Review of The Conversation (1974) by Nick O — 12 Sep 2011

Imagine the tense-ridden final shot of "The Godfather: Part II" examined over two ballsy hours -- and you still wouldn't be doing Francis Ford Coppola's quiet and massive masterpiece proper enough justice. It's called "The Conversation" yet it works wonders in so few words. The hero's a wiretapping wuss without need for many, little he finds for the taking coming from outside help. On the brink of chaos and obsession Harry Caul (Gene Hackman portraying haunt with grim nuance) best bides his time praising the conspiracy behind the existence of a god without rhythm while he on Earth can boil illegal art to every dotted "i".

But Coppola doesn't play Harry for holy lives. The dude's human and then some. Thing is, there's too much room in talk for Harry to fill dead air with his sins. A couple under his surveillance are to be murdered if he doesn't ditch the quiet man routine and unravel their few reels of recorded tape. Those same scenes ring true today. The rest of this paranoid beauty leaves thoughts up in the air and screaming.

What makes "The Conversation" so good beyond Hackman's alarmingly mortal performance is Coppola's scary erotic build of the life around Harry's head, the underground made seductive in its birds-eye alienation. When the camera breaks insomnia and falls on a crowded Union Square in San Francisco immediately we too are drugged and boarded through places where even dreams become borders from years of unshaped vitals. Trapped ahead of time materializing, the juiciest bits still find Harry fondling the gadgets he's lost as to when to plug in. That's just it, Harry -- sometimes life gives you volume to speak louder than words.