You Gotta Be Rich To Kill Somebody And Get Away With It: Iconic Lines Taken Out Of Iconic Movies

It’s the first scene of the iconic movie Chinatown and Curly (played by the immortal Burt Young) is lamenting, “Oh, oh, oh, she’s no good!” about his cheating wife, and Curly moans and carries on and at some point cries out, “I think I’ll kill her!” Jake Gittes (Jack Nicholson), the private eye who took the pictures of Curly’s wife with her lover, gets very angry, he pounds the desk with his fist, he screams at Curly, “You gotta be rich to kill somebody, anybody, and get away with it. You think you got that kind off dough, you think you got that kind of class?”

Someone took the line out of the movie.

A line that is key to the meaning of the film. 

The great thing about being older is that you get to experience things first hand so you remember stuff everyone else has forgotten or didn’t know existed. The terrible thing about being older is that you get to experience things first hand so you remember stuff…well, you get the drift.

The first time my husband and I saw Chinatown at home, probably on VHS, we were so stunned we practically jumped off the sofa, “Wait, they took out the line!” The great screenwriter and teacher, Syd Field remembers. He talks about that line in his book, Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting, in Chapter 7, called “The SetUp: Wherein We Discuss the Importance of the First Ten Pages of Chinatown” (Screenplay by Robert Towne).

I mean, maybe you have to be older to understand the holiness of what I just placed down there. Robert Towne. Chinatown. Syd Field. Now, I know that screenplays change all the time while the film is being made. But, no, not after the movie is made, after it's seen, after it becomes SACRED! I mean, we heard the line! And, we got it. So, it’s not just in Syd Field’s fabulous book. And, when you think, when you as a devoted film viewer think on the final scene of Chinatown, you feel that early line deep down in your soul.

Now, here’s a line, man, did this line ever bug me - from The Godfather - who the hell messed with an important line from The Godfather? Did Francis Ford Coppola himself actually reach in and pluck out this line - I mean, I HEARD THE GODFATHER SAY IT - he says it to Sonny -

“Ah, never interfere between a man and a woman.”

It happens to be, not only foreshadowing of Sonny’s demise, but it happens to be Sonny’s fatal flaw - his temper, his arrogance, his impetuousness, his immediate demand for immediate satisfaction, for immediate justice as he sees it.

Ok, so Sonny’s mother says something like it at dinner, she waves her hand and tells Sonny, “Don’t interfere,” when he starts to join in on an argument between his sister and her husband.

Let’s face it, it’s a great line even without Sonny’s issues. It’s one I repeat often. Classic Godfather wisdom right up there with “You cannot truly be a man unless you spend time with your family.” A line which he ostensibly says to his godson, Johnny Fontane, but is really aimed at Sonny to whom the camera pans, off to the side of the room.

So, imagine my surprise when I bought The Godfather set, and watched it in all fangirl eagerness only to be left with the same empty hands. No? No line? Where did it go?

I couldn’t believe it. I know I hadn’t imagined his voice clearly saying the line in my memory.

Then, one Christmas Day, I was busy in the kitchen while everyone else was watching a Godfather marathon on A&E in the living room when my daughter called out, “Mom! Mom! The Godfather said it! He said the line!”

I knew it! It exists somewhere, darling!

I guess there are different forms of movies out there, some whole, some cut for some reason, some cut to make room for commercials, some cut for decorum, or censorship. 

Oh, there are others. In the beloved and iconic British TV series, Poldark, for instance, the lovely scene where Ross washes Demelza before he’ll let her into his house. No nudity, only a milky white shoulder is revealed while Demelza gets sloshed with water. Cut.

The original

Another line, one of my favorites. Demelza is visiting the drunkard (now sober), Captain Blamey, to try to encourage him to see her cousin-in-law, Verity, again, a union that has been forbidden by Verity’s family. Captain Blamey tells Demelza that she is certainly extraordinary to visit him and propose a new meeting with Verity. Demelza, putting on her gloves while she talks, says, “T’is only now I’m learning the ways of gentlefolk and I can already see what misery it brings to people’s lives.”

It’s an important line, cut from the VHS version for a couple of decades, but replaced in the DVD (no bathing scene, however). The entire theme of Poldark is freedom. Ross Poldark, in the first scene, after having returned to England from our Revolutionary War in which he fought on the British side, recounts his feelings about the so-called "heathens" (Native Americans) saying they are “often more Christian and more civilized than we.” The person he is speaking to laughs and accuses him of joking. But, Ross isn’t joking. He is often embarrassed by his own class and prefers the honesty and bravery of the poorer people in his country, in effect, championing a new, revolutionary way of life, much like America.

