We recently reviewed Ernest Borgnine's final film, The Man Who Shook the Hand of Vicente Fernandez. Here is a statement about the making of the film and director Elia Petridis' reflections on working with Borgnine in his last appearance on the silver screen. 

Director’s Statement

The Man Who Shook The Hand Of Vicente Fernandez. I’ll never forget the moment the title blossomed in my brain. Just after two in the afternoon and I was driving through Toluca Lake, a neighborhood I wouldlater poke fun of in the screenplay. Pierre Gonneau had just told me a funny story. The actor in my graduate thesis film had emerged from his valley home earlier leaning on a cane. I had asked him the cause. The funny anecdote he answered me with was, all at once in its telling, a faint sketch of what the film would eventually become; an unlikely hero, hailed as a star, because he had once long ago shaken the hand of the legendary Vicente Fernandez.

The moment I had the title, I (almost) knew what it was, and where it belonged in film history, who its compatriots were and what kind of an experience it was going to be for the audience. I wanted to tip my hat, and stick my tongue out, to all those great westerns that had peoples’ names in their titles.

I love films that know they are films. And they don’t make them like that anymore. I’m a modernist, self-reflexive filmmaker atheart. Heavily reliant on the grammar of its celluloid predecessors, the film stands on the shoulders of giants, but it is those giants, giants like Mr. Ernest Borgnine, that make the work complete. The mandate had always been to cast an old movie star of the west to heighten the irony of Rex’s failure and create a space where the audience knew better than Rex himself, for they remembered Borgnine’s iconic turns in the genre Rex loves so much, creating a metaphysical relationship of melancholy between viewer and protagonist.

And what a dream come true, as a first timer, to work with a true legend, one that even surpassed the man in the film’s title. Ernest never left the set. He wouldn’t be caught dead in his trailer. At ninety-four he recounted to us all that Jimmy Stewart had an ethic to always be on hand, near the camera, ready to shoot. And if it was good enough for Jimmy, it was good enough for Ernie. He was always tireless, spirited, and devoted to every moment of the work. And we had the same style and approach to the process. We just wanted to work. We didn’t want to covet or worship the act, we just wanted to perform it, like balancing a checkbook or digging a ditch. So it was ties worn on set every day, just as if we were going to the office. And especially so because we were working with Hollywood royalty. That’s the way I like it, all else leads to analysis paralysis. That’s a little secret I love about the movie; it truly is, if nothing else, a living document of an extremely charismatic ninety-four year old man caught on film. With Ernie in almost every scene, anyone whohas ever survived the rigors of a film shoot knows that just showing up at that age is a feat unto itself, let alone turning in an incredible performance that any thespian would envy. Ernie’s example set the watermark of professionalism and a devotional tone for the entire shoot.

A film needs a brain, but it also needs a heart and a soul too. The greatest storytellers of all time refuse to ascend beyond pulp. Kubrick,Spielberg, Chabon, King, and Radiohead all concern themselves with mass entertainment. So I read Louis Lamour. I wanted the whole thing to feel like a dime store paperback. The story turns were familiar enough, but the manner in which I wanted the film to sneak up on you was fresh. I wondered if a western, a genre known for anything but, could make you cry. I wanted this genre that had very rarely ascended up the ranks of high art, like a comic book or Harlequin novel, togive the audience the turns they had paid to see but also grow the narrative to occupy a space in the their hearts intrinsically unique to our film. And if you didn’t get to the core of it, it didn’t matter because the outer layers were enough on their own.

I wanted to re-mythologize the western. Where the genre had hereto concerned itself with the white man taming America’s infant wilderness by way of taming the savages and natives of the west, this film was about the modern wilderness taming the white man. It represents the wild west of the present, where the person formerly in control has a lot to learn from the new, dominant cultures that surround him.

When I’m asked to describe the film I liken it to a mixed tape, a “greatest hits” of the western genre. Yet, I don’t see the film as a postmodern collage, I see the work as something “Neo-Classical”, for the self-reflexive references are conveyed with sincerity and idealism, not irony, cynicism, or nostalgia. The film never fuses western iconography with anything else, and its endeavor remains true and pure to its own marrow andspirit, just like the cowboy at its heart.

The film is an examination and ultimate celebration of the imagination; of Clem’s imagination, and Rex’s lack thereof. Their imaginations inform the way our characters interact with their everyday world. The film indulges Rex’s western fantasy for him, he becomes transported into a western of his imagination’s own making, but it makes no apologies for using this device on its own, without permission from its central character. And so the film itself has its own brand of imagination.

The title is a tall order, for the film assumes greatness, sight unseen! It proclaims to introduce the world to a legend, and having an acting legend portray its central figure didn’t hurt. Ultimately, it’s the cult of Fernandez and his relation to it that gives Rex access to the courage that lies within. But, like the entire pursuit, its title encompasses the irony of a nondescript, mundane occurrence, places us firmly in the realm of pulp from where it takes its cue, while also speaking to the most universal, transcending truth of all. For one day, one way or another, we all will shake the hand of Vicente Fernández.

In Memory of Ernest Borgnine

On July 6^th, 2012 the great Ernest Borgnine embraced the film’s metaphor on a profound level.  Those he left behind had waited on pins and needles throughout the weekend, coping with the sudden turn his health had taken, not quite believing that the legend would leave.  In the casting process it had become evident that Ernie was always working, and in my brief time spent with him I realized that it was his constant motion that kept him happy and virile to the very end.  Although, as artists, we were both aware of the element that Ernie’s career and public persona added to the metaphysical intent of the film, I was convinced, even considering his age, that ours would take at least fifth or sixth place behind the finish line of his work.  The film’s final act and ending, as it played out with Ernie's own bow, was an element of metaphysics I never thought would occur in terms of this being his last.

