Avanti!

Avanti! (Billy Wilder, 1972) Based on a play by Samuel A. Taylor (who wrote Vertigo and Sabrina), Avanti! has been updated to the Nixon 70's by Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond, as a slightly smutty comedy of manners, where a business-stiff, Wendell Armbruster, Jr. (Wilder muse Jack Lemmon) travels to Ischia, Italy to identify and claim the body of his father (Wendell Armbruster, Sr.). Turns out the son is stiffer than the dead father. He is shocked...shocked!...to find that dear old Dad, who supposedly went to Ischia for the therapeutic baths, was carrying on an torrid affair with a British mistress. This produces a prolonged hissy-fit—Lemmon excelled at these—where everything and everyone seems to be in a conspiracy to make claiming his father's body an unpleasant experience. The idea!

It's a clever idea, actually: Armbruster is such a stifled, constipated American with such a large stick wedged that he can't think of any way but his way in which to do things. And he's in Italy...heck, he's in Europe...which operates on a different clock, and respects things that Americans dismiss nowadays. Like Sundays.
 

And people. 

 

What a "backwards" place.

Before long, if you're anything like me, you start to hate everything American, and want to take an extended vacation...anywhere but in this movie..with this guy! And there's only so much one can take. For gung-ho Americans, it's an extended dig at the Motherland, and for self-loathing liberals, it's preaching to the choir. Either way, it's not an awful lot of fun to watch.

There has always been this quality to the later Wilder films—even The Apartment has it to an extent—a superior attitude that hammers points home far beyond the level of the wood, a decidedly cruel streak given to the characters not yet clued in to their own cluelessness. No empathy. No affection for the character. There's a decided lack of charm imprinted on the Armbruster character (and this from Taylor and Wilder?*) And if I can carry the carpentry metaphor a little further, it makes what could have been an elegant finish look pretty banged up.

What saves the film—setting aside the forward progress of the story and the character of Armbruster—are the performances of Clive Revill as the flusterily accommodating concierge of The Grand Hotel Excelsior, and by Juliet Mills, who plays the mistress' daughter, who has also made the journey to claim her mother's body.

You probably already know what happens, even before you see the film. And that may be why audiences didn't go to see it. That, and it takes so long to get there.  You may have some spark of affection for a retch, but you may not give them too much time, either.

The reason Wilder did this one? Producer-agent Charles Feldman saw it as a play (it ran 28 performances) and bought it for Wilder to make. Feldman, who'd made the disastrous 1967 James Bond spoof Casino Royale, passed away soon after, and Wilder, perhaps out of loyalty and affection for the man who'd given him The Seven Year Itch years earlier, saw it through to the screen. If only more of that grace and affection could have made it into the movie it inspired.

 

* In retrospect, those same charm-less qualities are given to Linus Larabee in Sabrina and the distraught "Scottie" Ferguson in Vertigo.  At points, they are hateful characters, displaying attitudes that challenge an audience.  

Dracula A.D. 1972

Saturday is traditionally "Take Out the Trash" Day.

Dracula A.D. 1972 (Alan Gibson, 1972) Things were pretty darned weird in Merry Olde England back in the early 70's. There were the copy-cat "Clockwork Orange" crimes—allegedly—going on. And then, there was the thing with "The Highgate Vampire." Click on the link for the details, but it involved kids (probably inebriated or just "larking"), some disruptions of graves at Highgate Cemetary, reports of "spectral figures" and two determined publicity-seekers trying to make some sort of names for themselves. Names besides "nutters," that is.

But, the impetus for an "updated" contemporary Dracula film was the relative success of AIP's Count Yorga, Vampire released in 1970. Yorga was set in modern times, had ornate gothic furnishings pulled out of storage for atmosphere, and...pulchritude, something the M-G-M "Dark Shadows" films limited. There's always been predatory sex in the vampire films—you could say, it's in their blood—but Yorga laid it on a bit thick—it was originally envisioned as a soft porn film, which AIP objected to as most of its business came from drive-in theaters. Even after a toned-down filming, it still had to go through six passes from the MPA to get the desired GP rating.

This did not go unnoticed at rival Warner Brothers studio, which had a contract with London's Hammer Studios, who hadn't put out a Dracula movie since 1970. Plans were made to make a new Dracula film, this time—for the first time—set in contemporary times.