In fact, the very first line of The Godfather, which we hear, in the dark, is “I believe in America.” I hope no one takes it away.

It’s the reason I want to keep important lines in films. Freedom. Freedom of speech. Freedom for the writer to keep his/her words and for the people to keep hearing the truth. After all, I've always believed in fiction as the only real way to get the truth out there.

©PatriciaGoodwin, 2019

Patricia Goodwin is the author of When Two Women Die, about Marblehead legends and true crime and its sequel, Dreamwater, about the Salem witch trials and the vicious 11-year-old pirate Ned Low. Holy Days is her third novel, about the sexual, psychological seduction of Gloria Wisher and her subsequent transformation. Her newest poetry books are Telling Time By Apples, And Other Poems About Life On The Remnants of Olde Humphrey Farme, illustrated by the author, and Java Love: Poems of a Coffeehouse.

Dreamers - Don't Deport Our Best and Brightest Dreamers

Children being deported from Lodz Ghetto 

in Nazi-occupied Poland for the Death Camp at Chelmno, 1942. 

They would have been gassed within 24 hours of leaving the ghetto.

Dreamers

Like the little boy across the street 

who comes out every day 

to sing

in front of his house

he walks back and forth, arms outstretched, head thrown back

singing out to the world

his voice is sweet and young and full

in summer he is barefoot

in fall he wears shoes

perhaps his mother has said, "Go outside, go! Sing outside!"

because she is tired of hearing him

I never tire of hearing him

sometimes his song is soft and gentle

sometimes, loud and strong

always that sweet high note he hits so well

to give me gooseflesh and shivers

the dream that climbs on youth

as the sun slides to twilight

making gold of everything

and his mother calls him in

what if one day he did not come out?

what if one day he did not dream?

*Note: There really is a little boy across the street from me who comes out of his house nearly every day to sing. He reminds me of the talent, the power, the promise and the love our children hold. He reminds me of the Dreamers, who dreamed their dreams as children and worked hard to create wonderful futures for themselves and their families. President Trump - Please do not deport our Dreamers! They are the essence of America, all that people who have escaped oppression wish for their children.

©Patricia Goodwin, 2017

Patricia Goodwin is the author of When Two Women Die, about Marblehead legends and true crime and its sequel, Dreamwater, about the Salem witch trials and the vicious 11-year-old pirate Ned Low. Holy Days is her third novel, about the sexual, psychological seduction of Gloria Wisher and her subsequent transformation. Her newest book is Telling Time By Apples, And Other Poems About Life On The Remnants of Olde Humphrey Farme, illustrated by the author. 

It’s Thanksgiving And I’m Thinking About Nazis

The Weeping Frenchman, Paris, 1940

It’s Thanksgiving and I’m thinking about Nazis.

I was born in 1951, and WWII had ended for only 6 years. I grew up with my family talking, talking, talking about the Nazis, about privations, about war. We were Catholic, but we were Italian and the Italians had changed sides during the war. The conversation went like this:

“Would the Nazis kill me?” I asked.

“You? Ha! They would have loved you! You’re exactly what they wanted! Blonde hair and green eyes! The Italians! Now, the Italians, we would have been next after the Jews! The Italians changed sides, they changed sides.”

“But, Grandma’s Italian and I’m half Italian!” I worried.

            “Ah, next they would’ve started on people with freckles,” Daddy grumbled.

            “Do I have freckles?”

            “A few,” Mama said.

So, I would be next, after all, my expression told her.

            “Don’t worry, the Germans lost the war!” Mama laughed.

All the while they were discussing the war, what had happened, how could it have happened, can you believe it, I still can’t believe it, I could hear the glimmer of fascination and (could it be?) admiration sneaking into their voices. The cunning of the Nazis, their incredible intelligence, their power. That power. That power over my family’s lives. Over everyone’s lives. Over the world. 

Let me be clear - I'm not a Nazi. I'm a writer. Cursed to observe and write about human behavior. I was brought up in the Kennedy era to believe as The Declaration of Independence says: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness."

Watching television as a kid, I began to see that physical perfection of the Nazi ideal, especially in the women. “Women,” I wrote in Holy Days, “were the only ones who had not escaped the Nazi ideal. You had to be perfect. Physical perfection was the minimum daily requirement.” I watched beautiful women dancing with that crumbled old creature, Lawrence Welk, and I knew. I watched beautiful women standing next to cars or refrigerators, kissing men, kissing children, and I knew.

