back to his son Michael in the United States in the late 1950s. That makes it essentially a prequel and a sequel, all in a single package. The dual narrative and more sophisticated structure make this work even more fascinating to many viewers and critics than its predecessor.

Part II also benefits from better character development, tracing Michael’s arc and ascendancy to greater power while navigating complex and often dark family dynamics. This debatably makes The Godfather Part II a more thematically rich and psychologically interesting film. Here, the filmmakers get an even bigger canvas—202 minutes versus 175 minutes for part I—to tell the story and weave their cinematic magic.

That 202 minutes makes Godfather Part II one of the lengthiest movies in film history. Other than John Frankenheimer’s adaptation of The Iceman Cometh, released in 1973 and running one minute shy of four hours, Godfather Part II had the longest runtime for an American narrative film since Patton (1970, 170 minutes), a runtime that wouldn’t be surpassed until Heaven’s Gate in 1980. It was also one of the last American films to include an intermission. Interestingly, Coppola and/or De Niro collaborated on six of the lengthiest movies of the 1970s: Patton, The Godfather, The Godfather Part II, 1900, The Deer Hunter, and Apocalypse Now.

So, which reigns supreme: Part I or Part II? Head to head, the critical scores are close. The Godfather garners a 97% fresh rating and a 9.2 out of 10 critical score on Rotten Tomatoes versus Part II’s 96% fresh rating and 9.8 out of 10 critical score; at Metacritic, the original boasts a 100 Metascore compared to 90 Metascore for Part II; and at IMDB, The Godfather earns a 9.2 out of 10 versus a 9.0 out of 10 for its sequel.

Tracing Part II’s wide influence

The Godfather Part II broke new ground with its dual narrative, blending Michael Corleone’s cold-blooded mob leadership in the 1950s with flashbacks of his father Vito’s more sympathetic rise to power years earlier. This bold structure offered viewers insight into how the past shaped the present, crafting a complex, layered story that inspired future filmmakers to use nonlinear timelines and parallel storytelling to enhance character depth and thematic richness.

Later movies that would emulate the nonlinear narrative approach that utilizes interwoven flashbacks and dual storylines include The Deer Hunter, Once Upon a Time in America, Pulp Fiction, Memento, Kill Bill: Vol. II, Mama Mia: Here We Go Again!, and The Irishman (interesting that De Niro appears in several of these), as well as multiple seasons of so many popular modern television shows including Lost, Boardwalk Empire, Cobra Kai, Westworld, and Better Call Saul.

Especially before and during the early 1970s, when sequels weren’t as common as today, subsequent chapters were often viewed as cash grabs. The Godfather II set a new gold standard of excellence for sequels that may never be topped.

Consider how the color palette, art direction, and overall nostalgic-tinged look of the flashback sequences have been emulated by many films depicting vintage early 20th century New York, as evidenced by copycat aesthetics in films like Ragtime (1981), Annie (1982), Once Upon a Time in America (1984), Newsies (1992), Far and Away (1992), Gangs of New York (2002), and The Immigrants (2012).

This was also the first major American film to use the words “Part II” in its title.

A triumph for Coppola

Victor Fleming released both Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz in 1939, the same year as John Ford’s Stagecoach, Young Mr. Lincoln, and Drums Along the Mowak. In 1957, Bergman’s The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries debuted. Spielberg had two crown jewels in 1993: Schindler’s List and Jurassic Park. Yet in 1974, Coppola released not only The Godfather Part II but also The Conversation; his output in '74 may represent the best year ever for a major director.

Of course, Part II holds up in large part thanks to Coppola's filmmaking savvy. The director capitalized on more creative control, greater filmmaking freedom, and less studio interference from Paramount, which didn’t grant him that latitude for the first picture. The filmmaker helms one fantastic scene and performance after another, from the first communion party and Vito’s arrival in America to the fall of Cuba to the murders of Hyman Roth and Fredo. The sequence where Vito stealthily tracks Don Fanucci through the Feast of San Gennaro street celebration and then shoots the mobster outside his apartment is exemplary, and the Senate Hearing segment when Pentangeli sees his brother in the courtroom and changes his testimony offers another masterclass in direction; there are a lot of moving parts in that latter sequence, and Coppola sticks the landing beautifully.

But probably Coppola’s greatest achievement with Part II was his choice to use and successful execution of the crosscutting narratives and alternating timelines. The director said his concept for this film was to "juxtapose the ascension of the family under Vito Corleone with the decline of the family under his son Michael ... I had always wanted to write a screenplay that told the story of a father and a son at the same age. They were both in their thirties and I would integrate the two stories ... In order not to merely make Godfather I over again, I gave Godfather II this double structure by extending the story in both the past and in the present."

The challenge in presenting both a prequel and a sequel in one film: Where and when do you choose to cut between the two timelines? Choose wrong and you can upset the rhythm, tone, and pacing, as Coppola discovered when preview audiences rejected his first cut of the film, forcing the filmmaker to re-edit the movie and shift less often between the past and present stories.

Per co-editor Richard Marx: “When you shorten the story and keep cutting away from it, you limit emotional involvement. And Francis’ ultimate decision was that we would try and cut back and forth fewer times to keep the audience involved.”

Steven Spielberg said in an interview: “Godfather Part II maybe is more Francis Ford Coppola’s movie because it takes huge chances in changing the form of storytelling and altering the common narrative…It was more a Hollywood tradition in the storytelling of Godfather I, and there was an anti-Hollywood approach to the telling of the second Godfather story.”

“His decision to do a simultaneous sequel-prequel, thus juxtaposing the father, Vito, as a young upstart who makes his way to wealth and power and the son, Michael, who is losing his grip on it and lamenting the burden he has taken, may be Coppola’s greatest achievement as a filmmaker and storyteller,” according to Soham Gadre, an essayist for The Spool. “The same visual elements exist from the previous film, however the compositions are more wide-angled, and there is a lot more space to the scenes. Coppola is clearly more enamored with world-building than the previous movie… the flashback sequences perfectly exemplify what the first film had missed, which is a sense of connection and confrontation of the immigrant experience in America.”

A complex but fulfilling dual narrative

The intricacies of Part II’s plot also necessitate sturdier concentration but reward watchers who pay attention. For example, ponder the attempted hit on Pentangeli. Who orders the hit? Roth, not Michael. Why? It’s been speculated that Roth resents Michael for past killings, like the killing of his old friend Moe Greene in the first film, and knows he must play three-dimensional chess with the Corleone family to win in this game of power. Pentangeli, caught between his issues with the Rosato brothers (Roth’s allies) and his loyalty to Michael, becomes a pawn in this game. When Michael hints to Roth that he suspects Pentangeli may have plotted against him, Roth seizes the chance. He instructs the Rosatos to attack Pentangeli, framing it to look like Michael’s betrayal. This scheme aims to shake Pentangeli’s loyalty and push him to testify against Michael, giving Roth a legal edge since killing Michael had failed. In the end, Roth's plan backfires as Pentangeli reaffirms his loyalty to the Corleones, leading to tragic results.

Also, ruminate on Fredo’s betrayal. How and why does Michael’s older brother backstab him? By secretly agreeing to assist Johnny Ola and Hyman Roth during tense negotiations between Roth and the Corleone family, although the exact nature of his help remains unclear. This betrayal enables Roth’s men to make an attempt on Michael’s life at home. It has been conjectured that, with Michael out of the way, Fredo could take over the Corleone family business, which would please Roth, although it’s doubtful Fredo would have agreed to have Michael assassinated. The thing that trips up Fredo is later, while in Havana, when Michael discovers his brother is the traitor when Fredo inadvertently reveals he met Ola, despite previously denying it.

