The Godfather, 1972

The most startling scene in movie history, I believe, is the final shot of "The Godfather," part I. Michael Corleone, separated from us by the doorframe of his office, is having his hand kissed by his apostles. Perverted version of the Pope (or is it perverted? Maybe just a straightforward analogue), he takes our breath away: we are completely seduced and absolutely terrified by his immense power. He can do anything; he is our black Father.

"The Godfather" pulls off an amazing feat. It shines a light on the violence that lies at the heart of the Mafia. It revels in introducing us to the sickening underworkings of the clan. Traitors are ruthlessly blown away, hunks of their brains spatter the sidewalk. The film kicks us in the face. But at the end we kiss Michael’s ring. We are willing accomplices in our own seduction.

It isn’t just the Mafia whose violence we collaborate in. It is an entire ideology of violence. At the top is the US government. But we are given to know that even though the Feds stride around with their big guns, they can’t control criminals. We are not safe from predatory males: the undertaker Amerigo Bonasera pours his heart out to Don Corleone, explaining that his daughter has been brutally raped by her boyfriend and his mates. But they are given suspended sentences. Justice fails.

Thus we turn to the “family.” Father will take care of us; all we have to do is subject ourselves, body and soul, to his way of life. No mention of Mafia or even "Cosa Nostra;" we are talking here about traditional family values and what it means that this social grouping lies at the foundation of all society. We try to create rules of law that supersede those of the family, but we can’t do it, because ultimately even the purveyors of justice in our supersystems are beholden to the family. The father is everywhere, everywhere,everywhere. There is no getting away from him.

How does he do it? Why don’t we run away? Ask Connie, the pathetic daughter of the Don. She screams around the house in a pink satin negligee, heavily pregnant, because her husband, sick of her, has taken a mistress. She throws plates, rips curtains, he beats her up. She tells her brothers on him. But when the family finally springs to action and rubs the joker out (although not because he beats their sister up, but because he betrayed the biggest brother – after all, this is a man’s world), she collapses, grief-stricken. She loved her tormentor! She craves that boot in the face. That’s how the family works. It gets us addicted to getting kicked.

Law, religion, and family - all collapsed into the figure of Michael, from whom we ask nothing but the chance to prostrate ourselves before him, naked, begging him to take our virginity, Michael, from whom we ask for reassurances and then smile with relief when he lies to us. “No, I did not have Connie’s son murdered,” he intones. Kay thinks, “Just let me bear your child, Michael – that’ all I ask. I degrade myself willingly to your slightest whim, just let me live in your light.”

In other words, the film hands us the reality of family and religious values, and we see only the beauty of Michael’s eyes, savor the timbre of his voice. He is Satan, perfectly beautiful, tempter, seducer, the Father, building his fallen empire on earth.