The Making of The Godfather And The Uneasy Handshake Between Hollywood And The Mob

Nov 1, 2025
12 min read

Updated: 5 days ago

Split image of Marlon Brando grinning in black and white beside a bloodied James Caan in a suit, with Behind The Scenes Of The Godfather.

Few films have shaped popular culture quite like The Godfather. Its creation is one of those rare stories where fact feels stranger than fiction. There were real gangsters on set, a studio that wanted nothing to do with it, a horse head that wasn't a prop, and an Oscar-winning star who refused to show up and collect his own trophy. At the center of it all was a broke, down-on-his-luck writer named Mario Puzo and a single word the Mafia wanted erased from public speech.

It began in the spring of 1968, when Mario Puzo walked into Paramount Pictures clutching a rumpled envelope. Overweight, broke, and carrying a cigar like a lifeline, Puzo looked more like a man in trouble than a Hollywood success story. Inside that envelope were fifty or sixty typed pages of a novel he called Mafia.

A close up photo of a young Al Pacino — Al Pacino, who played Michael Corleone, smiles in a portrait while on the set of *The Godfather*.

Robert Evans, Paramount's charismatic head of production, agreed to see him only as a favor to a friend. Puzo confessed he owed bookies ten thousand dollars and desperately needed money. Evans later recalled their first conversation. “I'll give you ten G's for it as an option against seventy-five thousand if it becomes a book,” he told him. “And he looked at me and said, 'Could you make it fifteen?' And I said, 'How about twelve-five?'”

Evans didn't even read the pages. He sent them to accounting with a note and forgot about it.

A few months later, Puzo called again. “Would I be in breach of contract if I change the name of the book?” he asked. Evans could barely remember who he was speaking to. “Change it to what?” he said.

“I want to call it The Godfather.”

It was a simple title, but it carried weight, myth, and menace.

The Book That Made the World Listen

When The Godfather was published in 1969, it was an instant phenomenon. The novel spent sixty-seven weeks on The New York Times best-seller list and sold millions of copies. Paramount had accidentally bought a literary goldmine for pocket change.

But the studio executives weren't sure they wanted to make the film. Their most recent gangster picture, The Brotherhood, starring Kirk Douglas, had flopped. “Mob films don't play,” the suits said.

Robert Evans disagreed. The problem, he thought, was that Hollywood gangster films lacked authenticity. To make The Godfather a success, he said, it needed Italian-Americans at every level, people who understood the culture and could make audiences smell the spaghetti.

Albert S Ruddy Talking to Marlon Brando in New York's Little Italy — Producer Albert S. Ruddy is seen talking to Brando on a set in New York City's Little Italy neighborhood.

Evans hired producer Albert “Al” Ruddy, a tough New Yorker known for getting things done cheaply and quickly. Ruddy had recently turned the bizarre concept of a Nazi POW comedy into the television hit Hogan's Heroes.

One Sunday, Ruddy received a call. “Do you want to do The Godfather?” he was asked. “Yes, of course, I love that book,” he lied. He hadn't read it yet.

When he met Charles Bluhdorn, the temperamental Austrian billionaire who owned Paramount's parent company, Gulf & Western, Ruddy came prepared. “What do you want to do with this movie?” Bluhdorn asked.

“Charlie, I want to make an ice-blue, terrifying movie about the people you love,” Ruddy replied.

Bluhdorn grinned, slammed his fist on the table, and left the room. Ruddy had the job.

At first, Paramount intended to set the story in the present day to save money. But as the novel's success grew, so did expectations. The budget rose from 2.5 million dollars to 6 million.

Enter Francis Ford Coppola

Bluhdorn and Paramount president Stanley Jaffe began searching for a director. They offered the project to some of the biggest names in Hollywood, all of whom refused. Making gangsters look human was considered immoral by directors who didn't want their names anywhere near a mob picture.

A man on a New York fire excape — The film caused quite the commotion in the neighborhood, even prompting residents to watch from their fire escapes.

Then Peter Bart, Paramount's vice president, suggested Francis Ford Coppola, a thirty-one-year-old Italian-American filmmaker with artistic flair and deep debts. His independent company, American Zoetrope, owed 600,000 dollars to Warner Bros. Coppola initially declined. “I tried to read it but stopped at page fifty,” he said later. “It was too smutty.”

But George Lucas, his friend and business partner, urged him to take the job. “Go ahead, Francis. We really need the money. What have you got to lose?”

