thomas dunne books.

An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

the godfather effect. Copyright © 2012 by Tom Santopietro. All rights re-
served. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St.
Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com

Design by Phil Mazzone

ISBN 978-1-250- 00513-7 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4299-5262-0 (e-book)

First Edition: February 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 1 Don Vito in Hollywood

I am willing to sacrifice my best scene to make the film better . . .

anything . . . I can always put it back. That’s the difference with
life— you can’t put it back.
—Francis Ford Coppola

When Francis Ford Coppola arrived at Marlon Brando’s home in

late 1970 to shoot a “makeup test” for the actor’s role as aging Mafia
chieftain Don Vito Corleone in The Godfather, he had exactly one
thing on his mind: how to conduct what amounted to a screen test
without insulting the world famous Academy Award–winning ac-
tor. A legend at age forty-seven, the eccentric Brando had acquired
a reputation for causing on-set difficulties and cost overruns, and
with his recent fi lms having tanked at the box office, no one at Para-
mount Pictures wanted a temperamental, box-office-poison has-
been to play the role of “the godfather.” Time after time, Paramount
Pictures executives had vehemently stated that Marlon Brando
would never play the part. Never.
What those executives had not counted on, however, was the
determination of Coppola himself. Along with his co-screenwriter
2 tom santopietro

Mario Puzo, whose 1969 novel had launched The Godfather tidal
wave, Coppola had fi xated on the idea of the brilliant, mercurial
Brando in the title role, and nothing could persuade him to look
elsewhere. Forget Burt Lancaster, Ernest Borgnine, Frank Sinatra,
Anthony Quinn, and every other Hollywood star who had expressed
an interest in the role. For Francis Ford Coppola, budding auteur,
only one actor could fulfi ll the complex requirements of the role.
Now he just had to fi nd a way to fi nesse the test, so that the most
acclaimed fi lm actor of the past thirty years did not realize that he
was being screen-tested for the consideration of Paramount Pic-
tures executives.
It was actually co-screenwriter Puzo who had originated the
idea of casting Brando by sending the actor a handwritten letter
couched in the most flattering of terms: “I think you’re the only ac-
tor who can play the Godfather with that quiet force and irony the
part requires.” Don Vito Corleone would appear on-screen for only
one-third of the movie, but Puzo inherently understood that an actor
of Brando’s strength, one who could dominate scenes and cast a pres-
ence over the entire fi lm, would prove crucial for sustaining mood
and texture throughout.
The battle over Brando—upstarts Coppola and Puzo pitted
against the collective corporate weight of Paramount Pictures and
its parent company Gulf&Western—had dragged on for months.
Even when Paramount studio head Stanley Jaffe reluctantly agreed
to consider Brando for the role (this after he had already told Cop-
pola: “As president of this company, I say that you are not allowed
to even discuss the option of Brando anymore”) he set forth a trio
of potential deal killers :

1. Brando would not receive any up-front salary.

2. Financial responsibility for any delays caused by the actor’s
behavior would remain his alone.
 Don Vito in Hollywood 3

3. Regardless of having won an Academy Award and starred

in no fewer than twenty-six fi lms, Brando would have to
screen-test for the role.

It was with these daunting preexisting conditions in mind that

director Coppola, who admitted to being “scared shitless” of
Brando, now found himself driving up to the privacy-conscious ac-
tor’s home. The camouflaged entrance from the road, designed to
deter overzealous fans, seemed almost symbolic of the torturous
path toward production which lay ahead, and as the director ar-
rived at Brando’s front door, one question loomed ever larger: how
best to wrangle a screen test out of the fi lm legend without induc-
ing a temperamental explosion?
Having set up the fi lming with Brando by telling him that he
simply wanted to test equipment and “get a take” on the character
of Don Vito, Coppola was granted an unexpected gift when the ac-
tor himself allowed as how a brief video in makeup would help al-
lay his fears over his suitability for the role of an elderly Italian
man. (In later years, Brando would claim he knew all along that he
was auditioning.) But—and it was a big but—a test ostensibly made
for Brando’s own reassurance or to check the makeup he envisioned
for the role did not necessarily resemble a screen test suitable to win
over studio executives already searching for reasons to summarily
reject the actor. With all of these problems running through his
mind, the still relatively unknown Coppola stepped through the
front door of the legend’s home and began work.
Cerebral yet highly intuitive, Coppola instinctively understood
the necessity for underplaying all elements related to the “test.”
Knowing the actor’s penchant for privacy and quiet, Coppola had
brought along only a skeletal crew. Setting out a cigar and a few
props of Italian food in order to inject a bit of proper ambience, the
director silently watched as the kimono-clad Brando began stuffi ng
4 tom santopietro