A small point, but consider why Corleone soldier Rocco Lampone is ordered by and agrees to assassinate Roth. Rumors abound that he betrayed Michael by secretly killing the two men who shot at Michael through the window to hide his involvement in that hit. Recall that Michael asked Rocco to find the assassins and keep them alive, but Rocco says “We’ll try.” Perhaps Michael knew the two assassins would be killed by a traitor in the family. Rocco was present when the bodies were discovered. While we know Fredo is the traitor, he isn’t a killer. Rocco possibly accepts the suicide mission of killing Roth in front of the FBI because he faces a similar fate as Pentangeli—having plotted against Michael and failed, he chooses to die in a way that protects Rocco’s family.

Life lessons from the Corleone family

Part II is richly imbued with fascinating themes and subtexts that suggest multiple interpretations. One key reading? The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. In The Godfather, when Vito said, “There wasn't enough time, Michael. There just wasn't enough time,” he was expressing his disappointment that Michael couldn't fulfill his dream of achieving legitimacy and becoming a respected political leader, like a senator or governor. Vito had hoped that, unlike himself, Michael could avoid a life of crime and instead gain power in respectable circles, free from the mafia’s influence. However, with Sonny's death and Fredo's shortcomings, Michael felt forced to take over the family business, trapping him in the same life Vito had wanted him to escape. This lost dream haunted Vito, and as the sequels reveal, Michael would never fully escape the dark legacy of the Corleone family.

Often, the shifts in timelines between the younger Vito and his mature son Michael present undeniable parallels that suggest an inevitable generational heritage of crime, corruption, and evil initiated by the father and continued by his son. These juxtaposed visual and contextual associations present both similarities as well as differences between father and son. When the timeline swings back to the past, the look and feel are somewhat nostalgic, presenting young Vito as a likable figure who ascends to early power through intrepid crime and violence but steadfastly and consistently appears devoted to his family. In contrast, we witness Michael at the peak of his potency and influence yet continually pushing his family away from him, alienating loved ones, and ignoring his children. Recall some of the key compares and contrasts:
  • Revisit the scene where Michael is told Kay had a miscarriage, immediately followed by the scene of a concerned Vito watching his wife tend to their young, sick baby.
  • Think back to the sequence following Vito’s murder of Fanucci where he returns to his wife and young children sitting on the steps and, holding his new child, says “Michael, your father loves you very, very much”; after a brief intermission, the next thing we see is the adult Michael returning home after his crimes, but to a cold, quiet, and empty house occupied only by Kay, sewing away obliviously in the next room—tellingly, the two don’t talk or embrace.
  • Recall the last two scenes, in which we first flashback to December 7, 1941, and observe tight yet tense family dynamics between him and his siblings, who leave him sitting alone while they go embrace father Vito in the next room; we then cut to the final shot of an utterly solitary Michael in the story’s present day, sitting outside and presumably reflecting on all he’s lost.

Also, contemplate how imagery and events in Part II echo similar shots and sequences in Part I, such as:
  • Michael eating an orange (Vito ate an orange during his death scene);
  • Vito stating he’ll make Fanucci an offer he can’t refuse (Brando’s most famous line from the previous film); Fanucci’s killing during a religious festival (the Feast of San Gennaro), which harkens to the murder montage at the conclusion of Part I when Michael bumps off multiple enemies while his baby son is baptized in a church.
  • The lavish first communion party Michael hosts, during which Michael conducts backroom dirty dealings with Senator Geary—remember that Part I also began with his family celebrating a sacrament, Connie’s wedding, and included closed-door meetings with the family patriarch and his supplicants.
  • The ailing and vulnerable Roth in the hospital who escapes an assassination attempt, which reminds us of Brando’s Vito lying helpless in a hospital bed yet protected from his assassins by Michael.
Part II espouses another irrefutable truism: the costs of corruption and cruelty. Michael’s victories against his enemies come at the expense of his loved ones and the utter loss of his humanity. In a key scene, he asks his mother if, by being strong, you can lose your family. She replies no, you can never lose your family—yet Michael tragically does by the end of the film, opting to kill his brother, alienate his wife Kay, ignore his children, and treat Tom and Connie with coldness and detachment. The last image of the completely isolated family patriarch ruminating somberly on his state of affairs while sitting outside in the thick of dead leaf-strewn autumn—also the autumn of his life—suggests his dramatic fall from grace, the tragedy of his trajectory away from his father’s ethic (ever working, even if illegally, to help his family), and an empty, soulless man who has forfeited everyone dear to him despite triumphing against his adversaries. Vito, were he still alive, would not be proud of the legacy he hath wrought.

The second chapter is also, certainly, a meditation on the dark side of the American dream. “It is the ghost of the American Dream that haunts the first two-thirds of Francis Ford Coppola’s epic gangster saga, the broken promise of a new life for those who crossed the ocean to free themselves from the poverty and violence of their homes just to find more of the same,” Slant Magazine’s Matt Noller postulates. “Coppola’s gangsters speak coldly about their world, like politicians or CEOs. It’s a pure expression of a capitalist society that values the bottom line above all else: Profit is the goal, and the shootings and stranglings are simply a means to an end. Emotions don’t—or shouldn’t—come into play. ‘It’s not personal, just business,’ the mantra goes.”

They say absolute power corrupts absolutely, and therein lies a further evident theme. Godfather II reminds us that there is no honor among thieves and that it’s not enough to simply “let me wet my beak a little,” as Fanucci says. The powerful and greedy will always want more and are inclined to betray their partners for a bigger slice of the cake (recall how Roth carves up a cake decorated to resemble Cuba, a metaphorical carving up of the country). A solid gold telephone, a hedonistic nightclub act, and a pat on the back from Roth telling Michael that he’s rich and formidable enough to influence an American president are all examples of the avaricious hubris demonstrated by these powerbrokers who secretly shape the fates of many.

A further thesis? Living life as a high-stakes game of chess. Michael adopts his father’s lessons to “Keep your friends close but your enemies closer,” and “try to think as people around you think.” That means, to vanquish and outwit his foes, he has to cleverly remain several steps ahead of rivals and anticipate their next moves (not easy when Roth is an even craftier chess player). Yet he also has to sacrifice relatives and allies as pawns in this game and play with a remorseless ruthlessness that results in the deaths of his brother and several minions and in Michael being estranged from his wife, kids, and extended family. In the end, his gamesmanship savvy, brilliant maneuvering, and insistence on not wiping everyone out, “just my enemies,” solidify Michael’s power and wealth but at a great cost to his personal life.

A cinematic gift that keeps on giving

The biggest present Part II bestows on us is its trusty ability to dispel the myth that all sequels suck. Whenever that pessimistic axiom is levied against Hollywood and its crassly commercialistic byproducts, the correct retort is to simply cite The Godfather Part II as the exception to the rule. It’s a quick way to shut up the naysayers and remind cynical cinephiles that, with the right creative TLC, film follow-ups can do more than exceed expectations—they can actually outshine their predecessors.

The second Godfather film is a marathon of a movie, true, but no scene seems superfluous, no performance feels out of step, no directorial choice appears self-indulgent. By the time it’s over, we crave more, and we’re intrigued to explore Part III and revisit Part I to identify even more of the connective tissue that masterfully links these works.

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Cineversary podcast celebrates 50th birthday of Godfather Part II

Wednesday, November 13, 2024

Harlan Lebo and Glenn Kenny
In Cineversary podcast episode #76, host ⁠Erik Martin⁠ honors the 50th anniversary of the greatest sequel ever made, The Godfather Part II, directed by Francis Ford Coppola. This time around he’s joined by Harlan Lebo, author of The Godfather Legacy, and Glenn Kenny, film critic and author of Made Men: The Story of Goodfellas. Together, they explore what makes Part II an exemplary follow-up to the original, how the movie remains evergreen, key themes that resonate today, and much more.

To listen to this episode, click here or click the "play" button on the embedded streaming player below. Or, you can stream, download, or subscribe to Cineversary wherever you get your podcasts, including Apple Podcasts and Spotify.

