When you first watch the iconic opening of Francis Ford Coppola’s “The Godfather,” you might easily miss the calm, pale man with an almost hawklike stillness in the room. There’s so much else to capture your attention in this explosive start: James Caan’s Sonny, buzzing with restless energy in the background, and Marlon Brando’s Don Corleone, shrouded in shadow behind his desk, stroking a cat while listening to a plea for murder. The Don politely declines, offering to handle things his way, and then both men rise.
The moment the petitioner leaves, the pale man materializes silently, almost supernaturally, taking his place before the Godfather. For the remainder of the scene, these two figures stay close, enveloped by a darkness that feels like a shroud. Don Corleone faces the camera, but the pale man’s face remains mostly hidden, adding to his enigmatic presence. He utters no words as the Godfather speaks, yet by the scene’s end, their profound intimacy and the pale man’s unwavering devotion are clear. This, you realize, is a man who doesn’t just serve power; he actively shapes it.
In many ways, this dynamic mirrored the career of Robert Duvall, who passed away on Sunday at 95. Throughout his decades-long journey, he sometimes held the spotlight, as in the 1980 drama “The Great Santini,” but he was just as often a brilliant ensemble player. By the time he portrayed the mysterious Tom Hagen – the Don’s future consigliere – in “The Godfather,” Duvall was already a key member of Francis Ford Coppola’s inner circle, contributing to the realization of the director’s cinematic visions. Their collaboration spanned several films, beginning with “The Rain People” (1969), a poignant, sprawling drama about a pregnant woman (Shirley Knight) escaping her mundane life on the road. Along her journey, she encounters two contrasting men: one deeply vulnerable (Caan), the other subtly menacing (Duvall).
Duvall’s character, Gordon, is a patrolman who pulls over Natalie for speeding on a desolate highway. Initially, the cop is strictly official, but after a casual exchange about her marital status, Natalie senses a deeper, unspoken interest in his demeanor. Duvall masterfully portrayed tightly wound characters, and while Gordon’s thoughts are never explicitly revealed, the underlying danger in him is palpable. Soon, they find themselves in a diner, then in bed. Duvall rarely played romantic leads, and despite his convincing attractiveness here, Gordon maintains an almost imperceptible edginess. Volatility flickers in his darting eyes, impatience in his words. The film ultimately ends tragically for all involved, but by its conclusion, every actor – especially Duvall – has indelibly carved their presence into the audience’s memory.
I imagine that by this point, Duvall had already quietly captivated many moviegoers, even if they couldn’t recall the name of the actor who played Boo Radley in Robert Mulligan’s 1963 film adaptation of “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Boo, a reclusive figure, is the subject of intense speculation among the local children, a legendary boogeyman rumored to be a towering giant who “eats raw squirrels and all the cats he can catch.” When Boo finally appears on screen near the film’s climax, having saved two children from peril, he stands motionless behind a door in their house. His face, as perceived by the young heroine, Scout, reveals a haunting blend of wariness, profound isolation, and childlike incomprehension – a portrayal that Duvall imbues with unforgettable depth.
Boo Radley’s role, though small, is pivotal to the story, made even more memorable by Duvall’s understated power. It was his very first film part, marking the beginning of a career that steadily gained momentum through collaborations with diverse directors like Robert Altman (“Countdown,” 1968) and George Lucas (“THX 1138,” 1971). While Duvall sometimes received top billing and certainly radiated the presence of a superstar, he consistently embodied the spirit of a character actor rather than a conventional lead. This trajectory was partly influenced by enduring Hollywood notions of male beauty, which persisted even as the old studio system faded into the New Hollywood era. Duvall possessed a pleasant appearance, but his receding hairline and the taut, almost wincing stretch of skin across his facial bones undoubtedly factored into the decisions of those holding the purse strings.
Duvall’s remarkable ability to vanish into his characters was another crucial aspect of his career path. I believe his inherent intensity and apparent disinterest in actively seeking audience affection also played a role. He never seemed to crave adoration, even when the films themselves invited it, as in “The Great Santini.” In that film, he portrays Lt. Col. Bull Meechum, a gruff, heavy-drinking Marine and family man. The movie’s most famous scene features a driveway basketball game that escalates into a brutal test of wills when Meechum, enraged by his eldest son outplaying him, first threatens his wife, then repeatedly bounces the basketball off his son’s head. Duvall delivers this violence with such unwavering, singular focus—punctuated by unsettlingly bizarre barking laughs—that even Meechum’s subsequent tears fail to evoke sympathy.
Duvall enjoyed the kind of long, illustrious career that was more common in earlier cinematic eras, a career that both defined and outlasted New Hollywood. He took his share of roles simply for the paycheck, appearing in forgettable blockbusters and independent films. After finally winning a well-deserved Oscar for “Tender Mercies” (1983), he ventured into writing and directing several uniquely individual projects: “The Apostle” (1997), where he played a murderous preacher, and the wonderfully eccentric “Assassination Tango” (2003). In the latter, he starred as John, a tango-loving hitman whose journey begins in Coney Island and unexpectedly leads him to Buenos Aires. There, while on assignment, John learns the tango, an act that, whether intentional or not, serves as a metaphor for fulfilling one’s duties while also pursuing personal passions.
By this time, his iconic role as Tom Hagen was far behind Duvall. He had appeared in the first two “Godfather” films but famously declined the third because the production wouldn’t meet his salary demands, matching Al Pacino’s. His refusal, imbued with a palpable sense of pride, is entirely understandable. It echoes an early moment in “Assassination Tango” when John prepares to go out. He is a complex, enigmatic character—a loving husband and family man one moment, a dangerous hired gun the next—seemingly as adept at embodying multiple roles as the actor himself. On this particular night, he is about to execute a violent task with his usual precision. But first, he dons a sharp black hat and dark clothes, then primps before a mirror, dabbing lotion on his cheeks. With exquisite care, John then smooths the wrinkles on his throat, a fleeting yet undeniably vulnerable moment that Duvall holds for a few memorable seconds with sublimely knowing grace.