Deserving its regard as one of the best films of all time

Rating: 10/10 (30 December 2001)

There are so many reasons why this is a great film: unforgettable music (especially that theme that adapts itself to so many different moods), striking cinematography, strong pacing, but first and foremost are the performances. The entire cast shines; no wonder so many of them--mostly unknowns at the time, like Pacino, Duvall, Keaton, and Caan--went on to stellar careers. But two performances stand out: Brando's and Pacino's.

Don Corleone is, in reality, little more than a well-dressed thug. But Brando infuses the Don with a regal manner: he carries himself like a king and speaks in dignified cadences. He dispenses vengeance and vice, but calls them justice and business. Even that infamous mumbling adds to the effect--it makes everyone (including the audience) lean forward, in respectful silence, to hear this powerful man speak. We should despise Corleone, but Brando's charisma in the role--arguably his best in a remarkable career--wins us over.
It's Pacino, however, who carries the bulk of the film, along with our sympathy. He is, we are led to believe, the hero of the story: when Michael first appears, he's outside in the light, whereas the Don first appeared in a dark, shaded lair. He's in love with a woman from a brighter world (it's no coincidence Diane Keaton's hair was coloured blonde for this movie), and assures her that he's not like the rest of his family. We want the best for him: we hope he'll escape his family's unsavory business.
But gradually, Michael gets drawn into those dark rooms his father inhabits. Pacino masterfully portrays a character who tries to be a hero, who tries to defend or avenge those he loves, but loses himself in the process. By the end of the film, Michael Corleone is positively reptillian--cold-blooded, predatory, calculating, a creature without remorse or morality. He has gained the world but lost his soul.
Normally, we would regard a man like Michael Corleone from afar with a mixture of revulsion and fear. We would think him inhuman, refusing to recognize anything of ourselves in him. But Coppola makes us identify with Michael, sympathize with him. If he's become a monster by the end of the film, we've been forced to recognize that we, too, could become monsters in the right (or wrong) circumstances. We have stared into the abyss, and found that it contains a dark, distorted reflection.
With The Godfather, Coppola et al took rather base source material--a pulp crime novel--and elevated it to the realm of Shakespearean tragedy. This is great story-telling, great movie-making, and great art. 10/10.