Learn more about the Cineversary podcast at www.cineversary.com and email show comments or suggestions to cineversarypodcast@gmail.com.

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That blue line may be thin, but the filmmaking wasn't

Monday, November 11, 2024

The Thin Blue Line, directed by Errol Morris and released in 1988, was a game-changing documentary for its time. For proof, consider that it was primarily responsible for getting a man wrongfully convicted for the 1976 murder of a police officer released from prison. It’s also one of the progenitors of true crime documentaries, helping to popularize this increasingly popular genre.

Morris’ film reveals that the conviction of Robert Wood Adams was based largely on flawed witness testimonies and questionable investigative practices. The filmmakers present a meticulous investigation into Adams’ case, raising serious doubts about his guilt and casting a critical light on the reliability of the justice system. Through interviews and the introduction of David Ray Harris, a key witness whose credibility and motives are suspect, the film questions the established narrative of Adams' guilt, prompting renewed interest that ultimately led to Adams' release in 1989, after 12 years in prison.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of The Thin Blue Line, conducted last week, click here.


The Thin Blue Line proved innovative and influential as a documentary in several ways. First, the filmmaker’s novel approach is previsualized cinematography: Every shot is carefully created, which is a departure from the random and unplanned realism of cinema verite (a loose, raw, handheld style) often utilized in documentaries that aim for unpolished, spontaneous, on-the-fly footage.

Additionally, it doesn’t rely on voiceover narration to tell its story. Instead, it recreates supposed events through the accounts of the eyewitnesses and people involved via dramatic but artificial re-enactments that present conflicting testimonies and alternative perspectives on the crime.

Often, Morris’ go-to technique is to film objects related to the crime scene, such as gun, car taillight, or milkshake from different angles and viewpoints as further questions or clues are introduced. These recreation shots are illuminated with high key lighting and set against a bland black background, and the re-enactments, interestingly, don’t focus on the faces of any actors/characters. Slow motion is occasionally used for exaggerated effect, too.

The filmmakers employ other distinctive elements interestingly: maps, clips from the drive-in film, newspaper clippings, mug shots, close-ups of visual evidence, clocks, and an ashtray. The final gripping scene, in which Harris confesses, only uses shots of a tape recorder shot from different angles (this was a happy accident due to a camera malfunction), quite a curious way to capture a film’s most important scene.

Furthermore, the interviewees often make eye contact with the camera, creating a more intimate experience as if they are directly addressing the viewer; these subjects are also not identified with title text, and they are each distinctively framed within each shot.

And, unlike so many previous docs, The Thin Blue Line features a proper score written exclusively for the film (in this instance by Philip Glass).

Morris's approach redefined documentary filmmaking by using film as a tool for investigative journalism and by melding advocacy and art. Other documentarians and filmmakers adopted many of these stylistic choices in subsequent docs, police procedurals, and true crime dramatizations.

It’s fair to ask: Is The Thin Blue Line objective and impartial as many expect a documentary to be? You can make the case that Morris is not proselytizing Adam’s innocence but rather brings to light the flawed logistics and testimonies that resulted in his conviction. Morris also allows all sides to tell their stories. However, The Thin Blue Line goes beyond neutral reporting, using interviews, reenactments, and visual storytelling to challenge the prosecution’s narrative and cast doubt on key witness testimonies and investigative practices. These choices give the film a distinctive, critical tone, transforming it from an objective documentary into a compelling investigative critique.

Morris’s clear agenda, along with the haunting score by Philip Glass, creates an atmosphere of mystery and skepticism, which some rightly view as biased. Yet, this partiality is also what makes the film so impactful: It blurs the line between journalism and advocacy, aiming not just to inform viewers but to expose injustice and provoke change. By eventually leading to Randall Dale Adams’ exoneration, the film demonstrates how such a stance can serve an essential purpose in questioning flawed judicial outcomes.

Similar works

  • Netflix’s Making a Murderer series
  • Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills
  • The Central Park Five
  • Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon, another movie that tells the story of a crime from several different viewpoints and attempts to explore the nature of truth and reality
  • Countless crime scene and police procedural TV shows that have utilized the crime recreation approach with highly stylized, slow-motion footage and impressionistic shots of various objects, clues, etc.

Other films by Errol Morris

  • Gates of Heaven (1978), about two pet cemeteries
  • Vernon, Florida (1981), about the inhabitants of a small town
  • A Brief History of Time (1991)
  • The Fog of War (2003), about war mastermind Robert McNamara

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Why Chain still reigns

Monday, October 28, 2024


Released 50 years ago this month, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, directed by Tobe Hooper and co-written by Hooper and Kim Henkel, remains a fright film masterwork that dozens of movies have attempted to imitate but can never duplicate. The setup is brilliantly simple: We follow Sally Hardesty (Marilyn Burns), her brother Franklin (Paul A. Partain), and friends Pam (Teri McMinn), Jerry (Allen Danziger), and Kirk (William Vail) as they travel to rural Texas to visit the Hardesty family homestead. There, they encounter a family of cannibalistic killers, including the infamous chainsaw-wielding Leatherface (Gunnar Hansen). As the friends explore the area, they become prey to Leatherface and his deranged family, leading to a series of chilling and brutal encounters that have made the film one of the most influential in horror history.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of this film, conducted last week, click here. To hear the October episode of the Cineversary podcast celebrating The Texas Chain Saw Massacre's 50th anniversary, click here. 


Why is Chain Saw worthy of serious celebration 50 years later? For starters, this film accomplishes so much with so little. Despite minuscule production values, a paltry $140,000 budget, a cast of unknowns, eyeball-rolling dialogue and subpar acting from most of the performers, a relatively inexperienced director, and extremely low expectations, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre instantly became one of the most terrifying movies in history, raking in over $30 million at the box office (adjusted for inflation, that would be more than $199 million today), and, over the years, increasingly garnered positive critical attention from many reviewers. (Currently, tit earns an 83% Rotten Tomatoes fresh score and an average critical rating of 7.6 out of 10; Metacritic, meanwhile, gives it a 91 out of 100 Metascore.)

But drilling down further reveals three key factors responsible for its success and timeless effectiveness: approach, circumstance, and reputation. Regarding the former, consider this evaluation from critic Richard Scheib: “Like Night of the Living Dead, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre redefined horror by stripping it of all classical motive. The assaults in the film come without rhyme or reason. Leatherface is not a monster of science or a demonic conjuration, he is even bereft of the cursory psychological explanations that the killers had in psycho-thrillers of the last decade such as Psycho or What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? and their numerous imitators.”

Then, give thought to the circumstances during production. Hampered by a barebones budget and limited resources, director Tobe Hooper was forced to shoot for long stretches in a condensed time frame over 32 days in extreme heat and humidity, with on-set temperatures reaching 110°F. Consequently, the actors look extra stressed—obviously out of exhaustion and discomfort—and the atmosphere and vibe seem all the more strained.

Next, give credence to the film’s early and enduring reputation: Chain Saw was banned in numerous countries, including the UK, where you couldn’t see the film until 1999. This work became a word-of-mouth sensation across the world—the fear-inducing title alone aided that momentum—and was long talked about as one of the most disturbing and frightening horror films of all time.

This month, Variety published a 100 Best Horror Movies of All Time feature and slotted Texas Chain Saw Massacre at the very top. In its writeup, the Variety critics wrote: “There’s a reason “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre” has cast such a shadow over the last half-century of horror films. As much as “Psycho” or “The Exorcist,” it created a mythology of horror, one that feels even more resonant today than it did 50 years ago. The film channeled the descent of the American spirit that we can now feel all around us. In the end, what “Chain Saw” revels in with such disturbing majesty, and what makes it more indelible and haunting than any other horror film, is its image of madness as the driving energy of the world: Leatherface, swinging his chainsaw around in front of the rising sun, his crazed dance of death not just a ritual but a warning — that the center will not hold.”

