Yes, that’s right: I reach for The Godfather.
Somehow, though, it’s never enough. After sitting through all 175 minutes of the first Corleone family saga, I find myself reaching for Godfather Part II, and it’s usually about 156 minutes into Francis Ford Coppola’s deeper-and-darker sequel that my wife decides to take matters into her own hands and wrenches the VCR remote from my clutching paw.
"How many times can an adult male watch that movie?" she wants to know, flipping the channel to Fashion Emergency. Implied in her question is a sub-question, one familiar, I’m sure, to countless other women out there:
What’s the deal with guys and The Godfather?
To this, I can only offer my own humble counter-question:
What’s the deal with chicks and chick flicks?
I’m not trying to start a sex war here, certainly not about something as trivial as movie-viewing choices. But there are big differences between what women and men will watch repeatedly.
Women will watch le cinema de Meg Ryan over and over, whether or not this practice is healthy for them.
Women will watch films that explore relationships between mothers and daughters, whether or not Goldie Hawn, Barbara Hershey or Bette Midler are in the cast.
Women will watch movies about empowered women, or at least the illusion of empowerment, as long as there is some Carly Simon or Sarah MacLachlan music on the soundtrack.
And men? Men will watch The Godfather, or just about any Martin Scorsese film made before The Age of Innocence, or just about any Tom Cruise movie (even that whacked-out Vanilla Sky).
So what does this movie about an Italian-American crime family have to offer the average male? Well, set aside the outstanding acting by Brando, De Niro, Pacino, Caan, Cazale and Talia Shire. Never mind the beautiful Rembrandt-inspired lighting and composition of Coppola’s film. Fugeddabout the brilliant spaghetti-cooking lesson during the "go to the mattresses" scene.
What this 1972 film offers is best summed up by Tom Hanks’ character in You’ve Got Mail: "The Godfather provides the answer to every major question in life." That’s right, ladies: it’s the I-Ching of Mafia movies.
You need advice in managing your career? "It’s not personal, it’s strictly business," says Michael Corleone before taking over Moe Green’s casino.
Need fatherly wisdom? "A man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man," observes Don Corleone.
Need a quick lesson in history? Listen to Michael again: "If history has taught us anything, it’s that anyone can be killed."
But what really fascinates males about the Godfather movies, I would suspect, is the power wielded by the Corleone family. That and the level of violence, which is about as American as baseball. In a way, the Corleones are comic-book superheroes for adult males. Kids may groove on Spider-man, X-Men, Batman or other action heroes, but who needs red tights when you can make a phone call and somebody wakes up with half a horse in their bed?
The Godfather and its sequel offer a fantasy of power, and what is Hollywood but a fantasy factory? Whether it’s the fantasy of power or the fantasy of romance, audiences want what generally eludes them in real life. At the very least, they want a connection. And maybe that begins to explain the spate of chick flicks out there these days.
How do you know you’re watching a chick flick? One clue is that most of the cast is female, and they’re not wearing wet T-shirts. Another clue is that the film explores relationships between women – between mothers and daughters, siblings and friends, generations and generations. There’s often a quilt, a beach, a fried green tomato, or some other metaphorical object at the heart of the movie, something to suggest interwoven lives, bonding and unity. And there’s crying. Got to be crying, lots of crying.
Certainly one of the earliest specimens of chick flickdom was Steel Magnolias (1989), a film that had most of the staples of the genre, and then some. With names like Daryl, Dolly, Julia and Sally in the cast, you know this isn’t a Tarantino film. To up the ante a bit, there’s a lingering death scene at the end, and then it’s wet-hanky time.
Now, I have nothing against movies that shamelessly have women reaching for the Kleenex box, but I feel enough is enough. There’s been a virtual explosion of chick films of late, with a noticeable drop in quality. From pioneer chick fests such as Terms of Endearment (1983) and Thelma and Louise (1991), to recent market-driven tearjerkers such as Stepmom and Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, there seems no end in sight. The genre has even split along racial lines, with movies like Soul Food and Waiting to Exhale appealing primarily to African-Americans, The Joy Luck Club exploring Asian sisterhood, and other ethnic groups following behind. (Some wonder if films like When Harry Met Sally or Sleepless in Seattle qualify as chick flicks. My answer is, while they do star Meg Ryan, and both scripts were written by a woman, these two are primarily "date movies" for heterosexuals.)
Another main feature of the chick flick is an absence of sympathetic male characters. I call it the "Men Bad, Women Good" syndrome. While you are apt to find at least one nice guy in a chick film, he is likely to be long-suffering and genial beyond the normal capacity of human males.
The main thing a chick film wants to elicit is empathy. Female audiences can identify with female characters’ problems. It’s not rocket science, really. And this gets to the heart of a major difference between men and women. Psychologists say what women usually want is empathy or understanding from guys, while what guys usually want is to find a quick solution to the woman’s problem. Thus, guys are more likely to enjoy a film where problems have concrete solutions, such as Mission Impossible, as opposed to something like Steel Magnolias, where everybody stands around a bed weeping for a long time. Again, it’s not rocket science.
But wait a minute, I hear some women objecting at this point: Doesn’t The Godfather feature intergenerational relationships, sibling rivalry, weddings, and even – gasp! – a whole lot of male weeping during its three-hour length? What about that, Mr. Man?
Well, yes, it’s true. Who can forget Fredo, blubbering like a baby after Don Corleone is gunned down in the street? Or Cousin Johnny crying like a little girl because he doesn’t get the big Hollywood part? And what about the Don himself, weeping openly over Sonny’s bullet-riddled body? ("Look what they did… They massacred my boy!") Hell, astute chicks will point out, The Godfather is nothing but a three-hanky soap opera, Mafia-style.
Except with one crucial difference.
It’s about guys.
And does this observation qualify me for caveman-status, huddled away in some dark hole by the flickering firelight? Fine by me, I say. Just as long as there’s a VCR hookup and a copy of my favorite movie nearby.