Coppola began researching the Mafia. What he found changed his mind. The story, he decided, wasn't about crime, it was about family and America itself. “It should be a family chronicle, a metaphor for capitalism in America,” he said.

Robert Evans thought he was insane. “Is he nuts?” he asked. But Bluhdorn liked the idea. Coppola got the job.

He immediately began rewriting the script with Mario Puzo. The two men became close friends. “Puzo was an absolutely wonderful man,” Coppola said. “When I wrote, 'First you brown some garlic,' he scratched that out and wrote, 'First you fry some garlic. Gangsters don't brown.'”

Coppola decided to set the film in the 1940s and insisted it be filmed in New York, the natural home of the Corleones.

“Mafia? What Is Mafia?”

While Coppola worked on the script, real-life trouble started brewing. Joseph Colombo Sr, the short, neatly dressed head of one of New York's Five Families, was furious about the project. After the FBI began investigating him for loan-sharking, jewel heists, and tax evasion, Colombo formed the Italian-American Civil Rights League and declared war on the word Mafia.

“Mafia? What is Mafia?” he told reporters. “There is not a Mafia. Am I the head of a family? Yes. My wife, and four sons and a daughter. That's my family.”

Colombo's campaign quickly grew into a movement. Within months, it had 45,000 members and a million-dollar war chest. At rallies, Colombo called on Italian-Americans to protest government harassment. Soon, his league began targeting The Godfather.

Three men in conversation outdoors; one in a suit polishing a shoe, another in casual attire, and the third observing. Serious mood, trees behind.

Producer Al Ruddy started receiving threats. The Los Angeles police warned him that he was being followed. He began swapping cars with his staff to avoid being recognized. One night, his assistant Bettye McCartt heard gunfire outside her house. The car Ruddy often drove had been shot to pieces. A note left inside read: “Shut down the movie or else.”

It wasn't just threats. Colombo's people wanted eyes inside the production itself. One of the men sent to keep watch and make sure the word Mafia never made it into the script was a hulking former enforcer named Lenny Montana, six foot six and well over 300 pounds, who'd done real work for the Colombo family before drifting toward the movie business. Coppola spotted him across the room during a meeting and reportedly whispered to an assistant, “That's Luca Brasi.” Montana got the part on the spot. His nervous stammer in the scene where he rehearses his lines for Don Corleone wasn't acting. He was genuinely fumbling in front of a performer he idolized, and Coppola kept the take.

Four men are in a black-and-white setting. One smiles, holding a hat. Another lies under a blanket, appearing injured. Discussion ensues.

The Deal with Joe Colombo

Robert Evans got a threatening phone call at his New York hotel. “Take some advice,” the voice said. “Get out of town. Don't shoot no movie about the family here.”

“Go see Joe Colombo,” Evans told Ruddy.

Ruddy arranged a meeting at the Park Sheraton Hotel, where mob boss Albert Anastasia had famously been murdered years earlier. He walked into a room full of sharply dressed men and found Colombo waiting.

“Look, Joe, this movie will not demean Italian-Americans,” Ruddy told him. “It's an equal-opportunity story. We have a corrupt Irish cop, a corrupt Jewish producer. Nobody's being singled out.”

Colombo nodded. “OK. I'll come by your office tomorrow and read the script.”

The next day he arrived with two men. He put on his glasses, glanced at the first page, and frowned. “What does this mean, FADE IN?” he asked. Then he threw the script to his associate. “You read it.”

“Why me?” the man replied, throwing it back.

Finally, Colombo slammed it on the table. “Do we trust this guy?” he asked. His men nodded. “Then what the hell do we have to read it for? Let's make a deal.”

Colombo's demand was simple: remove the word Mafia from the film. Ruddy agreed. It appeared only once anyway. Colombo also requested that the proceeds from the New York premiere go to his league. Ruddy accepted.

A few days later, Colombo invited him to a press conference to announce the deal. Ruddy thought it would be small. Instead, it was packed with television crews and newspaper reporters. The next morning's Wall Street Journal headline read: “Alleged Mafia Chief Runs Aggressive Drive Against Saying 'Mafia'; Godfather Film Cuts Word.”

Charles Bluhdorn went ballistic. Gulf & Western's stock fell two and a half points. He fired Ruddy immediately, only to rehire him after Coppola refused to work without him. The meeting with Colombo had worked. Little Italy opened its doors, and the production gained safe passage through New York.

Four men in suits sit around a table in a dimly lit room. One man holds another at gunpoint. "Happy New Year" banner in background. Tense mood.

