In 1988 Francis Ford Coppola's career was on the rocks. The once shining star of Hollywood who garnered five Academy Awards and two Palme d’Or’s in ten years had failed to capture audience attention since 1979’s Apocalypse Now. Throughout the eighties he averaged two films per year yet failed to recoup multi-million dollar budgets on half of them, forcing him to file bankruptcy in 1983. Determined to prevent past failures from affecting future successes, Coppola embarked upon a childhood passion project – Tucker: The Man and His Dream – a story that in 1988 distinctly paralleled the trajectory of his own career. Ostensibly a biopic about Preston Tucker, inventor of the revolutionary yet ill-fated Tucker 48 automobile, Coppola used the film to explore conflicts he was experiencing in his own life. As Tucker strives to offer the American people a car filled with cutting-edge safety and design features, he butts heads with a System that wishes to retain its monopoly on auto manufacturing. His clash with Detroit’s Big Three (General Motors, Chrysler, and Ford), Michigan Senator Homer Ferguson, his own Board of Directors, and the media and society at large serves as an allegory for Coppola’s own resolve to tell original stories in opposition to the profit-seeking studio executives financing his films. The movie is thus as much an autobiography of Francis Ford Coppola as it is a biopic of Preston Tucker.
The movie is a nice example of the importance of standing up for what is right, but like Coppola’s previous string of directorial efforts, it fails to make any real impact on the viewer. It seems that Coppola was too close to the material: he didn’t just set out to make a movie; he set out to make a statement. Arguably the films that live on in posterity are those that share a message, and the message of Tucker couldn’t be more simply laid out. But the director’s lofty mythologizing of the American Dream relegates the film to little more than a tacky portrait of that idea. Beautiful cinematography, a decent script, and quick pacing all add to the film’s mood quite well, but a glaring lack of character development robs audiences from relating to Tucker or any of the other characters. Simply put, Preston Tucker is a shining light that never goes out – a gravitational sun that pulls in all those around him. And yet even in his darkest hour Tucker never truly relies on his allies, but uses them to get what he wants. He is passive-aggressive and at times manipulative, but Coppola ignores these aspects of his personality and instead focuses on how enlightened his life philosophy is.
The movie is a nice example of the importance of standing up for what is right, but like Coppola’s previous string of directorial efforts, it fails to make any real impact on the viewer. It seems that Coppola was too close to the material: he didn’t just set out to make a movie; he set out to make a statement. Arguably the films that live on in posterity are those that share a message, and the message of Tucker couldn’t be more simply laid out. But the director’s lofty mythologizing of the American Dream relegates the film to little more than a tacky portrait of that idea. Beautiful cinematography, a decent script, and quick pacing all add to the film’s mood quite well, but a glaring lack of character development robs audiences from relating to Tucker or any of the other characters. Simply put, Preston Tucker is a shining light that never goes out – a gravitational sun that pulls in all those around him. And yet even in his darkest hour Tucker never truly relies on his allies, but uses them to get what he wants. He is passive-aggressive and at times manipulative, but Coppola ignores these aspects of his personality and instead focuses on how enlightened his life philosophy is.
 Preston Tucker, Sr. |  Move poster ca. 1988 featuring Jeff Bridges as Preston Tucker, Sr. |
Heroes
For example, consider his character’s introduction. As he rolls into his driveway one evening, he reveals to his wife and children that he traded an old Packard automobile for a dozen trained Dalmatians. As the canines pile out of the backseat and trunk, Mrs. Tucker lightheartedly inquires what they’re “gonna do with a dozen trained dogs” to which Tucker replies, “What difference does it make? You can’t walk away from a trade like that.” This impulsive decision establishes Tucker as the daydreaming child he is. He is entirely unaware of the stress or responsibility this may bring to his wife and family, and for her part, Vera Tucker doesn’t even seem to care. Her husband would rather enjoy the thrill of a deal than ponder its consequences, and she would like nothing more than to foster an environment wherein this childlike thinking is possible for him. Who will take care of the dogs? Will they prove more a nuisance than a gift? Since the dogs are never seen again, Coppola tells us that these questions are not even worth pondering. In the director’s mind, Tucker’s disregard for consequences has no bearing on his success or failure.