Kids. Jessica (Stephanie Beacham), the granddaughter of Professor Lorrimer Van Helsing (Peter Cushing, returning after a long absence from the family lineage), is hanging out with the wrong crowd. Her boyfriend, Bob (Pip Miller) is crushing with this weird character named Johnny Alucard (Christopher Neame, and I know, I know, you already know...) who boozes, drinks, smokes dope, goes to parties with bad rock-bands, and holds satanic rituals. Yes, he holds satanic rituals (which makes a little weed now and then sound therapeutic) in derelict churches. Of which there seem to be a lot in modern times. And as he calls out the spirits of the undead, he asks for volunteers for sacrifice. All I can say is that weed is really good because the most appropriately-dressed-in-black Laura Bellows (Caroline Munro) volunteers.

Bad move, Laura, despite getting some exclusive screen-time. Johnny puts Laura on the altar (always a bad sign!) fills a chalice with ashes (guess whose?), opens a vein and drips his blood into it. Now, the chalice fills up with enough blood to reach the brim, and Johnny Alucard should be passing out losing that much blood, but, no, he's alert enough to chew the scenery with his performance and pour the mixture (which looks like it came from Sherwin Williams) all over Laura, understandably freaking her out.

This is, of course, to mark her for the first victim of Dracula (Christopher Lee), who is revived by the ceremony...much to Alucard's surprise (but then, he might be a little woozy)...and sinks his teeth into Laura's neck, then dump the body at a construction site, where the local constabulary find her. Interesting that she hasn't turned into a vampire in the meantime. Most of the other kids will be turned into blood-suckers throughout the course of the movie, so why Laura doesn't is a curiosity.

Not that Dracula A.D. 1972 is a movie of any great consistency especially, or even a movie with any redeeming qualities at all...save for the performances of Lee and Cushing, who have the great professionalism to never take the movie less than seriously. It's more than a little dumb. Dracula's plan in this is to make Jessica--the last descendant of his arch-enemy, Van Helsing--into his living slave. Not that Van Helsing, who we've learned in a prologue was killed in an encounter with the Count a couple of centuries previously, is in any shape to care. But, it's up to her gramps, Professor Lorrimer Van Helsing, who has been asked by the police for help in the rash of recent vampire killings happening in London, to prevent her from suffering a fate was than death.

Really? Van Helsing has to spell it out for himself (or the audience?)

One suspects he wouldn't be too good at Wordle.

There are, of course, complications as Dracula turns Alucard into a vampire, who wastes no time in biting his pals. And Alucard is appointed point-man in dealing with the old man. But, Johnny's something of an idiotic narcissist...why else would he go by that name (not that Van Helsing is too quick in figuring it out).

One senses that the director is less concerned with showing off his star Christopher Lee

than Stephanie Beacham's breasts.

But, story-logic doesn't seem to be director Gibson's main concern. He seems to more concerned with rapid shooting and getting as much footage into the can. Then, you look at some of his shot choices, and his priorities seem to be in wedging in as much of his female co-stars' anatomies as he possibly can, even to the point of ridiculousness. One spends more time suppressing embarrassed giggles than horrified shivers. Prurient is the word for Dracula A.D. 1972. Prurient...and puerile.

Grandfather Van Helsing only thinks to cover her up until the END of the movie.

Caroline Munro, Stephanie Beacham, Marsha Hunt and Janet Key love the publicity.

But Christopher Lee does not look happy...at...all.

Fat City

There's going to be a Lambcast recorded this weekend for a much-beloved John Huston film, and I've been reading up on Huston to get ready for it. I have a "Now I've Seen Everything" feature on the director (in two parts) that might be perused. And there's little orphan of a review for an orphan of a movie that too many people have forgotten, but I think is a great Huston film.

Fat City (John Huston, 1972) Fat City got a lot of positive critical attention when it came out in '72 and one sees why. It must have been surprising for a lot of critics that, after a couple of movies (The Kremlin Letter, Sinful Davey, A Walk with Love and Death) that seemed to be desperate to reach a youth market or cater to the looser restrictions on subject matter, that the veteran director could still pull off a gritty down-on-your-heels story and make something new out of it—the old dog still had some tricks up his sleeve, and could do a change-up of genre and tone and come up with something as impressive as the young turk's starting to enter the field, like Friedkin and Coppola.  

But it shouldn't have surprised anybody.  Huston was a gambler by trade and by hobby, and was never afraid of taking on different approaches to telling a story. Sure, he could take a misstep here and there, especially when he tried to do something "of the times," rather than in his own perennial classicism.  It was always story for Huston, and he was never afraid to take things in complex directions.

