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THE GODFATHER / 2017 Best Books

How does Michael Corleone become Michael Corleone? Through a trip to hell. Barzini has jostled him out of his Ordinary World; now, he is committing murders and fleeing to "the continent." But there's a chance for the old, innocent Michael to prevail; Michael might not need to submerge himself in bitterness and rage for the rest of his life. In Sicily, he meets allies and friends.

Ah, Sicily! Rolling hills greet the eye. Little sheep and goats run around. The sun shines through tiny trees. Here, Michael meets The Embodiment of Innocence--Apollonia. (From Apollo- "god of music and healing, god of the sun.") Apollonia is untouched, virginal, a walking version of springtime; in fact, the actress playing her is merely sixteen! In Apollonia's company, Michael can forget about the sordid streets of New York; he can go for frolicsome picnics and country drives. (This section of the movie, in addition to being a pastoral idyll, also functions as a kind of Preston Sturges comedy. When a mild-mannered old man realizes that the girl Michael covets is his--the old man's--daughter, he goes berserk. Meanwhile, one of Michael's two adorable bodyguards can speak only in guttural echoes of what his friend has already said, and said more clearly. You feel a bit as if you were in the Land of the Three Stooges.)

Michael wins Apollonia via his own silver tongue. (He is his father's son.) The bedroom scene shows an intensely lustful Michael--a Michael we haven't seen, and will never see, in the company of Kay. It's all sex and giggles now: We get an eyeful of Apollonia's breasts, and her madcap attempts at driving, and her silly and charming English-language lessons. And of course the love affair ends. Without words, Coppola shows that Michael's bodyguard has committed an act of betrayal. The bodyguard understands that Apollonia has stepped into a car-bomb situation intended for Michael himself. We see Michael seeing the bodyguard seeing the act of destruction just before it happens; the bodyguard registers disaster just before the big shoe drops; Michael registers the bodyguard registering disaster just *just* before the big shoe drops. If you want to amuse God, tell Him your plans. A bomb meant to wipe Michael from the Earth has just helped to make Michael much, much more fearsome.

These are the pivotal moments in "The Godfather." Without Apollonia's death, we don't get the reptilian, vengeful Michael of the Third Act. Coppola handles the change deftly--with the fewest possible words. We're in Sicily--and then we're out again. A world of change in a few fast scenes. No one could do it better.

***

My 2017 "Best Books" List

5. "Letterman: The Last Giant of Late Night." It's fun just for the words. "Uma, Oprah. Oprah, Uma." "McDonald's is now serving breakfast. The news we have all been waiting for!" "Meet my neighbor, Sirajul." "You can find Mr. Clinton at the Ronald McDonald Summit." "And now: Stupid Pet Tricks!" Zinoman approaches Letterman's work with the p.o.v. of a literary scholar. For example, he goes on at length about the importance of the word "stupid" in "Stupid Pet Tricks." He's also aware that Letterman--a man who had disdain for TV--revolutionized TV programming. And that Letterman--a man who had disdain for celebrities, and for interviews--revolutionized the celebrity interview. Letterman seems to be part-poet, part-space alien. His series goes through phases: boldly experimental ("Let's film a show underwater!"), Golden Era, and tired-and-decadent. Even his "I-had-affairs" speech is a weird, masterful, unsettling use of language. I love when a serious, highbrow tone is married with an unusual subject; celebrate the counterintuitive; that is what we have here.

4. "Hank and Jim." Henry Fonda was as gifted at visual art as he was at acting. Jimmy Stewart was on par with Brando. Stewart was light and airy until he served in WWII--with astonishing talent. Then we discovered the brooding Stewart. "Vertigo," "Rear Window," "It's a Wonderful Life," "The Naked Spur." Fonda never wanted to be caught "acting"; his style was minimalist, reserved. He was a brutal man. When his daughter, Jane, said, "I've dried up (creatively) on set! Don't you ever dry up?" Henry said, simply, "No." Together, the two men have a resume that includes: "The Grapes of Wrath," "My Darling Clementine," "The Lady Eve," "Winchester '73," "On Golden Pond," "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," "Harvey," and "Fort Apache." Mr. Stewart ranks third among the greatest male Hollywood icons; Mr. Fonda ranks sixth.