Casting The Family

From the beginning, Coppola had envisioned Marlon Brando as Don Vito Corleone, Al Pacino as Michael, James Caan as Sonny, and Robert Duvall as Tom Hagen. The studio hated all of them.

“A runt will not play Michael,” Evans insisted. They wanted Robert Redford or Ryan O'Neal. Coppola stood his ground.

At one point, Warren Beatty, Jack Nicholson, Martin Sheen, and David Carradine were all considered. Carmine Caridi was even cast as Sonny before Evans brokered a deal: “You can have Pacino if Caan plays Sonny.” Coppola agreed.

A film crew shoots a scene on a city street with a vintage car. A man in a suit and hat runs towards the open car, creating a dynamic mood.

The studio refused to finance Brando. WILL NOT FINANCE BRANDO IN TITLE ROLE, a telegram read. But Coppola was determined. Bluhdorn relented on three conditions: Brando would work for no pay up front, post a bond against overruns, and perform a screen test.

Coppola arrived at Brando's house with a small camera. Brando emerged in a kimono, his blond hair tied back. He rolled it into a bun, blackened it with shoe polish, stuffed tissues into his cheeks, and began to speak with a gravelly whisper. “He'd decided that the Godfather had been shot in the throat at one time,” Coppola recalled. “So he starts to speak funny.”

When Bluhdorn saw the footage, he was stunned. “That's amazing,” he said. Brando had the part.

Man with a playful expression getting a haircut from two barbers. Black and white image with a light background.

Sinatra, Martino, and Johnny Fontane

Frank Sinatra despised The Godfather. The character of Johnny Fontane, a mob-owned singer desperate for a movie role, hit far too close to home. One night at Chasen's restaurant, he confronted Mario Puzo, calling him a pimp and threatening to break his legs.

The role of Fontane went to singer Al Martino, who claimed he secured it with help from friends. Martino threw a lavish party in Las Vegas for Coppola and Puzo to convince them he was right for the part. Coppola eventually relented, though he later admitted he had reduced the role because of Martino's lack of acting experience. It's the kind of blurred line between the movie and reality that runs through the entire production, not unlike the strange arc of Sinatra's own early years clawing his way up through nightclubs with mob ties long before Hollywood came calling.

Film crew in a vintage setting, with cameras and equipment. Two men sitting, one wears a suit. Others are standing, focused. Black and white.

“Leave the Gun. Take the Cannoli.”

Filming began in New York, and the production quickly became legendary for its blend of precision and chaos. Coppola encouraged improvisation.

Richard Castellano added the now-famous line, “Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.” James Caan ad-libbed “Bada-bing!” while explaining to Michael how close-up hits work. Brando's spontaneous slap to Al Martino in the “You can act like a man!” scene was meant to provoke a real reaction.

The film's dark, moody visuals came from cinematographer Gordon Willis, who lit scenes in shadow to reflect the characters' moral ambiguity. Executives panicked. Willis ignored them. “I just kept doing what felt right,” he said.

Man in a suit sits at a restaurant table, looking serious. Another man stands by him, holding a match. Background shows empty tables.

Some of the film's most disturbing realism wasn't achieved through lighting or performance at all. The scene where studio boss Jack Woltz wakes up beside his prize racehorse's severed head used an actual horse head, sourced from a company that processed horses for dog food after Coppola decided a rubber version built for rehearsals didn't look convincing enough on camera. John Marley, who played Woltz, had no idea the swap had happened before the cameras rolled. His scream when he pulls back the sheets is real.

Three men converse near a covered figure on a film set. One holds a hat, another gestures thoughtfully. Mood is serious yet engaged. Black and white.

Michael's first kill, the double murder of Sollozzo and the corrupt police captain McCluskey, needed a restaurant that felt like a genuine neighborhood spot. Coppola's first choice was Mario's, a family-run Italian place on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx that's still open today. The owner, Mario Migliucci, turned him down flat. He didn't want his restaurant known for a scene where two men get shot over dinner, no matter how famous the film became. The production ended up at the nearby Old Luna Restaurant on White Plains Road instead, a building that's now a fabric store.

The opening wedding scene, shot at a mansion on Staten Island's Emerson Hill, used close to 750 extras pulled from the local community, with a temporary wall built around the property to make the estate look bigger and more secluded than it actually was. A number of those extras weren't hired actors at all. Several were reportedly connected to real crime families, drawn to the set much like Lenny Montana had been. It's never been fully confirmed who was who, but the blending of real wiseguys with actors playing wiseguys gives the scene a texture that's hard to fake.