Fat City is a tale of two boxers—Tully (Stacy Keach) and Ernie (Jeff Bridges) one on the way up and one on the way down, but the only difference between the two, career-wise, is in the timing.  Ernie is in the early rounds of the bout, all puppyish energy and vigor. Keach's Tully is in the later stages of the fight, battered, bruised, and tired, having known defeat and the occasional victory, always just out of reach of a right jab. When we first encounter them, Ernie has yet to have his first professional fight.

Tully is a couple years out of the ring, barely subsisting. He's scarred over, but that hardening of tissue, mostly keeps the sense-memory of past victories ringing in his head. Both mean are trying to get into the ring, one with no way of knowing what will come when he's in it, and the other all too aware of the toll it will take...but, anything is better than his current situation. As it's said in The Shawshank Redemption, you either gotta get busy living or get busy dying. In this case, living is fighting. And for the older pugilist, there's still some fighting to be done, rounds to go before he sleeps.

Huston has had many great male performances under his direction, from such as Bogart, Gable, Clift, Brando, Connery, Finney, but I don't think I've ever seen a better performance in one of Huston's films than Stacy Keach in this.* In whatever you've seen him in, nothing prepares you for the internalized pain that Keach conveys in every aspect of his performance. And there's one moment that will stay with me for the rest of my life. During the fight-centerpiece of the film, when Tully makes his comeback, he's knocked to the canvas, but never counted out. He spends an interminable nine seconds on his knees and elbows, head hanging—and there's a moment, a long moment, when you wonder if he's going to get up—if he even wants to get up. Then, he rolls up into a rickety stance to complete the last few seconds of the round. The fighters retreat to their corners and Keach sprawls on his stool, as the cut-men treat a bleeding gash over his left eye.

Huston stays on Keach's face, and there is no expression on it—none. So, you go to his eyes, which are dead, betraying no light and no spark. There may be nothing going on in his mind except the most primal reptile instincts to survive; his head is a black hole, nothing leaves, and there may be nothing to leave.  He's a shell, hollow and broken. That look will show up again in the film, as a final note, lacking in grace, the soundtrack empty, giving a brief glimpse of death, a living one, yes, but a death that still haunts.

Keach in Huston's Fat City

 

* Everybody is good in this, but one should also note Susan Tyrrell's feisty, free-wheeling performance of a drunk bar-fly that is on par with Keach's and feels so real you want to throw up your hands and give up.

Rage (1972)

Saturday is traditionally "Take Out the Trash" Day.

Rage (George C. Scott, 1972) Actor George C. Scott has only three directing credits for film: his TV-movie of "The Andersonville Trial" (a play in which he starred on Broadway), the controversial 1974 The Savage is Loose (which he ended up distributing himself), and this film—the only one he directed for a major distributor (in this case, Warner Brothers). All of his work behind the camera occurred in the period between 1970 and 1974, the time when he was most associated with the film Patton, for which he won the Best Actor Oscar (which he famously refused to accept).

 

Those who admired his Patton work with its strong military theme, must have subsequently been surprised when encountering this film, as it's decidedly anti-military and anti-medical establishment, and then ups the ante on its revenge scenario plot until its protagonist fits the definition of "terrorist." So, how does all this start?

Rancher Dan Logan (Scott) and his son (Nicolas Beauvy) are sleeping outside watching their sheep-herds when a helicopter passes over their location. There's a military base near-by and Logan doesn't think anything of it—as long as the craft isn't flying so low it doesn't scatter the flocks. That night, Logan sleeps in the tent, while his son sleeps outside to watch the stars. It is a calm night, but, with the dawn, comes the nightmare.

The sheep in the field are all dead and his son is unconscious and bleeding from the nose. Logan gathers up his son and makes a mad dash to the local hospital, where the two are separated and emergency techs start working on his son. Logan's doctor, Caldwell (Richard Basehart) is called, and finds that the hospital is buying time while they try to diagnose what's wrong with the Logan kid. Logan himself is confused, as he's being held at the hospital, won't be allowed to see his son or go home, and is getting no information other than a "be patient" dismissal. He tells Caldwell to find out what he can.

That's not going to happen. The truth is Logan's son is dead, killed by an accidental release of a nerve agent from one of those passing military helicopters. The military, for their part, regret it happened, but—making lemonade out of nerve gas—see it is as an opportunity to study its effects on humans, under the supervision of Drs. Spencer (Barnard Hughes) and Holliford (Martin Sheen). Logan is being watched and will never be released from the hospital. But, his frustration grows, and before long, he starts to take action on his own.