The plaudits, of course, hardly end there. Time Out recently named the film as the third-best horror movie ever made, Entertainment Weekly voted it the second scariest movie of all time in 2022, it came in at #19 on Empire Magazine’s 2024 list of the 50 best horror movies and #199 on Empire’s 2008 ranking of the 500 greatest movies of all time, it currently sits at #94 on Rotten Tomatoes’ list of the 200 best horror movies of all time and #5 on Rotten Tomatoes’ list of the scariest horror movies, and this film even places at #118 among 250 on the 2022 Sight and Sound poll of the greatest films. Additionally, a 2022 YouGov survey of Americans found that Chain Saw was the sixth most loved horror movie by people who have seen it.

To fully appreciate how groundbreaking Chain Saw was in 1974, consider that it wasn’t a classically constructed horror picture. For its time, it lacked many of the normal tropes, stereotypes, and expectations of earlier terror fare and thrillers. There is no brooding music to warn us of what’s to come. Sex and nudity are absent. The victims aren’t deserving of punishment due to promiscuity, drug use, or criminal acts. There are no heroes or noble sacrifices—only a single survivor— and the monsters aren’t vanquished or killed by the conclusion. There is also no comic relief or “winking at the audience.” And the violence often occurs in bright daylight.

Furthermore, this horror is remorseless and lacks any kind of message about morality or redemption. The violence is sudden, random, and without warning. Surprisingly, there is very little blood or gore. Except for the opening shots, the camera doesn’t linger on dead bodies or severed body parts. Most of the killing happens quickly and occurs within the first half of the movie.

“Rather than Alfred Hitchcock's delicate, suspenseful manipulation, Hooper follows the lead of fellow independents George A. Romero and Wes Craven and feeds the audience through a mangle of unrelenting horror and violence. Once his film starts, it doesn't let up until the fade-out: other horror films are as frightening, but few are so utterly exhausting,” wrote critic Kim Newman.

Also, this work has a raw, documentary-like ragged quality to it, as demonstrated by the shaky camera, gritty film stock, use of actual decomposing animal remains and bones, and voiceover opening that claims the events are based on truth.

Influential predecessors include hixploitation, backwoods brutality, and primal folk horror films like Straw Dogs (1971), Deliverance (1972), and The Last House on the Left (1972), along with movies wherein the violence and attacks are unprovoked, sudden, indiscriminate, and random, as in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963), The Night of the Living Dead (1968), and Duel (1971).

Some critics and scholars credit The Texas Chain Saw Massacre as helping to pave the path forward for renowned horror franchises like Halloween, Evil Dead, and The Blair Witch. It certainly inspired later horror icons like Michael Myers and Jason Vorhees with its depiction of a large, silent, faceless killer with no discernible personality, and it introduced the notion of power tools used as murderous devices.

Leatherface has proved to be a popular horror character, as evidenced by the fact that, to date, there have been nine films in which he’s featured, including The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (1986); Leatherface: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III (1990); Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation (a 1994 quasi-reboot starring Renée Zellweger and Matthew McConaughey); the 2003 remake sharing the original title; the prequel The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning (2006); Texas Chainsaw 3D (2013), a direct sequel to the 1974 film that disregards other installments in the series; Leatherface (2017), a further prequel; and Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2022), another direct sequel to the original. By comparison, Freddy Kreuger also has nine films, Jason has 12, and Michael Myers has 13.

Wes Craven paid homage to The Texas Chain Saw Massacre with his 1977 film The Hills Have Eyes, and Ridley Scott credited it as an influence on his 1979 sci-fi horror masterpiece Alien. French filmmaker Alexandre Aja also cited the film as a key early inspiration in his career. Horror director and musician Rob Zombie has also named it as a significant stimulus for his films House of 1000 Corpses (2003) and The Devil's Rejects (2005).

Other subsequent films that may owe a nod to Chain Saw include The Town That Dreaded Sundown (1976), Death Weekend (1976), I Spit on Your Grave (1978), The Evictors (1979), Mother’s Day (1980), Just Before Dawn (1981), Southern Comfort (1981), Pieces (1982), Children of the Corn (1984), The German Chainsaw Massacre (1990), House of 1000 Corpses (2003), Wrong Turn (2003), Wolf Creek (2005), Hostel (2005), Hatchet (2006), The Flesh Keeper (2007), Slasher (2007), Backwoods (2008), and Ty West’s X (2022).

Hooper and company do an admirable job of creating unease right from the start. We begin with the “true story” screen crawl voiced by John Larroquette, creating false expectations that this will be a true crime recreation. We see the August 18, 1973 dateline to firmly anchor this narrative in a particular period, and then there’s a montage of shovel-digging noises and flashbulb-illuminated peeks at dead bodies before these unearthed corpses are revealed in full, dementedly draped around a tall tombstone as we hear a radio news report about graverobbing. Then there’s a jump cut to oversaturated imagery of sunspots and solar flares, and continued radio news reporting of an oil refinery fire, a suicide, and other disquieting mentions of violence and destruction. We observe armadillo roadkill in the foreground as a Scooby Doo Mystery Machine-like green van drives off in the background, soon to introduce us to our young adult protagonists.

Hooper effectively peppers the picture with portentous bad omen visuals and dialogue, as we listen to repeated horoscope warnings, see Franklin’s photo burned, witness the smeared blood on the van’s exterior, are shown a nest of undulating spiders, and catch glimpses of animal bones strewn about the decrepit cabin.

The filmmakers demonstrate unexpected cinematic savvy, despite the low budget and grindhouse aesthetics. Recall how Hooper sometimes employs a succession of quick cuts to ratchet up a scene, or the famous low-angle shot that tracks Pam from under the swing across the lawn to the front porch.

The director should be applauded, too, for not indulging in cheap titillation tactics. Again, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre contains no nudity or scenes of sexual assault (the latter would have made this film totally unpalatable to many), and the picture only uses mild profanity.

DVD Savant critic Glenn Erickson wrote: “Although constructed to bring out audiences looking for transgressive, gut-wrenching horror, it demonstrates considerable restraint, generating almost an hour of creeping dread without resorting to a single cliché…The Texas Chain Saw Massacre has good filmic architecture in the sense that form follows function. There are no extraneous scenes, filler or sidebar diversions; the camera hones in on the events without a let-up.”

Ponder, too, how Hooper creates surprising sympathy for Leatherface by inserting the shots of this character appearing severely distressed after dispatching with Kirk, Pam, and Jerry, as if he’s thinking, “Why have three strangers invaded my home, and are there any more coming?” We also see Leatherface bullied by his father (listed, simply, as “Old Man” in the credits).

“The feat of “Chain Saw” is to make us empathize with its scariest figure without diminishing the disorienting, teeth-chattering horror. Few movies pull this off,” wrote Jason Zinoman of the New York Times.

One reading of the film is the death of the American dream. Per DVD Savant critic Glenn Erickson: “With the closing of the frontier, the pioneers had no place to exercise their skills in conquering nature. Killing and eviscerating animals to survive had satisfied man's feral needs. Modern life deprives 'atavistic frontiersmen' of basic savagery… when corporate consolidation took away hundreds of thousands of jobs, Middle Americans had to take their dreams elsewhere. The days of a paycheck and a new car every five years were over, and some of the dispossessed turned to the Bible or to survivalist anti-government movements. Chain Saw shows one feral family that has regressed to practicing the pioneer skills it knows best: living off the land.”

Or, perhaps the film is a treatise on predetermined cosmic fate: Consider the solar flare footage shown at the opening, the close-ups of the full moon, the group discussing cautionary astrological predictions, and the ominous radio broadcasts, which relay nothing but bad news and disturbing events.

