The Path to Paradise: A Francis Ford Coppola Story by Sam Wasson arrives with enormous promise. Coppola’s story has been told before, but those stories are irresistible, and surely there is room for still more—especially from an experienced, eminently well qualified author who enjoyed virtually unprecedented access to all of the major players, and to crucial, voluminous archives. Moreover, it is hard to imagine any capable study of Coppola oriented around the rise and fall of his New Hollywood dream studio, Zoetrope, failing to thrill the Mid Century Cinema crowd. Zoetrope, Coppola’s vision for an independent studio where “our kinds of films” – personal, daring, character driven dramas – could be made, free of the diktats of the mass-appeal carving moneymen, was everything we ever wanted. And Coppola walked that walk from the very start, supporting the projects of his lesser known fellows (most notably saving George Lucas’ American Graffiti after a poor test screening, by offering to buy the picture from nervous studio hacks). Imagine what a flourishing Zoetrope could have been—perhaps nothing short of the second coming of BBS.
Well, that didn’t happen. Zoetrope ultimately went belly up. Worse, in this current context, is that The Path to Paradise is ultimately not much, and adds little to this irresistible New Hollywood legend. I don’t say that with relish. As regular readers of Mid Century Cinema know, when it comes to the movies we shy away from traditional “reviews”—and have a severe aversion to dwelling on the negative in general. As the young Alvy Singer noted, “what’s the point” of doing that kind of homework, when “the universe is expanding”? More important, our default setting is to respect the work. We’ve quoted Lou Reed before, but his point merits repetition: “could you imagine working for a year” making an album and then “you get a B+ from some asshole in the Village Voice?”
But although I have (in consultation with commissioning editors) in some cases withdrawn from reviews-in-progress when unexpectedly dismayed by what I found, in other instances one should forge ahead, firm in purpose if not mean in sprit. And this one checks all the relevant boxes. As noted, I did descend on the book with eager enthusiasm. And Wasson, the author of numerous celebrated works including a very fine, best-selling page-turner on the making of Chinatown, and the definitive Bob Fosse biography, will not be much slowed by the chastising dissents of this mom and pop lemonade stand. Finally, many notable outlets have showered the book with praise. The starred review in Publisher’s Weekly lauds an “enthralling chronicle,” distinguished by “immersive prose” that offers “a complex portrait of an artist.” The New York Times gushed about a “supremely entertaining new book,” by “one of our foremost film historians.” The review does note, with genuflecting understatement, that Wasson unexpectedly “chooses a more eccentric path” with his approach, if while assuring us Wasson could have easily written a more traditional and comprehensive biography had he wanted to. [Sidebar alert: regarding my beloved New York Times, their commissioned book reviews (as distinct from those by their outstanding lead critics), and increasingly even with many of their “news” stories about the arts, in recent years read increasingly, not like pay for play, but seem to reflect the workings of a well-connected publicity machine, with “features” meshing quite seamlessly with what one presumes is a larger multi-platformed promotional orchestration. Ick. I have no basis (or wish) to cast aspersions on this particular reviewer, about whom I know nothing, but I haven’t been more taken aback by a book review since the Times chose to have Andrew Roberts pen a hyperbolic rave for his friend Niall Ferguson’s rancid biography about their mutual friend Henry Kissinger.]
Oh, right, The Path to Paradise. (I told you I didn’t like writing negative reviews.) Well, despite that extraordinary access to Zoetrope’s archives, and new interviews with key players, including, especially, Coppola, in fact, Publisher’s Weekly has it exactly wrong (“Movie buffs won’t want to miss this”). Actually, those who love movies and know a bit about them will find this book of very limited interest. The basic problems are numerous (or, at least, several). The author has, in diplomatic parlance, “gone native”—falling under the charismatic spell of his subject. Despite being invited to “ask more, take more, think further, think bigger,” Wasson offers, if short of a whitewash, an exceedingly friendly rose-tinted view of this very complex American auteur. The Path to Paradise does not probe or critically engage, but instead routinely pauses to flatter. More disappointing still, although Wasson interviewed . . . everybody, there is really nothing new here, and it is notable that the most intimate stories do not come from new author interviews with Coppola, but often (very familiar) secondary sources.
Indeed, more generally and most surprisingly, Paradise breaks little new ground, retelling familiar (if often irresistible) stories, and offering recognizable sketches of the usual heroes and villains, including Eleanor Coppola, essential collaborator, sound maestro, and legendary editor Walter Murch, and George (Judas) Lucas, who probably could have helped his old friend, mentor and benefactor out at (at least one) crucial juncture—but was too busy making movies designed to sell toys. Speaking of the movies, although Wasson makes some savvy observations about The Rain People, in general he seems utterly disinterested in the movies themselves, and spends an inordinate amount of time reviewing the over-tilled ground of the making of Apocalypse Now. And that obsessive coverage is less daring than, and falls well short of, Eleanor Coppola’s remarkable if squirm-inducing documentary from 1991, Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse. (Jeez, even the awe-struck reviewer in the Times recognized that “Like any sentient film enthusiast, I can’t get enough of “Apocalypse” lore, but it’s well-trod territory,” a comment buried as barely a speed bump on the road to ever more fulsome praise.)
Beyond Apocalypse, and despite the rehearsal of some oft told tales about the making of The Godfather, Wasson can barely be roused to acknowledge numerous key films, including, astonishingly, The Conversation. That towering masterpiece, Coppola’s most intimate and personal film, only got made because it was the price Coppola extracted from Paramount in exchange for agreeing to direct The Godfather, Part II. Also elided is another New Hollywood dream, the ill-fated Director’s Company (Coppola’s short-lived production partnership with Peter Bogdanovich and William Friedkin). And (don’t worry, I will stop soon), the book ends abruptly with its coverage of the One from the Heart (1981) disaster that sank Zoetrope, although The Cotton Club fiasco that followed surely mattered as well. From there Paradise rushes to its conclusion, closing with barely a handful of hurried pages on the most recent, and event-filled, forty years of Coppola’s personal and professional life, and the dozen-plus notable films – many daring, some outstanding – he made over those decades. Finally, the book endlessly teases (and then ultimately withholds any sustained discussion of) Megalopolis, Coppola’s current, career topping, gargantuan production-in progress.
Sorry. Let me end of a positive note. Readers interested in Coppola (and Zoetrope) – and you should be, he is properly placed in the pantheon of New Hollywood legends – would be well served by seeking out Godfather: The Intimate Francis Ford Coppola (Phillips 2004); Francis Ford Coppola: A Filmmaker’s Life (Schumaker 1999); and Whom God Wishes to Destroy: Francis Coppola and the New Hollywood (Lewis 1995). More positive still is this preview of coming attractions – keep an eye out for MCC’s coming celebration of Claude Sautet’s centennial – we’re gonna go all Sally Field on him.