His first act is to find his son, but can't find him in any of the rooms, but ultimately ends his search where all searches end—in the morgue. Logan is devastated, and he escapes from the hospital, vowing revenge. First, he goes to a military hardware store to buy a gun.

For the most part, Scott's movie is competent, but problematic. The acting is all fine. Most of the actors have worked with Scott before, whether he was directing or co-acting with them—Basehart and Sheen from "Andersonville" and Paul Stevens and Stephen Young from Patton, and Hughes and Robert Walden from The Hospital. It does have some peculiarities to the early 70's that were "of the time" and are not so much in evidence today. The most prominent of which is the use of slow-motion. Sam Peckinpah rather artfully brought it to the fore with The Wild Bunch (and subsequent films), with which he would tweak action sequences by putting in frames to call attention to something that might be missed in frenetic multi-camera set-ups—sometimes, things just happen to fast in those action sequences, and Peckinpah knew when to just take a moment and focus on an aspect.

Scott is not so subtle a film-maker, and his choices to call attention to are off. An early shot of Logan spitting a loooong stream is a case in point. Sure, it's a fast action that a normal 24 frames per second shooting speed might not do "justice" to, but...an entire shot of it? He might be technically proud of either 1) the expectoration, or 2) the cinematographer (Fred J. Koenekamp—from Patton) being able to track it, but as far as importance to the story, it's just not important. Likewise, a shot of a soon-to-be-a-distraction cat jumping onto a sofa might be too quick to notice with slo-mo, but it takes away from the pace of a very tense scene. Peckinpah would have given it a few frames and dumped the rest. Scott gives us the whole thing.

 

It's always interesting to see what fine actors will do behind the camera for good (George Clooney, Kevin Costner, Robert Redford) or ill (Gene Wilder, Walter Matthau, Marlon Brando) whether they'll be genuine story communicators, or merely an extension of the "look-at-me" aspect of their careers. Scott was great with actors. His story-telling left something to be desired.

Solaris (1972)

Solaris, aka Солярис (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1972) Solaris* has often been called "The Russian 2001," presumably because its pace has been deemed similar to Kubrick's Space Odyssey, in that it ignores dramatic pacing in favor of environmental naturalness.

Well, it isn't true, of course. For me, Kubrick's movie moves like a bat out of Hell—it just doesn't engage in the dramatic short-hand that we've become accustomed to in movies: Entrance/Declarative Sentence/Oppositive Expansion/Response (and can we do that faster, please?).

And while it is true that neither does Tarkovsky's Solaris, the Russian director moves his film at a glacial pace, with little interest in "moving things along," engaging in a visual obtuseness that communicates metaphorically rather than directly—which takes time. And while Kubrick has a whole Universe to play around with (and let's include Space/Time in that), Tarkovsky keeps us to two places (with an extended travelogue through Japan's futuristic—in 1972—highway system, standing in for The Future: the dacha of Astronaut/Psychiatrist Kris Kelvin (Donatas Banionis) and the scientific research station floating above the water-planet Solaris.

Earth fears that the station has become an Orbiting Dutchman, its crew beset by an unexplained madness, because of the reports of returned Astronaut Henri Berton (Vladislav Dvorzhetsky). After talking to Berton (and saying good-bye to his elderly father who will probably not be alive by the time he returns) Kelvin goes to the ship and finds it in a shambles, with one crew-man dead, and the other two deranged, seeing visions that he has glimpses of, as well. Meanwhile, down below, the waters of Solaris are churning.

Kelvin wakes up after a fitful sleep to find his wife in bed with him.  His wife (Natalya Bondarchuk). His late wife. His late wife, due to suicide many years before. The confrontation of such a finality with its apparent re-emergence as reality convinces Kevlin that Solaris, the planet, is working on him, sucking his thoughts and using them against him. He fights back, luring his wife into a launch vehicle and sending her...somewhere, anywhere but here. A pointless extreme gesture, as she comes back, a new version, to haunt him again, more complete, with neuroses and suicidal tendencies intact. You can't fight The Old Feelings, especially when they're being used against you. Especially when they're yourself...out of your control.

The style and pace...and just plain "WTF-factor"...do recall the Star-Gate and human-cage sequences of 2001, in that they disorient in such a way as to leave you a bit adrift and dis-associated with what is happening on-screen ("I can't trust what I'm seeing because I don't know what's going on"—mirroring Kelvin's predicament). This weightlessness of the mind makes Solaris a tough slog, but that it keeps bringing up questions long after its viewing, places it in the same Heaven as Kubrick's "Shaggy God Story" (as critic John Simon dubbed it), and although Solaris may not be "The Ultimate Trip," it might be "The Ultimate Head-Trip."