Hooper and collaborators certainly seem to underscore the consequences of living in violent, pessimistic, disillusioning times. Remember that this picture was made near the end of the Vietnam War and the Watergate scandal. The idealism of the 1960s was long dead. The public distrusted politicians, and the nation felt like a more violent, unkind place. Chain Saw examines the hidden savagery within man and the dangers of tapping into primal instincts—well-trodden subtexts in 1970s cinema.

Surprising to many, this film could actually have a vegetarian political agenda—a “meat is murder” message, if you will. After all, killing cows, pigs and other livestock for mass production of food is a cruel business that none of us want to learn the gruesome details about. While animals suffer and die in a commercialized industry of slaughter, we look the other way. Hooper was quoted as saying of this work: “It’s a film about meat.”

Many also believe The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is also about the usurping of the traditional nuclear family. Makes sense when you ruminate on how Leatherface and his clan represent an affront to our image of a loving and functional clan. Newman posited: “The nameless degenerates (they become the Sawyers in the sequel) are a parody of the sitcom family, with the bread-winning, long-suffering garage proprietor as Pop, the bewigged, apron-wearing Leatherface as Mom, and the rebellious, birthmarked, long-haired hitchhiker as teenage son. The house is a similarly overdone, a degraded mirror of the ideal home.”

Recurrence and déjà vu persist as crucial motifs. “Circularity and repetition are important structural components throughout The Texas Chain Saw Massacre,” according to Slant Magazine reviewer Budd Wilkins. “The fierce red sun that dominates the opening credits is visually matched late in the film by repeated close-ups of red-veined eyeballs. At the level of the plotline, Sally circles back to the Last Chance gas station where she beseeches the Old Man for help, only to have him turn out to be one of the cannibal clan. Later, she runs circles around their rural farmhouse. And the film isn’t afraid to reduce its repetitiveness to absurdity either, as when Sally twice jumps through a window in an effort to elude Leatherface.”

This movie’s greatest gift is arguably the last act. That’s when Sally is chased throughout the woods and the house of horrors by a chainsaw-wielding maniac for what feels like hours, takes refuge in the arms of the gas station attendant who shockingly abducts her and returns Sally to the same dreadful domicile, is held captive, and ultimately evades her tormenters—an unapologetically harrowing series of episodes strung together that form a bravura sequence of sheer terror.

Hooper best demonstrates his skill for scares during the nightmarish 11-minute stretch near the conclusion when Sally is tied to the chair in the dining room and tormented mercilessly by the Sawyer family. Here is where the increasingly distressing shots, blended with an unnervingly shrill sound design and actress Marilyn Burns’ psychologically stabbing screams, create an insufferable sensory experience for the viewer that cements Chain Saw’s deserved reputation for pure, unrelenting horror. Using vertiginously canted angles, extreme close-ups of Sally’s face (particularly her bulging bloodshot eyeballs), POV shots of the three men torturously teasing her, as well as the repugnant mini-segment when she’s bent over a bucket as the cadaverous grandpa attempts to sledge her skull in, the director and his collaborators create a hellscape sequence for the ages. It proves—as does the earlier scene where Leatherface hangs Pam on a meat hook and dices up Kirk with his preferred power tool without showing any actual body penetration or viscera—that you can accomplish a lot more with suggestion a la careful camera placement and clever editing than graphic gore and geek show special effects.

Two other unbelievably startling scenes still rattle viewers with every rewatch. First, there’s the unforgettable earlier sequence where Leatherface suddenly materializes in the doorway and pummels Kirk with a sledgehammer, after which we see Kirk flail about in a death twitch on the floor before his assailant quickly bashes him again and slams the metal door shut. The suddenness of this appearance and the lethal brute force conveyed by actor Gunnar Hansen in this character still steal our breath away. And the second example is the quite effective jump scare of Leatherface suddenly emerging from the darkness and popping out of the bushes with the chainsaw, which he uses to quickly attack Franklin: imagery powerful enough to give us Richter-scale nightmares.

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A silver celebration of The Blair Witch Project

Friday, October 25, 2024

Released 25 years ago in the summer of 1999, The Blair Witch Project stands a quarter century later as a landmark American horror film. Directed by Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sánchez and produced on a shoestring budget of around $60,000 (yet earning nearly $250 million globally), the movie unfolds as a documentary chronicling the journey of three student filmmakers—Heather Donahue, Michael C. Williams, and Joshua Leonard (also the real names of the actors who play these roles)—who explore the Black Hills of Maryland to investigate the legend of the Blair Witch. As they become lost, strange sounds and mysterious phenomena intensify, leading to a terrifying conclusion.

Click here to listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of this film, conducted last week.


This is one of the first examples of the found footage subgenre in which would-be documentary material, supposedly later discovered, is presented, often shot by the actual actors and featuring a shaky handheld camera style. The presumption is that whoever discovered this footage edited it together and released it as a record of what happened to the people who were originally involved.

What’s astounding about The Blair Witch Project is how much it achieves with so few ingredients. There is no graphic violence, blood/gore (except for the contents of a small parcel), physical manifestation of a monster, witch, or entity, cheap shocks or jump scares, or special effects/CGI. Instead, this is a psychological horror movie in which the heavy lifting is done by what’s left to your imagination.

For that matter, there is no real plot or attention-grabbing action. The picture consists early of relatively unexceptional talking head interviews of townsfolk followed by strung-together shots of the principals walking and camping in the woods. The film is carried by three young unknown performers; two of them (Donahue and Williams) had never acted in a movie before. We aren’t given a score to musically punctuate the tone or atmosphere. The ending is abrupt, and there is no resolution: All we know is that these three young adults were never found again. We don’t learn if they were killed or who/what is responsible for their disappearance. The remnants they discover (the twig men, the eerie bundle, the rock piles) remain unexplained, and the legend of the Blair Witch is not demystified in any way.

The film's massive success can be attributed to its groundbreaking marketing campaign, which blurred the distinction between reality and fiction by presenting the footage as genuine and the actors as missing persons. The use of shaky handheld cameras and improvised dialogue added to its raw, unsettling tone, heightening the psychological tension. The Blair Witch Project proved that low-budget, independent films could achieve massive success, and it paved a profitable path forward for future found footage movies. Its emphasis on suspense and the unseen breathed new life into the horror genre in the late 1990s and created a significant cultural legacy.

Of course, this film also frustrated many watchers, many of whom resented the ambiguous ending and expressed serious dislike of Donahue’s character, whom they found to be grating and irksome. Plenty of people were told word-of-mouth that this was a terrifying motion picture yet felt cheated or duped by the end credits, often expressing that they didn’t find it nearly frightening enough. Others resented that The Blair Witch Project was, in their estimation, an art film disguised as mainstream entertainment.

But for the Blair Witch faithful, the picture still works quite effectively, with a verisimilitude that persists as palpable. They admire that the footage looks genuine and amateurish—consistently appearing too shaky, shoddy, and off-the-cuff to be counterfeit, choreographed, or contrived. That realism is a testament to the design of the directors, who relied on the actors to shoot the scenes themselves, without much direction; Myrick and Sánchez mostly remained distant from Donahue, Williams, and Leonard to allow the performances and dialogue to unfold naturally. That’s right: a group of novice filmmakers put blind faith in their three thespians to conjure up the bulk of what constitutes The Blair Witch Project, trusting in them to improvise their scenes and learn how to work the cameras without much guidance.

The actors weren’t faking it, either. They truly were sleeping in the woods for days, utterly exhausted, cold, and aggravated with each other, not privy to the script, and unaware of what the filmmakers were going to unleash upon them.

The film builds tension and fright via the simplest of techniques: eerie off-screen sounds, strange things happening out of the frame but nearby, brief but effective night scenes that are almost completely dark except for the camcorder light, and friction/infighting between the three characters, which puts each of them on edge.