Of course, in the ’50s and ‘60s, physical perfection was precisely defined: low forehead, large wide-set eyes, long eyelashes, pert nose and breasts, preferably impossibly large breasts, long legs, slender waistline. Blonde was the best – “Is it true blondes have more fun?” But, lush brunette was good too. In fact, some men did not prefer blondes.

Then, the Sexual, Social Revolution came and we eradicated all that. Everyone was beautiful in their own way. And, you know what, mother fucker? We fucking meant it.

The flag turned upside down and I’ve been seeing it upside down again lately after nearly 50 excruciating years of first watching the Revolution turn into disco and later into the Kardashians. Okay. All of that is okay. But, it wasn’t just a hairstyle. Or a way of dressing. It was a Revolution. A revolution in thinking, in being. 

When we studied the first Thanksgiving as kids we loved to hear how the New England natives had welcomed the settlers and taught them how to grow corn and they actually had helped the newcomers, for how could they have known what would happen next? As hippies, we celebrated Native-Americans: we learned about them, we wanted to be like them, their strength, their wisdom, their ability to live in Nature and in harmony with Nature. Now, we, as a nation, are pummeling them with high-pressure waterhoses, dogs, guns, tanks, bright light and loud noise nighttime torture techniques as they demonstrate and huddle together trying to protect their sacred lands and water. Water is Life, is their slogan. And it’s not only a Standing Rock, North Dakota Native-American fight. People in Flint, Michigan can light the water coming out of their faucets on fire and Flint is not the worst example of fracking water or poisoned water coming out of the faucets in America.

I read an op-ed written by William Kennedy Smith, himself an accused rapist, about Trump and his neo-fascist government. Smith wrote about his uncle, the immortal Robert F. Kennedy, did I mention, #WeHadGods? Robert, you might recall, if you lived through it the first time, was gunned down like his brother, another immortal, John F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, another immortal, gunned down, all three of whom believed in the equality of men and women, believed in America.

So, it’s Thanksgiving and I’ve been thinking about Nazis. Here is a chapter from Holy Days, about another Thanksgiving many years ago, and lessons we failed to learn that day.

My mother died on Thanksgiving. No condolences, please. She was special only to me and my family. She was one of the first angels I knew. Oh, yes. Did you know Gods and angels were flawed and beautiful?

 By the way, we’re eating Italian this Thanksgiving, in honor of my ancestors. We'll be grateful to be together.

NOVEMBER 22, 1963
THE MOMENT

What difference does it make to history or anything else where any of us were at the precise moment we heard?

      The difference is this: that was the moment we all, collectively, stopped believing.

      We stopped believing in goodness.

            Mama used to click her tongue, whenever she thought about it, in her vague, muddled way: “The Nazis fixed everything, they fixed everything, they fixed!” She was right. The Nazis made it so we could get used to anything. Someone, a man who had survived the death camps, talked once about being forced to shovel graves for the Nazis. He talked about how enormous the hole was and how cold he and the other shovellers were, how very cold. He talked about seeing a weed blowing in the cold wind and thinking how happy he was to be alive, just to see that weed, to know the weed was alive under the freezing snow and how grateful he was to feel the terrible cold because he was alive - and he knew, then, that human beings could get used to anything.

      For a long time, the Nazis were very far away. First, they were in Europe, then, they were in the past. The Nazis were not us, but we became them. We invited them in.

      From the moment the shot rang out, the Nazis, like the Devil himself, rose up from hell and rushed to our side. From that moment on, we learned to turn our heads and check our backs; we learned suspicion and fear. At first we were horrified at ourselves and then, we got used to our fear. And then, we got used to our horror. And, then, we became proud of our horror and began to wear it ahead of us, not as a shield, as a medal.

      We were so frightened by the Nazis, that we became the Nazis in order to keep it from happening to us again. We had the comfort of knowing, no matter what we did, no matter how evil, we could never be as bad as the Nazis.

      In Revere, bad had become a virtue. Bad was it. I heard of kids who wouldn’t come to Revere. That struck me as funny, because there were other cities, like Dorchester and Roxbury, where I was afraid to go, even in the car with my parents. Sometimes, bad is all there is. It starts to look good after a while. Bad makes you tough. It makes you ready.

      I was walking out of school at lunchtime. I was looking down. I always did, looking introspectively at the black tar of the schoolyard that plunged downhill, watching the bits of broken glass twinkling in the sunshine.