* This review refers to the Russian version of Stanislaw Lem's novel, not the 2002 remake directed by Steve Soderbergh and starring George Clooney.

The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid

The Great Northfield, Minnesota Raid (Philip Kaufman, 1972) Genre-busting western (following two years after the similarly revisionist Little Big Man) by Philip Kaufman back in his wild indie days about the splintering of the Younger-James Gang, due to their most notorious crime, the theft of Northfield's First National Bank, "the biggest bank west of the Mississippi." Starring Cliff Robertson and produced by Robertson's production company, the film was obviously massaged as a vehicle for Robertson, if not for the fact that Robert Duvall makes the most of the weirder, more psychotic role of Jesse James, cutting through his scenes like a murderously sharp scythe through prairie wheat. By comparison, Robertson has the more central, but goonier role of Cole Younger—distractedly visionary outlaw cursed with an eye toward "wonderments" and other bright objects that tended to throw him off-task.

The world is on the cusp of change—one of those "wonderments" is a steam-powered organ that proves to be both a blessing and a curse to the Younger-James Gang's ability to fight authority, rob banks, and line their pockets in the process. Jesse can't be bothered with "wonderments;" they get in the way of his "visions" for their exploits, which come upon him in nearly incomprehensible rants. Cole, however, always wonders how the outskirts of the Industrial Revolution can make their burgling business a little easier (he sports a brine-soaked leather vest to protect him from bullets).* Pretty soon, they'll move from banks to trains and the stakes will get that much higher. But for the moment, their targets are stationary, and their tactics not unknown to today's white-collar criminals.**

That it was also the beginning of the end for the gang, with Northfield's populace turning on the bandits during the course of the prolonged robbery, ending their "Robin Hood" reputations, and leaving a couple of the gang dead in the street, shot by civilians. The romance with the criminals would go on (so long as they were dead and not stealing town-folks' money anymore) in fictional pulps (and Cole Younger would survive and go on the lecture circuit...yes, really), but the West changed around them as so many of these "sunset" Westerns of the 70's were showing, making them legends...and you have to past your prime (or dead) to be that. Kaufman's take on it is intermittently fun, long on ideas, but short on entertainment.

* Jesse could be seen as the evangelical, and Cole the scientific , world-views. No wonder they broke up. Jesse died 2 1/2 weeks before Charles Darwin died.

** Before the raid, they prime the pump by encouraging stories of the bank's safety, driving up deposits to ensure they make away with a huge haul. They could work for Enron!

Don't Make a Scene: The Godfather

The Story: You've seen The Godfather, sure you have.

But, you probably don't remember this scene. Because it's not in it. Oh, it's in the book (where it first haunted me), it was put in the screenplay, filmed and edited, but ultimately, this was cut from the film. 

You have to be brutal in movies in the editing stage, especially as they approach the four hour mark. This scene was probably cut because it was superfluous—it gives us information we already know, like Michael's estranged from his father, that he was in the war—and the character of Don Corleone's former consigliere Genco Abbandando is dying, and we will never see him or acknowledge him (much) for the rest of the movie (although he'll be around as a younger version (played by Frank Sivero) in The Godfather, Part II). Superfluous. Plus, taking out this scene creates a through-line between talking about the Johnny Fontaine situation and its resolution, which is where we first see the power and reach of The Godfather on display in the movie. Here, we're merely given superstition by a frightened old man. We didn't need to see this expression of respect, we'd seen examples all through the previous wedding sequence.

Comparatively, Genco has the easiest of gangster deaths—in bed, by disease or natural causes, as opposed to being gunned down or garotted as we will see many examples in the film. By contrast, Don Corleone—3/4 of the movie later will die by himself, alone, cut down by a heart attack with no one the wiser.

The Story: It is the day of the Godfather's daughter's wedding—a day on which he (Marlon Brando) can refuse no request. That's a lot of work, cloistered in his den, with officials to bribe, toughs to rub out, Hollywood execs to be blackmailed. A Godfather's daughter's wedding day is never done. However, there is one family guest not at the wedding. It is Genco (Franco Corsaro), the Don's Consigiliere—a post now assumed by Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall)—who has served his Don...well, now...and at the hour of his death. And, for the first time today, it is the Don who must pay his respects.

