Michael Corleone (Al Pacino, eyes like dying coals) craves absolution in The Godfather Part III, Coppola’s operatic swan song that drags the Corleone empire from New York shadows to Vatican marble. It’s 1979: Michael’s “legit” at last, knighted by the Pope, but blood debts don’t retire. A Vatican Bank scandal, a bastard nephew’s rise (Andy García, all feral charm as Vincent), and daughter Mary’s forbidden love (Sofia Coppola, heartbreakingly fragile) ignite a final, tragic crescendo.

 The set-pieces sing: Sicilian processions drenched in sunlight, opera-house assassinations synced to Cavalleria Rusticana’s sobs, and that staircase scream echoing Part I’s baptism. Pacino’s howl of grief is Shakespeare in a silk suit; Eli Wallach’s slimy Don Altobello chews scenery like cannoli. Flawed? Sure—pacing sags, some dialogue clunks—but the mythic weight crushes: sin, succession, the impossibility of washing hands clean.

Part III isn’t the masterpiece of its predecessors; it’s the funeral march that completes the requiem. Just when he thought he was out… fate pulls him back for one last, devastating note. Watch with wine and tissues.

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