When you first witness the iconic opening of Francis Ford Coppola’s “The Godfather,” your eyes might easily miss the quiet, almost invisible figure in the room. So much else demands attention: James Caan’s restless Sonny in the background, and Marlon Brando’s Don Corleone, shrouded in shadow behind his desk, stroking a cat while listening to a chilling request for murder. The Don suavely refuses, yet promises resolution, and then the scene shifts.
The moment the petitioner departs, this ‘pale man’ — Robert Duvall, embodying Tom Hagen, the Don’s future consigliere — appears silently, almost like a phantom emerging from the deep shadows. For the remainder of the exchange, he stays close to the Godfather, a silent accomplice, enveloped by the gloom. While Don Corleone faces the camera, Duvall’s face is mostly hidden, his silence adding to his enigmatic presence. Yet, without a single word, the scene conveys a profound intimacy and the unwavering dedication of this man, revealing someone who doesn’t merely obey power but is instrumental in its very creation.
This dynamic mirrored the remarkable career of Robert Duvall, who passed away on Sunday at the age of 95. Throughout his extensive career, he occasionally led the cast, as seen in the 1980 drama “The Great Santini,” but he truly shone as a masterful ensemble player. By the time he took on the role of the enigmatic Tom Hagen in “The Godfather,” Duvall was already a key member of Francis Ford Coppola’s trusted circle. Together, they collaborated on numerous films, beginning with “The Rain People” (1969), a poignant and sprawling drama. In it, Shirley Knight plays a pregnant woman escaping her suburban life on the open road, encountering two vastly different men: one, James Caan’s character, is vulnerably wounded, while Duvall’s portrayal exudes a quiet menace.
In ‘The Rain People,’ Duvall portrays Gordon, a patrolman who pulls over Natalie for speeding on a desolate highway. Initially, the cop is all crisp professionalism, hidden behind sunglasses. But as their conversation veers towards her marital status, Natalie senses a deeper, unspoken interest. Duvall, a master of portraying tightly wound individuals, subtly hints at Gordon’s underlying danger. Soon, they move from a diner to a bedroom. While not known for romantic leads, Duvall is compellingly attractive, yet Gordon’s edginess remains palpable. His darting eyes and impatient words betray a volatile nature. The film culminates tragically for its characters, but the powerful performances, especially Duvall’s, leave an unforgettable impression.
A striking black-and-white headshot of Robert Duvall captures his intense gaze. Another image shows Duvall as Tom Hagen in “The Godfather,” his expression suggesting a man who not only serves power but actively shapes it.
By this point in his career, Duvall had already etched himself into the minds of many filmgoers, even if they didn’t yet know his name. Think of his portrayal of Boo Radley in Robert Mulligan’s 1963 film adaptation of “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Boo, a reclusive, silent figure, is the subject of intense childhood speculation and local legend—a mythical boogeyman, rumored to be a towering six-and-a-half feet tall, subsisting on raw squirrels and cats. When he finally appears on screen late in the film, having just saved two children from death, he retreats behind a door in their house. Standing motionless, his face, interpreted by the young heroine Scout with sudden adult clarity, is a haunting tapestry woven by Duvall: wariness, profound isolation, and a touch of childlike bewilderment.
Boo Radley’s part, though brief, is crucial, and Duvall’s subdued power makes it profoundly memorable. This debut role launched a career that steadily gained momentum across diverse projects, including Robert Altman’s “Countdown” (1968) and George Lucas’s “THX 1138” (1971). While Duvall occasionally received top billing and radiated star power, he often felt more like a pivotal supporting actor than a traditional leading man. This perception was partly influenced by enduring Hollywood beauty standards, even as the industry transitioned from its classic era. Duvall was undeniably handsome, yet factors like his receding hairline and the taut, almost wincing stretch of his skin across his facial features likely impacted casting decisions by those controlling the purse strings.
Duvall’s uncanny chameleon-like ability to inhabit his characters was a significant force in shaping his career. So too was his inherent intensity and his apparent disinterest in currying audience favor. He never seemed to demand affection, even when his films yearned for it, as evidenced in “The Great Santini.” Here, he portrays Lt. Col. Bull Meechum, a formidable, hard-drinking Marine and family man. In the film’s most infamous sequence, a casual driveway basketball game escalates into a brutal test of wills when Meechum, infuriated by his eldest son outplaying him, first threatens his wife, then relentlessly bounces the basketball off his son’s head. Duvall’s performance of this violence is executed with such fierce, singular focus—punctuated by unsettling, barking laughs—that even Meechum’s later tears fail to evoke any sympathy.
Duvall enjoyed the kind of extensive, celebrated career that thrived in a bygone cinematic era, one that not only helped define New Hollywood but also successfully navigated its shifting landscape. He certainly took his share of routine roles, appearing in various blockbuster fluff and unmemorable independent features. However, after earning a well-deserved Oscar for “Tender Mercies” (1983), he ventured into writing and directing, crafting several distinctively individual films. These included “The Apostle” (1997), where he starred as a preacher-turned-murderer, and the wonderfully unconventional “Assassination Tango” (2003). In the latter, he played John, a tango-obsessed hitman whose journey takes him from Coney Island to Buenos Aires, where, amidst his work, he immerses himself in the dance. This pursuit of tango feels less like a coincidence and more like a profound metaphor for finding joy even while fulfilling a dangerous profession.
By then, his iconic portrayal of Tom Hagen in “The Godfather” saga was a distant memory. Duvall had starred in the first two films but famously opted out of the third due to a pay dispute, insisting on parity with Al Pacino. This principled stand, tinged with a dignified pride, echoes a poignant scene in “Assassination Tango.” As his character, John, prepares for a night out, he is a fascinating paradox: a devoted family man and a lethal assassin, effortlessly embodying a multitude of personas, much like Duvall himself. On this particular evening, John is about to execute a violent task with his usual precision. But first, he dons a sharp black hat and dark attire, then meticulously preens before a mirror, applying lotion to his cheeks and gently smoothing the wrinkles on his throat. It’s an unexpectedly vulnerable moment, held by Duvall for a few unforgettable seconds with profound, knowing elegance.