      Someone spoke in a normal voice: “The President’s been shot.”

      I watched as the black tar ran out from under my feet, ran backwards, ocean waves of tar sparkling with glass, running out like the ocean, pulling the earth out from under my feet, the black tar ran on and on, spinning endlessly, and I went cold with fear.

      I looked up to see everyone running, kids were running home. As though an air raid had been sounded, as though we were being bombed, kids ran for shelter.

      The President can’t be shot, he can’t be! He’s the President! That alone should protect him! He was so beautiful, so perfect! So good and fine. Didn‘t those qualities protect him? How could anyone dare? How could anyone not love him? What more could anyone want?

      I thought of him sailing as I, too, ran home and the seagulls flew after me, cawing hoarsely after me, “Dead! Dead!” He was sailing, his hair filled with spray, and also in the boat, his fine wife and children, sun-colored, flying on the wind! What more could anyone want?

      When I got to the highway, the crossing guard was crying, the tears making a trail of black eye makeup in her orange rouge. When I got home, Ma’s nose was red and swollen; her beautiful eyes were swollen with sorrow. The television was on and everyone on TV, women and men, cried openly. Men choked when they tried to speak. Daddy came home early from work. He put his head down on the kitchen table beside his beer. When he lifted his head, he rubbed his eyes over and over.

      The whole world was crying. The television was on for days. There was no school, but Ma made me watch the funeral.

      “You sit there and watch this, this is history!”

      “I can’t stand it! I wanna go to the library!”

      “The library’s not open! Everything’s closed! Look! It’s history!” She was right. The streets were deserted.

      But, I couldn’t bear it any longer. Black, black, black, the slow march of black.

      “Why don’t they wear white? Isn’t he in heaven? Why isn’t everyone happy?”

      I couldn’t imagine him anywhere else. I was sure he was an angel now.

      “Doesn’t the priest wear white for a funeral mass?” I asked.

      “Shut up and be quiet!” Ma sniffed.

      I was tired of mourning already. I’d watched the television enough! John John was saluting. They made him do that. The riderless horse frightened me. It was ghostly. I wondered if the President had ever ridden a horse. I couldn’t remember him on one, but I thought he’d look perfect. Then, I confused the lone horse with the headless horseman, and I remembered it was Jackie who’d ridden.

      I was confused for days, as the TV droned on and on, the funeral procession marched for days. John John saluted all day long, the black horse rode alone, Jackie’s suit was covered with blood, and we had a new President, President Johnson, who was a joke on the Vaughn Meader album. We’d all sat around the kitchen table, it seemed like years ago, in our pajamas. We had my little record player on the table and we laughed and laughed, as the little boy rang the doorbell at the White House and asked for Caroline. President Kennedy himself answered the door (really Vaughn Meader doing an imitation, who, afterward, refused to do another album) and told the little boy that Caroline was in Hyannisport with her mother and the little boy said, “Well, then, what’s Lyndon doing?” I’d needed it explained to me, but, after that, it was hilarious.

      And before, during the election debates, hadn’t Ma knelt down and smooched Jack Kennedy’s handsome young face on TV and didn’t she turn and press her round ass to the set, and cry “Kiss my ass!” whenever Nixon’s ugly mug had come on?

      And, simultaneously, while the funeral marched endlessly and the eternal flame burned in the dark rain, young girls were being strangled to death, one by one, because they’d trusted too much in their mutual sorrow and let the Boston Strangler* in the door.

      It was evil; evil had wormed its way into Camelot.

*Joann Graff, 23, the Boston Strangler's 12th victim, was strangled with her nylon stockings; found on November 23, 1963 in her apartment at 54 Essex St., Lawrence, Massachusetts.

Note: If you don't believe the musings of a child, please look into this book, written 45 years later by a Rhodes Scholar and well-respected author, The End of America: Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot, A Citizen's Call to Action, by Naomi Wolf, who noticed the changes in our country. Chapter titles include, "…the Fragility of Democracy," "Establish Secret Prisons," "Restrict the Press" and "Surveil Ordinary Citizens." Ms. Wolf began to realize we were on a path similar to the Germans before WWII.

©Patricia Goodwin, 2016

Patricia Goodwin is the author of When Two Women Die, about Marblehead legends and true crime and its sequel, Dreamwater, about the Salem witch trials and the vicious 11-year-old pirate Ned Low. Holy Days is her third novel, about the sexual, psychological seduction of Gloria Wisher and her subsequent transformation.