"If I say I love him, you might think my words come cheap." The ever-neurotic, ever-cerebral Marvin wags his finger at trite sappy love language within his own sappy love song. Form underlines content: "I halt, I stammer," sings Marvin, while actually halting and stammering. Details spell out the extent of his love; he doesn't need to use the actual word; the image of him struggling to hold down breakfast, willing himself to stay calm, fighting to "untie" a tongue--this image does the work. (The "untied tongue" picks up language from earlier in the song, when the love-addled Marvin found himself almost unable to tie a shoe.)
The big climax of the song is a metaphor: "Can you tell I have been revised?" Like a late, fresh draft, Marvin is new and improved. The song provides the evidence; we (generally) haven't heard Marvin this quiet, or this reflective, earlier in the show. Overcome with emotion, Marvin cuts himself off; form underlines content; "damn it," says Marvin, wrestling with his own feelings, and then he wills himself to go on.
Recently, Helen Mirren said in an interview that acting isn't about what happens on the outside; it's the inner experience of the performer that is compelling. We can sense and make inferences based on tiny, almost imperceptible changes within the actor's heart. I think that's especially true of Christian Borle's performance in "Falsettos." It was so subtle, you missed a great deal if you weren't sitting in the first few rows. But watch him in the clip below. (I can't get enough of the clip below.) Have you ever seen another actor more clearly "living" the words as they come out of his mouth? The speaker wants to repress, to self-edit, to make jokes--and, still, his love bubbles up and out for the audience. Drama and emotional impact come from a desire to practice restraint, to stay calm, to keep the tongue untied--a battle fought and, finally, lost, in the course of this moving song.
https://www.google.com/search?q=christian+borle+what+more+can+i&oq=christian+borle+what+more+can+i&aqs=chrome..69i57.3937j0j4&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8
***
The character I love most in the first two "Godfather" movies is Connie. She has a distinct, gripping coming-of-age story--and it's told almost incidentally, in the gaps and cracks within Michael's story. Blink and you'll miss it. Talia Shire earned exponentially more money for the second movie than for the first; literally, there's a difference of orders of magnitude. She also earned not one but two Oscar nominations--one for "Godfather II" (despite the fact that Diane Keaton had a flashier role), one for "Rocky." Shire starts as a child. She believes she deserves her beatings from Carlo, perhaps because she has studied the ways her father and brothers treat women. She even seems to "get off" on the dysfunction; there's a thrilling, uncomfortable sense of addiction in the big brawl scenes, as one partner goads on the other.
After the murder of Carlo, Connie has the chutzpah to confront her brother and state the truth: "I know you had him killed." (Here, we sense there's some hope for Connie.) And then she begins a period of understandable, grotesque self-indulgence; it's difficult to like her at this time, but it's easy enough to love her. Her will to live unveils itself in various ill-advised affairs--with, for example, Merle. But the death of Mama Corleone brings her back to Earth. In a startling reversal, she declares her intention of becoming a chaste Earth Mother, tending to Michael, preparing the meals. (This is like a perverse parody of a Bildungsroman; in the final, moving scenes, Connie is of course, unintentionally, declaring her plan to become a Handmaiden to Evil.)
Connie's story becomes a vehicle for commentary on so many matters in this world. It's the husband's "job" to brutalize the wife; to speak up is to "interfere." The greatest sin, in Michael's eyes, is to neglect one's children (but we don't actually see Michael spending quality time with his own kids; that job seems to belong to Uncle Fredo). A woman, in this world, can still rebel, ever so slightly, and we see signs of Connie's old spirit in her treatment of Kay; even after Kay's banishment from the world of Michael, Connie insists that Michael, Jr., give his mother a hug. He dilly-dallies; she becomes more adamant, though the clock is ticking and Michael, Sr. could appear at any moment. This is a quietly heroic move, and I love that the camera lingers over it, and I love that it generates as much tension, oddly, as a Senate hearing. This is a world where the women's roles are as fraught and screwy as the stuff that confronts the boorish men. It's part of Coppola's greatness--largely through the character of Connie--to notice and underline all of that.
