Corleone Fever / Curb

God is in the details. Less is more. These are Sondheim's credos, but they apply equally well to "The Godfather."

Look at the opening.

Such a vast drama--and yet we start with a closeup on one person. He's someone we'll see for maybe two minutes total, yet he is among the most important characters in the trilogy. He announces Puzo's themes. Two themes, specifically: tribal clashes and violence against women. He has come to America; he has encouraged his daughter to practice Old World Virtuous Behavior. But--anyway--she has been raped. And the American justice system has failed her. The American police have failed her. The Godfather's response is stunning; it's not, "I feel bad for you." Instead, it's: "You chose their tribe over my tribe." A colony within a nation. The thugs of "The Godfather" are both *of* America and *outside* America. The tension within that statement is the driving force of the story. I can't think of a more economical way for Coppola to lay out these themes.

Like the puppet-master Coppola includes in his logo, Coppola manipulates his characters beautifully. We get short, terse snippets, and that's all we need. We see Sonny's wife making a "THIS big" gesture; Coppola doesn't need dialogue; he doesn't need to tell us that the wife is describing genitalia; we are paid the respect of indirect, subtle storytelling, which makes the experience that much more pleasurable. We see Sonny briefly: He's beating up FBI agents, spitting on dollar bills, shtupping the neighbor lady in a thin-walled bedroom. (We don't need more; we know, quickly, that he's a hot-headed clown. And FBI agents at a wedding-?! A colony within a nation.) We see Michael arriving late; a stranger comes to town; a person who is both *of* and *outside* his family, as his family is both in and outside of America. And Michael's brief story: "Dad offered a contract or a gun; he said, Sign, or your brains will be all over that contract." Another vivid, incisive bit of family lore--and Michael's smirk, and Kay's horror, speak volumes.

Tiny sociological details. The henchman who practices his very simple remarks outside Vito's office--and still fucks up. The elderly man who sings in Italian--like a relic from another, simpler age. "May your first child be *a masculine* child." Such a priceless sentence! What can it even mean? One imagines a transgender child, or a butch lesbian child, entering Vito's life...Ah, see the look on Vito's face! (You sense Coppola running around with the camera, hoping to capture tribal detail, hoping to get as much unusual, beautiful, eccentric behavior as he can--into this grand scene.)

Sonny, to his wife: "Get a handle on the kids, huh?" And the wife: "Why don't you get a handle on yourself?"

This sequence ends the only way it can: Tom Hagen is dispatched on a mission. (Tom, plucked from the streets and molded into something invincible. We sense that Tom is quite a bit stronger than either Carlo or Sonny. We sense that Tom has "seen things"; Duvall captures that steeliness with few words. A Godfather--a puppet-master--can mold a warrior from a lump of clay.) Duvall must exit the Godfather's world for Actual America; he must craft a star, out in Hollywood. When he fails, Old World Values assert themselves: Cross the Godfather, and you'll find the bloodied head of your prized horse tangled up in your satin sheets. New World? Meet the Old World. Is there a more perfect summary of this Corleone family's awkward and fearsome situation on this particular planet?

I didn't get to talk about that word "Godfather"--an invention of Puzo's. A mythic figure--omnipotent--making mischief among men. That term--standard among Italian-Catholics, but also suggestive of an actual god, or demi-god--makes us look upon Brando in awe. He earns the title. "If you don't mind, now, I'd like to attend my daughter's wedding?" Not one moment, not one word is wasted; an entire world is given to us, in one short ceremony.

***

I'm still sort of obsessed with "Curb Your Enthusiasm." Here's a show without meaningful relationships. The characters can't really talk about hopes and dreams; life's minutiae get in the way. It seems to me that the closest thing to a depiction of warmth--in the world of this show--is Larry's bond with his live-in buddy, who helps him with Sophia Loren nudie pix and with the etiquette of tense mail-carrier situations. That said, the show can still feel hypnotic. It's as if David had an inexhaustible list of examples of hypocrisy and ambient rage. And *fresh* examples! The "accidental text on purpose"--where you say something valorous about your lover, and you send the text *to* your lover, pretending that this move is an accident. So then your lover is overcome with admiration, because she believes she has "caught you" being good. The conversation that occurs via scrawled messages on a filthy car: "Blow me," "name the time and place," "[crude illustration of a dick]." (This last bit reminds me of the Amy Schumer sketch where the barista wants to impress the young lady with his latte foam art, until he simply starts "foaming" images of his own genitals.)

I love the doctor who won't expose himself as a doctor on a plane-in-crisis. Minutes later, it's convenient for him to use the "doctor" status (to get out of a golf bet), and so he does. And then there's the woman who stands inches from Larry and watches him try on pants at Nordstrom--though she hasn't asked for permission. We're always lying, or half-lying, to ourselves, and to others, and the profusion of lies makes "gray areas" a relentless fact of life. David has exploited this reality to the fullest; I don't know of many other TV writers with such a cohesive, enveloping, persuasive world view.

More and more, I see "Curb" shaping my own life. (Or: not "shaping." "reflected in.") Recently, at a high-school play, a woman in a wheelchair needed to use the men's room, for reasons unclear. As she waited in the doorway, she blocked access to six or seven empty urinals. A long discussion ensued--involving a security guard and a bystander--along the lines of: "Can't this lady scootch back a few inches and allow access to the urinals?" "What role does/should gender play here?" Yesterday, I became involved in a comically heated debate, via telephone, with a Brooklyn Strategist receptionist--over a missing receipt. Oh, the lies! Oh, the coolly vicious half-formed sentences! (Don't use Brooklyn Strategist. It--and specifically a hopeless manager named "Naidre"--should be boycotted at all costs.) Lit makes us feel less alone. And so: thank you to Larry David.