The Conversation: Paranoia, Surveillance & the Unshed Caul
The Conversation is one of the most innovative and unsettling American films of the 1970s. Released between The Godfather (1972) and The Godfather Part II (1974), it reveals Coppola’s range and willingness to experiment. Set against the backdrop of post-Kennedy-assassination America (note the ominous opening zoom camera that looks like a gun), the film channels the growing paranoia of that era—paranoia that would soon bloom in the Watergate scandal, which centered on secret tape recordings. At a time when hidden microphones, wiretapping, and government oversight were topics of heated debate, Coppola zeroed in on the fragile boundary between personal privacy and invasive surveillance. This cultural anxiety forms the core of The Conversation and drives its protagonist’s existential dread.
That protagonist is Harry Caul (Gene Hackman), a surveillance expert so consumed by the ethics of his work that his own life suffers. Hackman—who had already won an Oscar for The French Connection—infuses Caul with a quiet, suffocating tension. Unlike his more forceful characters, Hackman uses only subtle facial expressions and body language to convey paranoia and guilt. This minimalist approach highlights Caul’s struggle to remain invisible, even as he becomes desperately visible to unseen forces around him.
One of the film’s most striking elements is its groundbreaking sound design, masterminded by Walter Murch. Instead of using dialogue and music as a mere backdrop, Murch manipulates how we hear the central tape-recorded conversation, allowing phrases to shift in clarity and meaning. Each replay of the tape feels like an archaeological dig into Caul’s psyche. The audience hears layers of static and distortion peel away, mirroring Caul’s growing obsession and the crumbling of his presumed detachment. This was a revelatory method at the time, proving sound could lead a film’s narrative just as powerfully as the camera.
Note that a “caul” is a protective membrane found on some newborns (in Ukrainian, “born in a shirt” or «народитися в сорочці»), a symbol of good fortune in folklore that grants the newborn protection against drowning and evil spells. But this barrier to the outside world must be shed. Harry’s transparent raincoat symbolizes his refusal to relinquish this protective layer. His dream also provides insight into his terror at the precariousness of life:
I – was very sick when I was a boy. I was paralyzed in my left arm and my left leg. I couldn’t walk for six months. One doctor said that I’d probably never walk again. My mother used to lower me into a hot bath – it was therapy. One time the doorbell rang and she went down to answer it. I started sliding down. I could feel the water starting to come up to my chin, up to my nose, and when I woke up, my body was all greasy from the holy oil she put on my body.
Finally, listen carefully for the words at the film’s heart. The repeated tape, with its cryptic phrase, shows how easily truth can become twisted by context and paranoia. Coppola and Murch guide you toward a revelation that feels both shocking and inevitable—one that underscores the power of details in shaping our perception of reality. These words hold the key to the final puzzle, making The Conversation a tense, quietly devastating reflection on privacy, guilt, and the thin line between safety and self-inflicted isolation.
Chad Gracia
Kyiv Cinema Society
Get tickets here.