#2 ‘The Godfather’

Written By Veronica Blade

A Love Letter to the Men Who Ruin Everything

Ah, The Godfather. The sacred text of cinema bros, mafia fetishists, and every man who’s ever quoted "I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse" while ignoring the withering stares of every woman within earshot. Francis Ford Coppola’s 1972 masterpiece is revered, exalted, practically canonized in the Church of Masculinity. And for what? A glorified family drama about emotionally constipated men solving their problems with murder, lies, and some very good tailoring.

Let’s not pretend this is a film about power and legacy. It’s a film about male entitlement—served with a side of pasta, a gun in the toilet tank, and the unquestioned assumption that violence is noble if it’s done in the name of “family.”

Marlon Brando mumbles his way through the role of Don Vito Corleone, a mafia patriarch who seems gentle because he prefers veiled threats and passive-aggressive cheek kissing over bloodbaths—until, of course, bloodbaths are required. Then there’s Michael, the golden boy turned sociopath, whose transformation is hailed as Shakespearean by men who mistake moral decay for character development.

Michael’s journey is framed as tragic, as if the audience is supposed to weep over the fact that the American Dream turned him into a remorseless killer. But let’s be honest: Michael was never innocent. He just hadn't yet found the justification to turn his superiority complex into a body count.

And the women? Don’t blink or you’ll miss them. They are either silent, sobbing, or dead. Apollonia, Michael’s Sicilian wife, is fridged before she’s even properly characterized. Kay (Diane Keaton, trapped in WASP purgatory) exists only to stare blankly as her husband morphs into a mafia kingpin, and when she finally asserts herself by asking about his business? He lies, shuts a door in her face, and that’s the END of her arc. A literal closing door is considered one of cinema’s greatest endings. Symbolic, sure. Also: emotionally bankrupt.

The film revels in the aesthetics of power—dimly lit rooms, whispered orders, long tables full of men pretending their violence is righteous. It wants us to believe these men are complicated. That murder, betrayal, and corruption are just the cost of loyalty. What it really shows is how male-dominated institutions—be they criminal empires or capitalist dynasties—destroy everything they touch and call it tradition.

Yes, the cinematography is sumptuous. The score? Iconic. But if you strip away the sepia tone and slow-motion murder montages, what are you left with? A bunch of men defending their fragile egos with bullets while their wives pray and suffer off-screen.

The Godfather is the cinematic equivalent of watching a cigar smoke itself into extinction while someone reads you the minutes of a toxic family meeting. A beautifully crafted, morally hollow opera of manhood in decline.

2.5 out of 5 cannoli
(The half-star is for the cannoli. Leave the gun. Take the patriarchy out back and bury it.)

Veronica Blade

Born in Detroit in the late 70s to a unionized auto worker and a punk-rock-loving librarian, Veronica Blade was raised on equal doses of riot grrrl zines and vintage vinyl. Her adolescence was marked by a fierce independence, cultivated in the DIY music scene and sharpened by her participation in underground theatre collectives that tackled police violence, reproductive rights, and queer identity. After a short-lived attempt at an art school degree, Veronica left academia to tour with a feminist noise band called Her Majesty’s Razor, where she performed spoken word over industrial soundscapes in squats and protest camps across North America.

By her early 30s, she had moved to New York, where she lived in a Bushwick warehouse with performance artists, fire-eaters, and ex-dominatrixes. Here she co-founded Molotov Darlings, a guerrilla performance troupe known for their impromptu shows in front of hedge fund offices and their reimagining of Greek tragedies through a queer-anarchist lens. Her visual essays, blending collage and scathing satire, began circulating widely online, catching the attention of the alt-arts community and eventually being featured in fringe art festivals in Berlin, Montreal, and Melbourne.

Career Highlights:

  • 2007 – Co-wrote Vulvatron, a graphic novel hailed as “explosive, obscene, and essential reading” by Broken Pencil Magazine.

  • 2010 – Guest-curated the controversial exhibition Grrrls with Grenades at a renegade gallery in Brooklyn, which explored the aesthetics of feminine rage through street art, sculpture, and drag.

  • 2013 – Published a widely shared essay The Clitoris is a Political Weapon on feminist blogosphere site Jezebitch, which was banned in five countries and taught in two liberal arts colleges.

  • 2016 – Arrested during a protest performance at a tech conference where she set fire to a mannequin dressed as a Silicon Valley bro, gaining notoriety as both artist and agitator.

  • 2019 – Shortlisted for the Audre Lorde Radical Voices Fellowship for her anthology Blood Ink: Writings from the Queer Body Underground.

  • 2021 – Wrote a monthly column called Art Slaps for the experimental culture journal NoiseMuse, dissecting art world hypocrisies with her signature wit and fury.

Veronica Blade brings with her a reputation for fearless critique, raw intellect, and an unrelenting commitment to smashing patriarchy with glitter, words, and duct tape

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#3 ‘Casablance’
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#1 ‘Citizen Kane’