The Godfather: David Chase’s worst creation
When I look back upon the man I once was before selling my soul to the inhuman amalgamation colloquially known as journalism, I’m plagued by nightmares of something I desperately labored to leave behind: Italians. Regardless of what I do or what form of media I branch out into, there they are—even when I look in the mirror, I cannot escape that 50% of myself. It has risen to the point where I get berated and harassed daily by these creatures, who are actively forcing me to push along more Italian-favoring media, so I present the unholy, fever-ridden trilogy known as The Godfather (Fuck you, you don’t get the year).
I went into this watch with nothing but a foreboding, tangible dread, and, though this may have been because of the ensemble of film bros holding me at gunpoint, it did not last long, as the movie instantaneously captured my attention. Something about the story of Tony Soprano, the grandiose mafioso with an insatiable bloodlust and a very prevalent yet hyperbolic spaghetti addiction, enhanced my watching experience as it fed into absolutely every stereotype I expected. Whether it be the destruction of a rival mob or a glorious display of authentic Italian might—also known as a family diner with two city blocks’ worth of spaghetti—I was hooked and, in time, forgot about the hostage-esque situation I was in; however, that’s where the fun ended.
By the midway point of the first film, it was evident that this trilogy would be something I could never come back from; the violence had dampened tenfold, and the spaghetti consumption had increased at the same rate. I could not believe my eyes when the story of a simple mob boss who simply wanted to take control of his town became more akin to a cooking show with various segments of loud, aggressive slurping spaghetti feasting. One may think that these were tastefully done, but no. Beautifully constructed camera angles cannot take away from the absolute abhorrence of an extended take of ungodly amounts of chicken parmesan consumption, adding up to roughly two-thirds of the film’s entire runtime. I left this first film feeling a multifaceted dread that enshrouded my entire being. I was trapped in a situation where the only outcome was death, either by boredom or, just like those in the prelude, to the spaghetti mukbang.
Even with this knowledge at the forefront of my mind, I went into the second film with hope. Though it may have been in vain, I truly wished that this second film would change my opinion—make me see what an armada worth of Italian film bros thought was so life-changing that they devoted their adult lives to evangelizing this as scripture, and boy, were they right! For the first time, my eyes were open, and I saw the truth in all its unadulterated form: The Godfather 2 (Fuck you again) is a propaganda film trying to brainwash you and your bloodline into infiltrating organized organizations by cooking members spaghetti. I never expected a film over two and a half hours long to be something I could’ve watched in a two-minute YouTube reel, but that’s exactly what this film stands to be. Our main man, Tony, doesn’t do anything in this film except smoke a cigarette and shovel pasta into unsuspecting people’s mouths…it was clear to me that this penultimate film marked the Icarus-akin fall of this trilogy into something that can only be seen as a cult classic.
The third film left me with a feeling I cannot even form in words. I do not know what occurred, but a Lovecraftian-like pasta demon—solely because we cannot fathom it any other way— seized the minds of all our characters and merged them into one entity known as “Italy.” From there, it took the almighty throne of the Universe—all within the span of a fifteen-minute half-stop motion, half-live motion segment. What? How?? Why? There were too many questions, but no answers were given, as the unimaginable entity seemingly took hold of all present, causing the other characters to drop to their knees in whispering a continuous, inaudible message to their ruler.
Upon reaching the end of this treacherous journey, I realized one thing: The creator of this film series, David Chase, is not a man, nor is he a being created by any god we subscribe to; he is something far beyond all conceivable thought, and we should be terrified of every move he makes. I hope he does not set his ethereal sights on me in the coming months, but if he does, you all know who brought about my inevitable spaghetti-related death.
Anyway, do not watch these films for yourself. With every watch, this creature gets stronger and stronger until no one can evade its subtle allure; tread beyond carefully, and please do not end up like those I encountered.