3. "Devil's Bargain." Such fun--if you're rather cynical, like this particular reviewer. You read with your eyes popping; you ask, constantly, DID THIS STUFF REALLY HAPPEN? Mr. Bannon was/is an anti-immigration vet, a Zen Buddhist, a Harvard Business student smarter than his classmates and generally unable to fit in, and a huge slob. Mr. Trump was/is a germaphobe who captivated America for ten years with "The Apprentice." Basically, he captivated *all* of America, including minority pockets. Then, when he decided to run for President, he had no reservations about turning against minorities. Chatter about the Wall began instantaneously. Mr. Bannon admired Mr. Trump's fearlessness; Mr. Bannon had been seduced by early twentieth-century French Traditionalist philosophy, which wanted to get the world back to small neighborhoods, small clergies, with entrenched rituals and routines. Bannon saw that Trump could secure for America the anti-immigration policy he (Bannon) wanted. It's suggested that Trump really cares about nothing except for winning popularity contests; as soon as he became President, he imploded. Finally, there's a hint that Bannon doesn't care about Trump's great failure; Bannon is simply happy to have an anti-immigration stooge in the office, and to know that future Republicans will need to be more "unequivocal" about immigration, because of Trump. (It's also worth noting that the "Devil's Bargain" author has great style. He tells his tale in around 200 pages--skipping all over the globe--and with supreme self-assurance. That takes real sweat. You don't see the sweat. Clearly, this guy is among the best writers working today.)

2. "Wild Things." This is a tour of great children's lit. You get Margaret Wise Brown: "I don't really like children, but I can think like a child." You get the tense debates around the final sentence of "The Runaway Bunny"--and then the canonical decision: "Have a carrot." You get a long comparison of "Portnoy's Complaint" and "Runaway Bunny"--a riff on the idea of smothering mothers. Then there's Beverly Cleary--"the Martin Scorsese" of kids' lit--and the fact that she didn't even have grand plans for Ramona. Ramona just kept showing up on the periphery of Cleary's brain, till she demanded her own book. You get a careful reading of the squishing, squashing rain at the bottom of Fern's sneakers, in "Charlotte's Web." Plus: a consideration of two different drawing styles, two different artists who collaborated with Cleary. The physical object--"Wild Things"--is as beautiful as the prose. Maybe no other book has had a greater influence on my own writing this year.

1. "Sleep No More." The best fiction of 2017, and a book that has appeared on zero 2017 round-ups that I've encountered. Keep your Nicole Krauss. Keep your "Lincoln in the Bardo." PD James is dead; she didn't write these tales this past year. But an enterprising editor has collected them. A guy sets out to kill his ex-wife's new husband, only to discover, too late, that the ex-wife is in on the plan. A mystery revolves around whether a certain Santa Claus imposter is wearing white gloves. Two children plot to keep their old man in a cheap nursing home--even if the plot involves covering up a murder. All the while, you get PDJ's peerless prose. "I came in, blinking, from the December dusk into a blaze of colour; candles sparkling on the huge Christmas tree, its tub piled with imitation snowballs of frosted cotton wool; the leaping fire; the gleam of firelight on silver. My fellow guests were taking tea and I see them as a tableau, cups halfway to their lips, predestined victims waiting for the tragedy to begin." The galloping rhythm, the wit, the detail--and no priggish Dalgliesh to get in the way of your enjoyment. Someone said, of Daniel Day-Lewis, "He just has to act. You see him at work, and you think, that's what he was born to do." It doesn't really matter which genre PDJ chose. Telling stories was, for her, like breathing.

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