tissues in his mouth to achieve the look and sound he envisioned for
Don Vito. Conceptualizing the godfather as a “bulldog,” Brando used
the tissues to accentuate both a thrusting jaw and a hoarse speaking
voice capable of suggesting the effects of aging. Pulling back his
long dark-blond hair and applying shoe polish to darken his hair
and suggest a moustache, Brando began his metamorphosis into
Don Vito Corleone. Rolling back the collar of the white shirt Cop-
pola had brought along (said Brando: “You know those guys, the
collar is always bent”) and speaking in the gravelly register he felt
accurate for a mobster he decided had been shot in the throat, the
actor began to move around his home, adjusting his body lan-
guage, fi ngering props, and falling deeper into character. Coppola
was hooked— or perhaps more accurately—instantly felt vindicated
by his choice. Here, in the flesh, stood Don Vito Corleone, just as
the director had visualized. Only bigger and better, already a rec-
ognizably complex human being.
When the completed test was replayed, even Brando himself,
often his own harshest critic, was pleased with the results, feeling
that he had successfully captured the look of the aging mafioso—
“mean-looking, but warm underneath.” Now Coppola had to con-
vince the Paramount studio executives to acquiesce to his artistic
vision. With nary a hit to his credit—previous directorial efforts
Dementia 13, You’re a Big Boy Now, Finian’s Rainbow, and The Rain
People had all flopped in the one area that mattered to studios, the
box office— Coppola faced a decidedly uphill task. What he had go-
ing for him, however, was a bulldog tenacity at least the equal of
Don Vito’s own, a nearly frightening intensity of belief in his own
correctness, and for all of his cerebral nature, a certain street cun-
ning and directorial intuition that allowed him to unveil the screen
tests in precisely the fashion that showcased Brando to maximum
effect.
When the time came to show the “makeup test” to studio head
 Don Vito in Hollywood 5

Stanley Jaffe and production chief Robert Evans, Coppola and the
fi lm’s producer, Al Ruddy (who came to call the test “the miracle
on Mulholland”), cannily placed Brando’s test in the middle of
others, thereby heightening its impact. Duly pleased as Evans and
Jaffe were—Evans reportedly asked, “He looks Italian—fi ne. But
who is he?”— it was the reaction of the formidable Austrian-
born Gulf&Western chairman Charles Bluhdorn that assured
Brando’s casting. After sitting through the test, Bluhdorn bluntly
barked: “Who are ve vatching? Who is dis old guinea?” When told
it was Brando, an amused and impressed Bluhdorn signed off on
the casting. In Coppola’s slightly different yet equally compelling
version of that same screening, Bluhdorn “backed away” when he
saw it was Brando, but after watching the actor’s metamorphosis
into Don Corleone, grunted “that’s amazing” and approved the
casting.
Brando in place, further casting continued, and shooting fi nally
began on March 8, 1971. Such was the anticipation of Brando’s per-
formance that in the blitz of publicity undertaken before the fi lm’s
March 1972 release, Paramount heightened the stakes even further
by purposely withholding photographs of the actor in costume and
makeup. The studio knew they had a surefire object of audience
interest on their hands: here was the world’s most famous actor
playing a murderous mobster already familiar to millions of readers
worldwide. What they didn’t know was how the audience would
actually react once they sat through the three-hour fi lm.
Upon the fi lm’s release, the answer came instantly, in the form
of nearly unanimous rave reviews from critics and audiences alike.
Coppola and company had created the rarest of species, a truly adult
blockbuster fi lm; such was the power of Brando’s portrayal that,
when combined with the golden-hued cinematography, era-evocative
production design, and haunting music, viewers across the nation
completely capitulated. They didn’t just like the fi lm, they embraced
6 tom santopietro

it with a fervor that spoke of a desire to enter the very world of the
Corleones—to become guests themselves at Connie Corleone’s
wedding reception. Suddenly, mobsters or not, Italians were no
longer caricatures worthy of derision. They were figures fit for ad-
miration.
Within days of the fi lm’s release, comedians, talk-show hosts,
and even politicians were not just talking about the fi lm—they
were imitating Brando. Jaws thrust forward, voices lowered to
bullfrog register, and incessantly repeating the words “I’ll make
him an offer he can’t refuse” until it grew into an instantly recog-
nizable catchphrase, citizens nationwide were already channeling
their own version of Don Corleone. Poking fun out of both affec-
tion and approval, audiences surrendered to their own visceral re-
action; here was a character they found frightening, admirable,
and— dare they admit it—reflective of their own innermost fears
and desires. In the figure of a Mafia don, Italian-Americans had
suddenly gone mainstream.
With this one fi lm, notions of ethnicity in America had been
upended in rather spectacular fashion. Mobsters these characters
may have been, but in their proud self-assertion, celebration of eth-
nicity, and love of family lay complex, readily identifiable human
beings. For the very first time, Italian-Americans were not just
embracing their own story but telling it on their own terms. In the
wake of The Godfather’s release, it seemed as if the popular Italian-
American aphorism might just be true—there did indeed now
seem to exist two types of people in the world: Italians and those
who wanted to be Italian.
The lasting effect of The Godfather ran even deeper, however, be-
cause in detailing the saga of the Corleones, author and screenwriter
Puzo was examining nothing less than the state of America. His vi-
sion fi lled with an understanding of the fundamental contradic-
tions inherent in all human beings, Puzo’s singular achievement
 Don Vito in Hollywood 7

lay in his ability to celebrate the virtues of the Italian family while
never losing sight of the tragedy lying at the heart of The Godfather
and America alike. What Puzo and screenwriter/director Coppola
delivered—brilliantly—was nothing less than a disquisition on the
madness, glory, and failure of the American dream. In exploring
that dream in distinctly Italian-American terms, they succeeded in
delivering nothing less than the Italianization of American cul-
ture.
Even to those who never particularly cared to be Italian. Espe-
cially to those who had never cared to be Italian.
Like me.