P.S. I'm off on my honeymoon! Blog on hiatus. Back in early January. See you then and Happy Christmas!
The big climax of the song is a metaphor: "Can you tell I have been revised?" Like a late, fresh draft, Marvin is new and improved. The song provides the evidence; we (generally) haven't heard Marvin this quiet, or this reflective, earlier in the show. Overcome with emotion, Marvin cuts himself off; form underlines content; "damn it," says Marvin, wrestling with his own feelings, and then he wills himself to go on.
Recently, Helen Mirren said in an interview that acting isn't about what happens on the outside; it's the inner experience of the performer that is compelling. We can sense and make inferences based on tiny, almost imperceptible changes within the actor's heart. I think that's especially true of Christian Borle's performance in "Falsettos." It was so subtle, you missed a great deal if you weren't sitting in the first few rows. But watch him in the clip below. (I can't get enough of the clip below.) Have you ever seen another actor more clearly "living" the words as they come out of his mouth? The speaker wants to repress, to self-edit, to make jokes--and, still, his love bubbles up and out for the audience. Drama and emotional impact come from a desire to practice restraint, to stay calm, to keep the tongue untied--a battle fought and, finally, lost, in the course of this moving song.
https://www.google.com/search?q=christian+borle+what+more+can+i&oq=christian+borle+what+more+can+i&aqs=chrome..69i57.3937j0j4&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8
***
The character I love most in the first two "Godfather" movies is Connie. She has a distinct, gripping coming-of-age story--and it's told almost incidentally, in the gaps and cracks within Michael's story. Blink and you'll miss it. Talia Shire earned exponentially more money for the second movie than for the first; literally, there's a difference of orders of magnitude. She also earned not one but two Oscar nominations--one for "Godfather II" (despite the fact that Diane Keaton had a flashier role), one for "Rocky." Shire starts as a child. She believes she deserves her beatings from Carlo, perhaps because she has studied the ways her father and brothers treat women. She even seems to "get off" on the dysfunction; there's a thrilling, uncomfortable sense of addiction in the big brawl scenes, as one partner goads on the other.
After the murder of Carlo, Connie has the chutzpah to confront her brother and state the truth: "I know you had him killed." (Here, we sense there's some hope for Connie.) And then she begins a period of understandable, grotesque self-indulgence; it's difficult to like her at this time, but it's easy enough to love her. Her will to live unveils itself in various ill-advised affairs--with, for example, Merle. But the death of Mama Corleone brings her back to Earth. In a startling reversal, she declares her intention of becoming a chaste Earth Mother, tending to Michael, preparing the meals. (This is like a perverse parody of a Bildungsroman; in the final, moving scenes, Connie is of course, unintentionally, declaring her plan to become a Handmaiden to Evil.)
Connie's story becomes a vehicle for commentary on so many matters in this world. It's the husband's "job" to brutalize the wife; to speak up is to "interfere." The greatest sin, in Michael's eyes, is to neglect one's children (but we don't actually see Michael spending quality time with his own kids; that job seems to belong to Uncle Fredo). A woman, in this world, can still rebel, ever so slightly, and we see signs of Connie's old spirit in her treatment of Kay; even after Kay's banishment from the world of Michael, Connie insists that Michael, Jr., give his mother a hug. He dilly-dallies; she becomes more adamant, though the clock is ticking and Michael, Sr. could appear at any moment. This is a quietly heroic move, and I love that the camera lingers over it, and I love that it generates as much tension, oddly, as a Senate hearing. This is a world where the women's roles are as fraught and screwy as the stuff that confronts the boorish men. It's part of Coppola's greatness--largely through the character of Connie--to notice and underline all of that.
P.S. I'm off on my honeymoon! Blog on hiatus. Back in early January. See you then and Happy Christmas!
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