Consider how the concept of being hunted and lost, especially in the woods, is a chilling premise for a horror film. Psycho caused countless viewers to be scared to take a shower. Jaws resulted in millions being afraid to go in the water. The Blair Witch Project made camping and wood-walking a terrifying notion for modern audiences.

The Dissolve essayist Mike D’Angelo summed it up effectively. “The Blair Witch Project is one of the goriest movies ever made," he wrote. "It’s 81 minutes of nerves being slowly shredded before your eyes. The real horror lies in watching Heather, Josh, and Mike gradually turn on each other as their circumstances grow bleaker, until there’s arguably no longer any need for a witch or other bogeyman to torment them. By night, the film is an unconventional horror flick... By day, on the other hand, it’s a harrowing collegiate gloss on Jean-Paul Sartre’s play No Exit, in which three dead souls discover that their eternal punishment consists of being locked in a room with each other. The woods here are just a big, empty room, and the screaming, bickering, and blame-tossing isn’t a grating distraction from the main story. It is the main story.”

“At a time when digital techniques can show us almost anything, The Blair Witch Project is a reminder that what really scares us is the stuff we can’t see. The noise is the dark is almost always scarier than what makes the noise in the dark,” Roger Ebert penned in his 4-star review of the movie.

Similar works

  • Cannibal Holocaust (1980)
  • The Last Broadcast (1998)
  • The St. Francisville Experiment (2000)
  • REC (2007)
  • Cloverfield (2008)
  • The Paranormal Activity movies

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Price + Poe + Corman = colorfully frightful fun

Monday, October 21, 2024

Roger Corman, known by the late 1950s shlock filmmaker extraordinaire for his low-budget horror movies of that era, upped his game considerably with the turn of that decade. Between 1960 and 1964, he churned out his most consistently well-regarded pictures, better known as the Poe cycle: a series of eight horror films based on Edgar Allan Poe's works, distributed by American International Pictures and known for their gothic atmosphere, elaborate set designs, and frequent collaboration with actor Vincent Price. 

The series began with House of Usher (1960), establishing the style with Price as Roderick Usher, followed by The Pit and the Pendulum (1961), adding to Poe's original story. The Premature Burial (1962) starred Ray Milland, while Tales of Terror (1962) presented an anthology of three Poe tales featuring Price, Peter Lorre, and Basil Rathbone. The Raven (1963) took a comedic turn with Price, Lorre, Boris Karloff, and a young Jack Nicholson. The Haunted Palace (1963), though marketed as part of the Poe Cycle, was actually based on H.P. Lovecraft's The Case of Charles Dexter Ward with some Poe elements. The Masque of the Red Death (1964) is highly regarded, blending Poe's titular tale with Hop-Frog, while the final entry, The Tomb of Ligeia (1964), explores a man's obsession with his deceased wife and her potential return from the grave.

It’s not easy adapting Poe’s work for the big screen. The author’s macabre tales are often introspective, moody, atmospheric stories that relay the inner thoughts and emotions of a character and lack action, realistic characters, and dialogue. They’re also usually quite short, lacking enough back story, character development, and subplots to sustain an 80-minute-plus film. One advantage to adapting Poe, however, which also attracted Corman: they are in the public domain and free to tinker with.

Despite low budgets, these films are admired for their atmospheric horror and creative set designs. All explore the repression of sexuality, the disintegration of personality, and the entry of an innocent character into a realm of decay and corruption, from which the innocent prevails. Most include some eerie dream sequence.

What’s the best film in Corman’s Poe cycle? Many cite The Masque of the Red Death (1964), which follows Prince Prospero, a cruel nobleman who worships Satan, as he hosts a decadent masquerade ball in his castle to avoid the plague ravaging medieval Europe. The story unfolds as Prospero becomes fixated on Francesca, an innocent peasant girl, and brings her, along with her lover Gino and her father Ludovico, to the castle. As the ball progresses, mysterious figures appear, including a figure in a red cloak symbolizing the Red Death itself, leading to a darkly poetic conclusion about mortality and morality.
 

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of Masque of the Red Death, conducted earlier in October, click here.


Masque of the Red Death is one of the first Hollywood films to explore satanism, preceded earlier by Val Lewton’s The Seventh Victim. This film had the largest budget (an estimated $1 million) of all the Corman-Poe movies as well as the highest production values and most impressive sets. Much of the elaborate castle scenery was repurposed from the film version of Becket, which had been filmed earlier that year and earned a BAFTA for its set design, along with an Academy Award nomination for Best Art Direction. This movie also marked one of the earliest color films shot by cinematographer Nicolas Roeg. Masque of the Red Death is widely considered the best of the Corman-Poe films, earning a 91% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes, the highest mark among the eight films in this cycle.

This film is replete with themes, including man’s obsession with sex and death, as exemplified by Prospero’s affection for Juliana and Francesca, and his determination to keep the Red Death plague outside his castle walls. Man’s bestiality, hedonistic tendencies, and animal instincts are also explored: recall the mentions of dogs and hounds; the man in the ape suit; Prospero commanding subjects to behave like a pig, worm, or other creature; and the bird-killing falcon.

This film further ruminates on touching as an act of desecration, as exemplified by the white rose that is turned red; the menacing of the prone Juliana by weapons of torture; the bloody hands of the sick, terminal party guests clutching out for Prospero at the end during the dance of death sequence; the poisoned dagger sequence; the satanic cross branding; and the falcon’s attack on Juliana.

The ultimate takeaway is arguably not good vs. evil, however; it’s that death plays no favorites between the two—by the film’s conclusion, only six random survivors are left, and good and evil characters alike have perished.

Colors become an obvious motif. Consider the use of red: the white rose turned red, the two redheaded women, and the incarnation of the Red Death plague itself in the form of a mysterious figure clad in crimson whose victims bleed as a symptom of the disease. In the original tale by Poe, there were seven color-coded rooms in the abbey, arranged from east to west, which are thought to symbolize the journey of life. Each room reflects a stage: blue for birth, purple for youth, green for adolescence, orange for adulthood, white for old age, violet for approaching death, and black/scarlet for death itself. In this adaptation, however, there are only four colored rooms: yellow, purple, white, and black. What they stand for is open to interpretation, although the black chamber is associated with Satan and death.

Some have theorized that the colors of the cloaked figures signify different diseases, with red being anthrax, white for tuberculosis, yellow for yellow fever, orange for scurvy, blue for cholera, violet for influenza, and black for the bubonic plague.

Look more closely and you can spot some subtle Freudian symbolism, as demonstrated by the running of Francesca down an eerie corridor. In an interview, Corman said: “That is very symbolic and extremely important. To me, the corridor is, simply, a vagina. You must set up two things in the movement down the corridor; I think it is a child’s approach to sex, in which he knows there is something great and wonderful out there but that child has also been told by the parents, ‘That’s bad—don’t do that!’ So to recreate that feeling—because I think the sense of horror does have elements of sexuality within it—you go down the corridor, and the audience must be saying to the person—identifying with the person—‘Don’t take another step. Get out of there right now! Don’t open that door! At the same time, the audience must be saying, ‘Open the door. We must see what is behind that door!’ If you set that sequence up correctly, it never fails to generate an emotional response.”

Similar works

  • Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, which also features a dance of death and a mysterious robed figure that stalks and even plays chess with the characters
  • Witchfinder General, also starring Price, featuring an utterly evil, merciless torturer who has women burned at the stake for supposed witchcraft
  • Poe’s short story Hop-Frog, a revenge tale about a dwarf that Corman chose to weave into this tale to pad out the story
  • The story Torture of Hope by Auguste Villiers de I’Isle-Adam, from which a sub-plot in Masque is taken.