It just goes to show that there can be something bigger at work, something more divine at play, than lights, camera, and action; that there can exist magic and meaning in this world beyond our imagination, comprehension, or articulation.  Rex’s march to the afterlife was the last scene we shot.  I remember Ernie approaching me, strung out and pacing because we were shooting slow motion and only had so much film, a fact I don’t think, thankfully, that registered with him.  He whispered in my ear, “I’m going to remove the hat before I kiss her, you know, because Rex is a gentleman.”  This was a last minute addition to a scene we had blocked many times with film feet in mind.  But it’s the best moment of that whole scene; it’s climax.  That decision retains so much residue of Ernie’s soul.

I am so proud that Ernie’s final performance was captured on glorious 35mm, celluloid, befitting of one of the medium's great giants.  Oh, were I to have rued the day were his last turn distilled to ones and zeros.  Ernie is a legend and the film bills himthat way, sending him off to become so much greater than the sum of his parts.

Half an hour before his father passed, Chris Borgnine called to tell me that Ernie was beside him and had insisted on reaching out to me to say how proud he was of his final film and that it had been made with my crew and I.  As a sensitive individual constantly in tune with the grand narrative of my existence and choices, this moment changed my life forever.  Knowing Ernie, having had access to his heart and love, changed my life forever.  This is strong stuff; art, soul, creativity, passion, expression, ambition.  These ingredients, have the power to reverberate throughout time and the universe, microcosmically and transcendentally.  As much as one might think they toil in obscurity, or that they’re giving too much of their marrow, it’s nothing compared to what may happen at the other end of the divide.  I have seen a place where life and art have no distinction, and I have met the cowboy who purveys over this magic prairie.  He taught me about significance, gratitude, humility and grace; the myth, the legend, the man who shook the hand of Vicente Fernandez.    

The Godfather Effect: Changing Hollywood, America and Me by Tom Santopietro

(In this exclusive article for Cinema Retro, author Tom Santopietro takes an introspective look at his motivations for writing his acclaimed book, The Godfather Effect: Changing Hollywood, America and Me and provides an extended excerpt from the book). 

Arthur Laurents, the author of Gypsy, West Side Story, The Way We Were, Rope, and The Turning Point, once stated that whatever book you think you’re sitting down to write, it will inevitably turn out quite differently. That, in a nutshell, is exactly what happened to me in writing my recent book The Godfather Effect: Changing Hollywood, America, and Me. I thought I was sitting down to examine the film trilogy I, along with millions of others around the world, love and obsess over. Write about the films I did, but I also unexpectedly ended up delving into the history of Italian immigration to the United States, learning about those, like my grandparents, who left the horrendous living conditions in southern Italy and journeyed to the United States for a new start in life. More to the point, and most surprising of all, I also ended up writing about my own life, growing up half-Italian in an overwhelmingly WASPy world of private schools and country clubs. In the process I ended up confronting the irony at the heart of my obsession with The Godfather: It took The Godfather, or more specifically, The Godfather Part II, epic sagas concerning gangsters with whom I thought I had nothing in common, to make me fully connect with a sense of being Italian, fostering a pride in my heritage that had never previously existed in my genetically half-Italian, but culturally three-quarters anglo upbringing.

Time Magazine dubbed The Godfather “The Italian-American Gone With the Wind”, but for me it was more a case of the personal rather than the epic. One look at the very young Don Corleone sailing past the Statue of Liberty in Part II, staring in awe at the new world which awaited him, and I was overcome with a personalized emotion I had never before experienced in a movie theater. There on the screen, in the person of young Vito, was my grandfather, Orazio Santopietro, thirteen years old, twenty lira in his pocket, arriving in America for the very first time. The power of the image of this solitary boy made me realize for the first time in my comfortable, cocooned, upper-middle-class life just what had transpired in my grandfather’s lap to L’America. Thanks to Coppola and co-screenwriter Mario Puzo, I finally got it. Well, it would take decades and the loss of both of my parents before I fully understood, but that one image of young Vito and the Statue of Liberty first opened the door to a sense of “Italian-ness” that had heretofore utterly escaped me.

When The Godfather Effect was published early in 2012, I was actually unprepared for the very personal letters and e-mails that I received from readers. My previous three books dealt with the careers of music and acting legends Barbra Streisand, Doris Day, and Frank Sinatra, and I had always enjoyed hearing from fans of the stars. But—those responses had never been so personal, so nakedly emotional, as the letters I received regarding The Godfather Effect. People all over the globe love the Corleones- for all sorts of complicated reasons- and my view of the immigrant experience through the lens of The Godfather seemed to remind readers of their own families and immigrant ancestors. Italian, Irish, eastern European, Hispanic- we all have ancestors whose journeys made our own twenty-first century lives possible. By the time I received my fifth letter which began “I’m not Italian but your story made me think about my grandparents and their own journey to the United States”, I realized that the Corleones don’t just register as Italian-American: they are American. The sort of personal response engendered by the book has little to do with my writing, but everything to do with the intense reaction that the Corleones evoke in movie audiences of all ages and ethnicities. Thanks to the work of extraordinary artists like Coppola, Brando and Pacino, The Godfather, like all great pop culture, provides us glimpses of our own journeys and very American lives.

So- with that as background I here offer an excerpt from the beginning of The Godfather Effect- part film history, part immigrant journey, and a salute to two of the best films ever made. Not just the best gangster movies, but the best movies. Ever.

(Continue reading for excerpt from the book)