Likewise, Tucker’s past failures have no bearing on his future successes. While Tucker had previously designed a number of innovative technologies few of them achieved the level of success he envisioned for them. In 1935 he created a faster, more powerful racecar for Ford, but when he ran out of time to develop the prototype, the steering columns locked up and the cars were scrapped. In 1939 he began to devise a bulletproof tank for the Dutch Army that reached speeds above thirty-five miles per hour, but the Germans invaded Holland before the contract could be completed. (To the contrary, Coppola argues that the Dutch rejected his design because it was too fast, implying that the world was not ready for Tucker’s foresight and ingenuity). Beginning in 1940 his rotating bulletproof glass turret was installed on U.S. Navy landing crafts, but his patent rights were stolen and he spent years in court trying to prove his rightful ownership of the designs (a fact Coppola neglects to mention).
Likewise, Tucker’s past failures have no bearing on his future successes. While Tucker had previously designed a number of innovative technologies few of them achieved the level of success he envisioned for them. In 1935 he created a faster, more powerful racecar for Ford, but when he ran out of time to develop the prototype, the steering columns locked up and the cars were scrapped. In 1939 he began to devise a bulletproof tank for the Dutch Army that reached speeds above thirty-five miles per hour, but the Germans invaded Holland before the contract could be completed. (To the contrary, Coppola argues that the Dutch rejected his design because it was too fast, implying that the world was not ready for Tucker’s foresight and ingenuity). Beginning in 1940 his rotating bulletproof glass turret was installed on U.S. Navy landing crafts, but his patent rights were stolen and he spent years in court trying to prove his rightful ownership of the designs (a fact Coppola neglects to mention).
While Coppola would like us to believe that Tucker grew stronger in his conviction by treating failures as opportunities for success, both men actually refuse to acknowledge failure – or the fear of failure – in any way. In reality ignoring one’s fear is the best way to be overcome by it, but in Tucker: The Man and His Dream, it is the best way to overcome it. This disconnect is the primary problem with the film, and most likely why audiences could not relate to the film’s protagonist. While boundless self-confidence and personal conviction are attractive in real-live human beings, they are terrible personality traits for a film character to have. In order to relate to characters in a story, the audience must be able to feel like they are human. We have to see the protagonist in his darkest moment so that we can feel for him. Very few people are blessed with an enduring wellspring of positivity, and even those who are still doubt themselves from time to time. Tucker rarely doubts himself and even when he does, Coppola almost immediately provides him with a solution to his problem. When Abe Karatz, the man who would become Tucker’s financial advisor, initially rejects his design proposal, Tucker is upset, but instead of dealing with his frustration, he takes his whole family out for ice cream in one of his high-speed artillery tanks. There, the shop owner gives him the idea to create publicity for the vehicle through magazine advertising. One short montage later and public demand for the Tucker 48 is high and Abe is meeting with potential investors. Audiences have no time to empathize with the protagonist’s struggles because his struggles are almost non-existent. He identifies himself as an untamable force of nature, and as a result, none of the obstacles with which he is presented ever seem that threatening.
This choice could have worked to Coppola’s advantage had he used Tucker’s allies as foils for the dreamer’s fear of failure, but here too he chooses to use them solely to showcase Tucker as a Good Samaritan. Abe Karatz, for instance, is presented as a caricature of a New York Jew at a time when white-bred Americans openly discriminated against Jewish people. He is intelligent and hardworking, but prone to anxiety and always one step behind Tucker. By associating with and entrusting much of his car’s success to a minority, Coppola highlights Tucker’s fairness and forward thinking.
Jimmy Sakuyama, a Japanese-American and Tucker’s chief engineer, serves a similar role. Despite the fact that his entire family is interned in a camp in Colorado, Sakuyama couldn’t be happier to work on a car for the man who pulled strings to protect him from also being interned. Written off as a “Jap” even by Abe, Tucker speaks on behalf of Sakuyama’s skill as a mechanic and loyalty to Tucker’s family, and regularly invites him to join his family for dinner.
Maybe Tucker’s most unbelievable relationship is with his son, Preston Tucker, Jr., who at seventeen can only think of a future for himself that includes his dad. He rejects acceptance to the University of Notre Dame because he wants to stay in Chicago and help his father develop the Tucker 48. Everything Tucker stands for – following your dreams, believing in yourself, not letting current obstacles become permanent failures – suggests that he would encourage his son to pursue his own dreams – yet he does the exact opposite. Jr. has gotten the idea that his father wants him to go to college and become “president or something” and is surprised and relieved when his father exclaims, “The two crummiest things a person can be are lawyers or politicians. Why would I want you to be president? Most of them are both.” And this is the end of the conversation. This scene is supposed to serve as a depiction of the bond between Tucker and his son but in actuality it just goes to show how far apart the two characters actually are. Like the Dalmatians, Tucker, Jr. fades into the background for the rest of the movie, fairly useless after serving as a superficial character point. The truth is, Tucker doesn’t need his family. Yes they are supportive of him – his wife keeps track of the company’s finances, his oldest son works in the garage with the mechanics, and his younger kids are sweet and encouraging – but it is always Preston Tucker alone who reaches deep into his supposedly unending pit of self-confidence and overcomes each hurdle.
