The Godfather and fascism

The thick, jutting jaw, the mannered physicality that demands admiration and respect: Vito Corleone could easily be Benito Mussolini re-imagined in a different life as a mafia boss in New York. It was while watching The Godfather trilogy again this week that this resemblance between ‘Il Duce’ and the original ‘Godfather’ occurred to me—but only once I had realized how the films can be viewed as a reflection on fascism. (Or, at least, the first two films; I have tried to like the third part, but it is a bad film in many ways, and it lacks any real centre or thematic coherence.) The way the films focus on power, order, hierarchy, respect and the bonds of blood surely invites a ‘fascist’ reading of them, whether or not this was intended by Coppola or Brando or Pacino. Indeed I would suggest, beneath their mythologizing about the mafia or organized crime or family, parts one and two of The Godfather are really about fascism.

Benito Mussolini

Fascism, Italian-style, was characterized by the concentration of power in the single leader who assumes an authoritarian and paternalistic rule, the valuing of corporations over the individual, the obsession with an ordered, regulated and stratified society, and a morality that combined the tough ‘realism’ of business and war with a deeply conservative and traditional set of values (including those stemming from a macho culture and a Catholic religiosity).

Pretty much all of that can also be said of the mafia world presented in the Godfather films. Like a fascist dictator, Don Corleone presides over his corporate world, ruthlessly expanding and wielding power. Superficially, at least, one might wonder why Vito and, subsequently, his son Michael bother: the power and wealth they acquire come with a heavy price of perpetual threats, misery and loneliness. The rare times when either Vito or Michael smile or laugh never occur when they are in the position of ‘head of the family’. Yet the power they grasp and grip so single-mindedly is never purely for the sake of power itself—it is based on a set of values and a conception of the world that is essentially fascistic in nature.

Marlon Brando as Vito Corleone

Order, and the security that order brings, is perhaps the key value. The world view of Vito and Michael is one that detests chaos. Vito resists adding narcotics to his portfolio of criminal enterprises both for the moral disorder that will follow and for the potentially out-of-control criminal rivalry and violence that comes with the drugs trade. Michael’s doubts about investing in Cuba are confirmed when he witnesses an arrested bandit blow himself and a police captain up; the disorder and instability that threaten to engulf Cuba are unsuitable for the kind of ordered business Michael wants to do. Of course the Corleone family also go to war with rivals and other families, but this is never a simple case of empire-building; rather, it is an example of seeking peace through strength (‘si vis pacem, fac bellum’—‘if you want peace, make war’—as the variation on the original Latin phrase goes). An occasional war among the families, it is noted in the film, is a good means of clearing bad blood and hence re-establishing the peaceful, harmonious relations conducive to good criminal business.

That order is the central rationale guiding Vito and Michael comes across most clearly in their dealings with immediate family. Neither Sonny nor Fredo embody the type of fascistic values so essential to the Corleone vision of how to run their world. Both are too human with all the failings that come with that: Sonny is too emotional, impulsive and pugilistic; Fredo is weak and lacking in the authority and charisma befitting a leader. Each provides, in different ways, a stark contrast to Michael. Whereas Michael keeps his thoughts hidden and his emotions under control, Sonny and Fredo voice their thoughts at the wrong moments; whereas Michael has carefully created an ultra-traditional family life, Sonny is fathering illegitimate children and Fredo impotently confesses to being unable to control his wife; whereas Michael dresses in immaculate suits, Sonny and Fredo exhibit sartorial flamboyance.

Al Pacino as Michael Corleone

For the Corleone vision to be realized, both have to die. Sonny’s murder is, of course, at the hands of rivals to the Corleone family, but the family’s grief is accompanied by unspoken yet evident relief that Sonny will not succeed as the Don—he was a ‘bad Don’, Vito comments in reference to Sonny’s brief moment of absolute power while Vito was recovering from the assassination attempt. Fredo, however, is killed on the orders of Michael; while ostensibly this is the long-delayed retribution for Fredo’s betrayal of Michael, the murder is logically the culmination of Michael’s extreme intolerance of any form of disorder. The murder of Fredo is a classic instance of the fascist’s instinctive repulsion at the weak individual, a repulsion stemming from the fear of the disorder, decay and degeneracy that the fascist believes accompanies weakness.

If The Godfather trilogy is a study of fascism, then it is also a particularly interesting presentation of the attractions of fascism. Vito and, in particular, Michael may be monsters, but who is not drawn, at least a little, into an admiration of them? Their genius for power, their ruthless and brilliant control, their charisma is rendered into something glamorous and attractive by the performances of Brando and Pacino. Surely there are times when we all wish we could be a little more like Vito or Michael, in control of ourselves and everything around us; and perhaps, too, times when their supremely effective organizational skills and strategic thinking would be welcomed in our worlds of business and politics.

It is often difficult from our vantage point in history, looking back on the wreckage, horrors and atrocities of fascism, to understand why so many millions of people were once attracted to the fascist vision. Just as Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will is perhaps the best insight into the aesthetic attractions of the Nazis, so Coppola’s Godfather films hint at the allure of fascism. It is what makes the first two parts of The Godfather such great films: the world and philosophy they present is dreadful, yet it also has a disturbing beauty—and no attempt is made to hide that dangerous reality.

And perhaps more disturbing still is this: the films depict a world of corporate capitalism (and the blurred lines between legitimate and illegitimate corporations, as well as their similar moral universes), yet once we recognize the dark heart of fascism beating at the centre of The Godfather and its sequels, we may well wonder where corporate capitalism ends and fascism begins.