Action. 

(A word of explanation: the source for this scene is from the March 29, 1971 draft, and there have been re-writes and deletions and some edges taken off lines. Deletions are crossed out, often replaced by the lines as spoken. I've included the line previous from the scene for context of its placement.)

DON CORLEONE No, give him a living. But never let him know the family's business. What else, Tom?

HAGEN I've called the hospital; they've notified Consiglere Genco's family to come and wait. He won't last out the night.

HAGEN The hospital called.

HAGEN Consigliere Genco...he's not going to last out the night. 

This saddens the DON. He sighs. 

DON CORLEONE Genco will wait for me. Santino, tell your brothers they will come with me to the hospital to see Genco. Tell Fredo to drive the big car, and ask Johnny to come with us. 

SONNY And What about Michael? 

DON CORLEONE All my sons. 

(to EXT DAY: MALL (SUMMER 1945) 
Silence. 
HIGH ANGLE ON THE MALL, late day. The GUESTS are gone. A single black car is in the courtyard. FREDDIE is behind the driver's seat:

the DON enters the car, looks at MICHAEL, who sits between SONNY and JOHNNY in the rear seat. 

DON CORLEONE Will your girl friend get back to the city all right? 

MICHAEL Tom said he'd take care of it. 

The DON pulls the door shut; and the car pulls out, through the gate of the great Corleone Mall.

INT DAY: HOSPITAL CORRIDOR (SUMMER 1945) 
A long white hospital corridor, at the end of which we can see a grouping of FIVE WOMEN, some old and some young, but all plump and dressed in black. 

DON CORLEONE and his SONS move toward the end. 

But then the DON slows, putting his hand on MICHAEL's shoulder. MICHAEL stops and turns toward his FATHER. The two looks at one another for some time. 

SILENCE. DON CORLEONE then lifts his hand, and slowly touches a particular medal on MICHAEL's uniform. 

DON CORLEONE What was this are all these Christmas ribbon for? 

MICHAEL For bravery. 
DON CORLEONE And this? 
MICHAEL For killing a man. 

DON CORLEONE What miracles you do for strangers. 

MICHAEL I fought for my country. It was my choice. 
DON CORLEONE And now, what do you choose to do? 

DON CORLEONE Just a minute, Michael. I want to talk to you.

DON CORLEONE What are your plans when you get out?

MICHAEL I'm going to finish school. 

DON CORLEONE Good. That's fine. I approve. 

DON CORLEONE Michael, you never come to me, as a son should. You know that, don't you? When you are finished, come and talk to me. I have hopes for you. But when you've finished school, I want you to come talk to me. I have plans for you.

DON CORLEONE You understand?

MICHAEL Si.

Again they regard each other without a word. MICHAEL turns, and continues on. DON CORLEONE watches a moment, and then follows. 

INT DAY: HOSPITAL ROOM (SUMMER 1945) 

DON CORLEONE enters the hospital room, moving closest to OUR VIEW.

He is followed by his SONS, JOHNNY and the WOMEN. 

DON CORLEONE (whispered) Genco... 

DON CORLEONE Genco...

DON CORLEONE I've brought my sons to pay their respects. 

DON CORLEONE And look, even Johnny Fontaine, all the way from Hollywood. 
GENCO is a tiny, wasted skeleton of a man. DON CORLEONE takes his bony hand, as the others arrange themselves around his bed, each clasping the other hand in turn. 

GENCO Godfather, Godfather, it's your daughter's wedding day, you cannot refuse me. 

GENCO Cure me, you have the power. 

DON CORLEONE I have no such power...

DON CORLEONE ...but Genco, don't fear death. 

GENCO (with a sly wink) It's been arranged, then? 

DON CORLEONE You blaspheme. Resign yourself. 

GENCO You need your old Consigliere. Who will replace me? (suddenly)

GENCO Stay with me Godfather. Help me meet death. If he sees you, he will be frightened and leave me in peace. 

GENCO You can say a word, pull a few strings, eh? We'll outwit that bastard as we outwitted all those others. (clutching his hand) 

GENCO Godfather, stay with me. 
DON CORLEONE I will...
GENCO Don't betray me. 
DON CORLEONE No...

The DON motions all the others to leave the room. 

They do. 

He returns his attention to GENCO, holding his hand and whispering things we cannot hear, as they wait for death. 

The Godfather

Words by Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola

Pictures by Gordon Willis and Francis Ford Coppola

The Godfather is available on DVD and Blu-Ray from Paramount Home Video.