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Cineversary podcast celebrates 50th birthdays of Young Frankenstein & Texas Chain Saw Massacre

Thursday, October 17, 2024

Gregory Mank and Kim Newman
In Cineversary podcast episode #75, host ⁠Erik Martin⁠ celebrates the golden birthdays of two classics for the Halloween season. First, he’s joined by author and classic horror historian ⁠Gregory Mank ⁠to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Mel Brooks’ ⁠Young Frankenstein⁠; and then he teams up with horror film scholar and author ⁠Kim Newman⁠ to honor the 50th anniversary of ⁠The Texas Chain Saw Massacre⁠, directed by Tobe Hooper. Erik and his guests provide plenty of discussion treats, with no tricks, examining why these two films are worthy of kudos five decades onward, how they’ve stood the test of time, and more.

To listen to this episode, click here or click the "play" button on the embedded streaming player below. Or, you can stream, download, or subscribe to Cineversary wherever you get your podcasts, including Apple Podcasts and Spotify.

Learn more about the Cineversary podcast at www.cineversary.com and email show comments or suggestions to cineversarypodcast@gmail.com.

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Young Frankenstein doesn't feel old 50 years onward

Wednesday, October 9, 2024


Perhaps the greatest horror-comedy ever made, Young Frankenstein—released nearly 50 years ago in December 1974—stands as possibly Mel Brooks’ finest film and collaboration (the screenplay was co-written by Brooks and its lead actor, Gene Wilder). The movie is both a parody and a loving homage to the classic Frankenstein Universal horror films of the 1930s.

To listen to a recording of our CineVerse group discussion of this film, conducted last week, click here.


The story centers on Dr. Frederick Frankenstein (Wilder), the American grandson of the notorious Victor Frankenstein, who is determined to separate himself from his family's dark legacy by pronouncing his surname "Fronkensteen." However, after inheriting his ancestral estate in Transylvania, Frederick becomes intrigued by his grandfather’s experiments and sets out to bring a dead body back to life. Assisted by the mischievous hunchback Igor (Marty Feldman) and the charming Inga (Teri Garr), Frederick successfully reanimates a creature (Peter Boyle), whose frightening exterior contrasts with his gentle personality. The film follows Frederick as he tries to manage the chaos that ensues. The standout cast includes Cloris Leachman as the mysterious housekeeper Frau Blücher, Madeline Kahn as Frederick’s fiancée Elizabeth, and Kenneth Mars as the over-the-top Inspector Kemp.

Indeed, Young Frankenstein most benefits from excellent casting – this is debatably Wilder’s finest role and performance, and it’s hard to envision any of the other parts played by any other actors than the ones cast in this film.

Wilder’s ability to express a wide array of emotions with dramatic facial expressions, animated gestures, and exaggerated histrionics demonstrates his gift not only for comedy but credible acting. This feels like a role he was born to play. Chris Justice of Classic-Horror.com wrote of Wilder in this role: “There is something hilarious in seeing hypocrisy unfold, especially when it occurs unknowingly and there is no explanation for it. Even more hilarious is when the hypocrite has spent much time previously denouncing what becomes the hypocritical act. His self-conscious melodrama allows him to perfectly play the victim of others' sarcasm and satire, and he revels in being the target of so many comic arrows.”

Feldman, meanwhile, practically steals every scene he’s in and often garners the biggest laughs. Boyle has a challenging assignment here – he has to convey a lot of emotion and ideas nonverbally, remain consistently in character, and also personalize and customize his interpretation of Frankenstein’s monster without turning it into a caricature of itself.

Every actor seems perfectly assigned to their respective role and seems to lend so much more to their part than a substitute actor would. Consider how effortlessly Kahn inhabits Elizabeth the fiancée, bringing a sophisticated charm yet wacky diva energy to this character, or the exaggerated mannerisms and Teutonic speech inflections that Mars imbues within Inspector Kemp. This is one of the best ensemble casting ever for a comedy film. Throw in the fact that you have the luxury of casting in small roles Gene Hackman and Chloris Leachman, who each won acting Oscars two years earlier, and this film becomes a cup runneth over with thespian talent.

Additionally, this is that rare breed of comedy where there is more than one strongly funny female character—three, in fact, who collectively may garner more laughs than the male characters.

This picture also remains evergreen thanks in large part to timeless humor in the form of hilarious set pieces, endlessly quotable comedic lines, and priceless running gags. Examples of the latter include the continuous mispronunciation of Frank-en-STEEN and EYE-gore, the frenzied whinnying of the horses after hearing Frau Blucher’s name spoken, Inspector Kemp’s mechanical arm, Elizabeth’s ridiculous prissiness, and the shifting of Igor’s hump. Unforgettable one-off laughers include the dead hand in the coffin sequence, the sed-a-give charades scene, the freshly dead face of Igor resting on the bookshelf, the dart-throwing episode, the visit to the blind hermit, and, of course, the Puttin’ on the Ritz number.

In a retrospective documentary on the film found on the Blu-Ray, actor Robert Ben Garant comments on the versatility of the comedic characters, noting that roles often get swapped around between straight man and funny person in Young Frankenstein, so that no one personality is always one or the other. For example, Igor is often the film’s comic relief, with his exaggerated expressions, shifting hunchback, and carefree attitude, relying on physical humor and irreverent quips. However, he occasionally shifts to the straight-man role, such as in the "Abby Normal" brain scene, where he remains calm while Frederick becomes frantic, cleverly reversing their typical comedic dynamic. Additionally, The Monster frequently acts as the straight man, using his confusion and innocence to contrast with the comedic chaos around him. However, he becomes the focal point of humor in scenes like the iconic Puttin’ on the Ritz performance, where his exaggerated dancing and singing alongside Frederick transforms a simple homage into a comedic highlight.

This film matters more because there are moments of true poignancy and pathos. This is not a wall-to-wall comedy with a record ratio of jokes per minute like the Airplane movies, and that’s to the picture’s advantage: the filmmakers have to create sympathy for the monster to make him more than one-dimensional, and they’re not relying on pure parody and satire to entertain viewers here. Their goal is to tell an emotionally involving story that’s also filled with plenty of laughs. “Every good comedy needs an engine, and the engine behind Young Frankenstein is the father-son relationship of the monster and Dr. Frankenstein,” Brooks said in an interview, adding “That’s the true love story” in this movie.

Young Frankenstein is an all-ages comedy kids can enjoy--true enough--but it's layered with a special sauce that stimulates adult taste buds. It revels in post-sexual revolution bawdiness and sexual innuendos, which grown-ups appreciate and elevate the comedic potential.

Furthermore, it boasts a showstopper sequence that everyone remembers: the Puttin’ on the Ritz performance. Including this scene was a major risk, Brooks believed, because if it wasn’t prepared and handled carefully, it could have fallen flat on its face. Also, none of the Frankenstein films this was spoofing featured a song-and-dance number, pulling the film away from its source genre. Thankfully, the sequence is a delightful surprise that’s wildly funny and highly entertaining. Wilder had to strongly sway Brooks to film and include this bit, but Brooks now considers it the best scene in the film.

Unlike many of Brooks’ other pictures, this isn’t anchored firmly in the year or era it was made – it isn’t saddled with contemporary pop culture or scatological references, trendy jokes, or zeitgeist characters that by now would have grown dated. Because the old-time horror films it honors remain timeless and classic, Young Frankenstein itself remains timeless and classic.

Consider how this picture is also a sturdy and dependable comedy institution, as demonstrated by the widely held belief that it improves with rewatches. Brooks said in an interview: “When something becomes precious, the replaying of it has more joy and comic effect than the surprise of a new joke. The big jokes are old pals, and you want to see them again.”

Young Frankenstein places high on many “best of” comedy film lists. On the American Film Institute's list of the 100 funniest American movies, Young Frankenstein holds the No. 13 spot. It is also ranked No. 28 on Total Film magazine's readers' "List of the 50 Greatest Comedy Films of All Time" and No. 56 on Bravo's "100 Funniest Movies" list.