Man in a long coat raises a hat in a bustling street. People and carts in the background, creating an urban vibe. Black and white image.

The Real Blood on the Streets

As Coppola filmed the baptism scene, life imitated art. On 28 June 1971, Joseph Colombo was shot three times at point-blank range during a rally at Columbus Circle. His assassin was killed at the scene. Colombo lived seven more years in a coma before dying of his injuries.

Al Ruddy, who had been invited to sit beside him on stage, skipped the event at the last minute. “Would you believe it?” Coppola said later. “Before we started working on the film, we kept saying, 'These Mafia guys don't shoot each other anymore.'”

Black-and-white street scene with three men conversing. One wears a hat, another a beanie. Urban backdrop with brick buildings and fire escapes.

Battles Behind the Camera

Coppola's fight was not only with the Mob but also with his own studio. Editors tried to replace him. Executives hated the slow pace and long runtime. Evans wanted more glamour, Coppola wanted realism. “You shot a saga and turned in a trailer,” Evans told him, demanding a longer cut.

In the end, Coppola's version won. The final film was an operatic three hours of family, power, and tragedy.

Evans later said the project “ruined my whole life, personally.” He lost his wife, Ali MacGraw, who left him for Steve McQueen during production. Yet he remained proud. Watching the film years later, he said simply, “It's the best picture ever made.”

Man in a chair getting makeup, eyes closed, another man in the background taking notes. Calm mood, neutral-colored room.

Battles Behind the Camera

Coppola’s fight was not only with the Mob but also with his own studio. Editors tried to replace him. Executives hated the slow pace and long runtime. Evans wanted more glamour; Coppola wanted realism. “You shot a saga and turned in a trailer,” Evans told him, demanding a longer cut.

In the end, Coppola’s version won. The final film was an operatic three hours of family, power, and tragedy.

Three people focus on applying makeup to a man's face in a vintage setting. Two assist while one applies with a brush, creating a focused mood.

Family, Power, and Tragedy

Coppola cast his own family in the film. His sister, Talia Shire, played Connie. His father, Carmine, appeared as a musician and later composed parts of the score. His infant daughter, Sofia, was the baby in the baptism scene.

Producer Al Ruddy saw the film's heart clearly. “There's one reason this movie is successful,” he said. “It may be the greatest family movie ever made.”

When Vito tells Michael, “I never wanted this for you,” the tragedy of the film crystallizes. The Godfather's power comes not from violence but from that unbreakable link between love and destruction.

Man in a blood-spattered suit stands by a car with a shattered window, looking intense. Background shows a building with multiple windows.

Brando's Own Act of Defiance

The Godfather earned Brando the Academy Award for Best Actor, and he didn't show up to collect it. Instead he sent a young actress named Sacheen Littlefeather to the stage at the 1973 ceremony. She told the stunned audience that Brando couldn't accept the award because of Hollywood's treatment of Native Americans on screen, and because of what was happening at Wounded Knee, where an armed standoff between the American Indian Movement and federal agents had been going on for weeks.

Brando had written a lengthy speech for her to read, but producers worried about runtime cut her off after a few sentences. The moment made headlines, but it wrecked Littlefeather's own acting career. She was mocked and effectively blacklisted for decades before the Academy formally apologized to her, just months before she died in 2022. It's a strange footnote to a film about loyalty and family: the man playing the head of a crime family used the biggest stage in Hollywood to call out a real injustice, and it was someone else who paid the price for it.

Person sits on steps outside "Louis Italian-American Restaurant" at night. Neon signs illuminate the scene, creating a nostalgic mood.

Legacy of a Masterpiece

The Godfather opened on 29 March 1972 and broke box office records, becoming the highest-grossing film of its time. It won the 1972 Academy Award for Best Picture. Francis Ford Coppola, certain it would fail, wasn't even at the premiere. “I had been so conditioned to think the film was bad, too long, too dark, too boring, that I didn't think it would have any success,” he said later.

The film redefined American cinema. Its influence extended beyond the screen. Real mobsters began quoting its dialogue, playing its music at weddings, and adopting its language of loyalty and betrayal. Salvatore “Sammy the Bull” Gravano said, “It made our life seem honorable.”

Decades later, the story of how The Godfather was made feels almost as dramatic as the film itself, a battle of art, money, and power that proved sometimes the most dangerous stories are the ones that tell the truth.