Is there any midlife moment more poignant, painful even, than when a father introduces his teenage son to The Godfather, and the reaction is “Little slow”?
Slow? We’re talking about the greatest movie of all time here! Not just a cinematic masterpiece, but for my generation, a touchstone of masculinity, what with Sonny’s tinder-box machismo, Clemenza’s murderous avuncularity, and Michael’s transformation from sensitive idealist to heart of stone. The Godfather isn’t just a movie. It’s something to be passed down, the way Don Corleone passes on his wisdom to his sons: “Never tell anyone outside the family what you’re thinking again.” At least that’s what I want The Godfather to be. But is it?
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