Elements that help elevate this film as not only a comedy masterwork but an authentic-looking and sounding work of retro cinema include the brave choice of shooting in black and white, which makes it a more credible tribute to classic horror films and helps it stand out during an era when black and white was very much out of fashion and rarely used in feature-length motion pictures. It’s estimated that only around 35 significant black and white films were made in Hollywood between 1967 to 1974, a period when theatrical releases averaged 150 to 200 per year. That meant that by 1974, merely 3% of feature films were monochrome. And many of these black-and-white movies were independent or smaller productions, as major studios overwhelmingly created color films.

Young Frankenstein achieves an authentic early horror film aesthetic, as well, by incorporating original laboratory equipment from the 1931 Frankenstein, designed and preserved by Kenneth Strickfaden, lending historical accuracy with its iconic electrical devices. The sets, including the castle and lab, are meticulously crafted to evoke the eerie, expressionistic atmosphere of 1930s horror, with high-contrast chiaroscuro lighting. This highlights sharp contrasts between light and shadow, reinforcing a gothic feel, particularly in scenes like the monster’s revival.

The camera work closely follows the techniques of that era, too, using static wide shots, close-ups, and angled compositions to amplify tension.

Additionally, the film employs iris transitions, where shots open and close in a circular pattern, further nodding to the filmmaking techniques of classic cinema.

The movie boasts a tremendous score by John Morris that is sweet, haunting, and foreboding, utilizing dramatic string instruments and violins to evoke longing, loneliness, and mystery. It’s a throwback soundtrack that sounds like it was written 30 or 40 years earlier.

The scenario, look, and characters were all drawn from the first four films in Universal’s Frankenstein cycle, including, chronologically, Frankenstein (1931), Bride of Frankenstein (1935), Son of Frankenstein (1939), and Ghost of Frankenstein (1942). Brooks and company invoke horror brushstrokes found beyond the Frankenstein franchise canvas, however. The Puttin on the Ritz sequence, and how the monster is introduced to and later antagonized by the crowd, recalls the similar Broadway unveiling scene in 1933’s King Kong.

Earlier horror comedies of note that came before Young Frankenstein that it would be compared to include The Cat and the Canary, The Ghost Breakers, Arsenic and Old Lace, Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, Scared Stiff, The Little Shop of Horrors, The Comedy of Terrors, The Munsters, The Ghost and Mr. Chicken, and The Fearless Vampire Killers.

Horror comedies released after the success of Young Frankenstein include The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), Attack of the Killer Tomatoes (1978), Love at First Bite (1979), Saturday the 14th (1981), Student Bodies (1981), Full Moon High (1981), Ghostbusters (1984), Once Bitten (1985), Frankenstein’s Great Aunt Tillie (1985), Transylvania 6-5000 (1985), Haunted Honeymoon (1986), Frankenstein General Hospital (1988), Beetlejuice (1988), Elvira Mistress of the Dark (1988), Killer Klowns from Outer Space (1988), Frankenstein: The College Years (1991), and Dracula: Dead and Loving It (1995), also directed by Brooks.

Make no mistake: Horror comedies have always existed. Per Wikipedia, there were 10 horror comedies tallied in the 1920s, six in the 1930s, 13 in the 1940s, 8 in the 1950s, 16 in the 1960s, 22 in the 1970s, an astonishing 103 in the 1980s, 72 in the 1990s, 105 in the 2000s, and 155 between 2010 and 2020. It’s not a coincidence that the number of mirthful macabre movies spiked significantly in the wake of Young Frankenstein.

Consider, too, that there have been close to 100 films made over the past 114 years that are based on the Mary Shelley novel Frankenstein. After Sherlock Holmes and Dracula, Frankenstein is the fictional character that has been featured in more films than any other.

One last bit of trivia: Igor’s “Walk this way” quote influenced Aerosmith to write their hit rock song with the same title.

Importantly, this movie isn’t trying to mean-spiritedly mock those old Frankenstein pictures; instead, it attempts to evoke the look and feel of those films while also poking gentle fun at some of the tropes, conventions, motifs, aesthetics, and characters of those 1930s movies. For proof of the love and respect that the filmmakers intended, consider the choice to shoot in black-and-white and include some of those original lab equipment props featured in the 1931 Frankenstein movie.

It’s worth noting that, in 1974 when young Frankenstein was originally released, the classic Universal horror movies like Frankenstein and its sequels had for many years prior enjoyed a resurgence on rerun television a la Shock Theater and Creature Feature-type TV repackagings. Also, classic movie monsters remained popular among baby boomers and their children, as evidenced by the popularity of horror magazines, comic books, monster models, and other merchandise. These interests did not suffer after Young Frankenstein was released – in fact, old-time monsters were back in vogue.

That being said, some viewers may find it difficult, after watching Young Frankenstein, to screen the original Frankenstein pictures with an open mind or a patient, tolerant attitude that respects the films in the context of their times.

Although this is a Mel Brooks-directed work, it’s a fairly equal collaboration between him and Wilder, who co-wrote the original screenplay and originated the idea. Some critics and scholars contend that this is Brooks’ most well-paced and restrained film – not quite as silly and zany as some of his other comedies – and that praise should be equally attributed to Wilder. Brooks himself regarded this as his best film as a writer-director.

Per Roger Ebert: “In his two best comedies, before this, The Producers and Blazing Saddles, Brooks revealed a rare comic anarchy. His movies weren’t just funny, they were aggressive and subversive, making us laugh even when we really should have been offended…Young Frankenstein is as funny as we expect a Mel Brooks comedy to be, but it’s more than that: It shows artistic growth and a more sure-handed control of the material by a director who once seemed willing to do literally anything for a laugh. It’s more confident and less breathless…Perhaps Young Frankenstein works the best of all Mel Brooks’s films because Brooks has a clear affection for the originals and has made a major effort to recapture the look and style of the old Frankenstein films.”

Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein cemented Brooks’ reputation as Hollywood’s signature satirist of film genres, in these two cases the western and the horror film. He would go on to spoof cinema made before talking pictures with Silent Movie (1976), Hitchcock films with High Anxiety (1977), historical epics with History of the World Part I (1981), science-fiction features with Spaceballs (1987), and Robin Hood movies with Robin Hood: Men in Tights (1993).

On the cusp of its 50th birthday, one of Young Frankenstein’s greatest gifts is that it proved you could affectionately lampoon a beloved classic, like Frankenstein and its sequels, without skewering it mercilessly over the coals and diminishing those originals in any way. That requires love and respect for the source material and carefully balancing the jokes with proper reverence. A few films released after 1974 that adopted this approach include Shaun of the Dead and Zombie Land—parodies of zombie movies, particularly George Romero-directed films, that seem to hold those earlier zombie classics in high regard—as well as Galaxy Quest (a fairly gentle ribbing of Star Trek) and The Cabin in the Woods (a whipsmart deconstruction of horror clichés that honors the genre, blending humor with a respectful exploration of its themes). Examples of genre spoofs that often take an opposite, more irreverent approach—while still generating copious yuks—include Airplane!, The Naked Gun, Scary Movie, and Tropic Thunder.

Greatest gift #2 is the underrated brilliance of lead actor and co-writer Gene Wilder, who is as responsible for the creation and success of Young Frankenstein as his partner Mel Brooks. His Dr. Frederick Frankenstein quickly pivots from an unruffled intellectual to a peeved patrician to a hysterical idealist who allows his engulfing emotions to trump his innate pragmatism. Wilder never fails to wow as Mr. Wonka, but his embodiment of this manic mad scientist, and the pathos he masterfully wields to capture our attention and elicit a surprising emotional response in the viewer, makes this perhaps his finest and most memorable performance. This is screaming Gene at his very best.

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