Jimmy Sakuyama, a Japanese-American and Tucker’s chief engineer, serves a similar role. Despite the fact that his entire family is interned in a camp in Colorado, Sakuyama couldn’t be happier to work on a car for the man who pulled strings to protect him from also being interned. Written off as a “Jap” even by Abe, Tucker speaks on behalf of Sakuyama’s skill as a mechanic and loyalty to Tucker’s family, and regularly invites him to join his family for dinner.
Maybe Tucker’s most unbelievable relationship is with his son, Preston Tucker, Jr., who at seventeen can only think of a future for himself that includes his dad. He rejects acceptance to the University of Notre Dame because he wants to stay in Chicago and help his father develop the Tucker 48. Everything Tucker stands for – following your dreams, believing in yourself, not letting current obstacles become permanent failures – suggests that he would encourage his son to pursue his own dreams – yet he does the exact opposite. Jr. has gotten the idea that his father wants him to go to college and become “president or something” and is surprised and relieved when his father exclaims, “The two crummiest things a person can be are lawyers or politicians. Why would I want you to be president? Most of them are both.” And this is the end of the conversation. This scene is supposed to serve as a depiction of the bond between Tucker and his son but in actuality it just goes to show how far apart the two characters actually are. Like the Dalmatians, Tucker, Jr. fades into the background for the rest of the movie, fairly useless after serving as a superficial character point. The truth is, Tucker doesn’t need his family. Yes they are supportive of him – his wife keeps track of the company’s finances, his oldest son works in the garage with the mechanics, and his younger kids are sweet and encouraging – but it is always Preston Tucker alone who reaches deep into his supposedly unending pit of self-confidence and overcomes each hurdle.
Villains
Clocking in on the side of evil are Senator Homer Ferguson and the Big Three. Coppola portrays them as greedy, power-hungry men who want to choose when and how the automotive industry changes so that they can cash in on those changes every step of the way. They represent men who are comfortable in their positions of wealth and power, and who no longer need or want to take creative risks. As such Tucker’s vision of the future is extremely threatening. Their singular goal is to crush Tucker’s dream of producing the “car of tomorrow” at all costs. While they have reasons behind their intentions, Coppola paints their interests as less honorable than Tucker’s and forgoes any kind of investigation into their motives. Instead they are just a faceless evil trying to trip up Tucker every step of the way. As a result, any complexity they may have added to the narrative is watered down to an oversimplified battle between good and evil.
Coppola would like us to believe that Tucker’s opponents will do everything in their power – legality and morality aside – to ensure his downfall. And yet, as Coppola himself shows us in his film, Tucker is really the one who throws the first punch. Not twenty minutes into the film Tucker holds a meeting with potential investors where he serves rare steak while showing slides of critically injured victims of car accidents. The neurological connection between eating bloody meat and seeing bloody humans is intended to increase his audience’s disdain for a lack of safety features in cars. And it works; a few of the men are so disturbed that they leave the table mid-speech. Tucker’s tactics are just as manipulative as anything Ferguson tries and yet Coppola writes off his protagonist’s approach as comical and ingenious and the Big Three’s approach as immoral.
Tucker argues for the necessity of a new model on the basis that Ford, Chrysler, and General Motors “don’t give a damn about people. All they care about is profits.” If Tucker is nothing else he is a man of great emotion, and this a grave accusation based on feeling, not facts. He finishes his proposal with an equally powerful indictment: "Well let me tell you something, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, the entire automobile industry of America is guilty of criminal negligence, and if it were up to me they would be tried and convicted of manslaughter."
Coppola would like us to believe that Tucker’s opponents will do everything in their power – legality and morality aside – to ensure his downfall. And yet, as Coppola himself shows us in his film, Tucker is really the one who throws the first punch. Not twenty minutes into the film Tucker holds a meeting with potential investors where he serves rare steak while showing slides of critically injured victims of car accidents. The neurological connection between eating bloody meat and seeing bloody humans is intended to increase his audience’s disdain for a lack of safety features in cars. And it works; a few of the men are so disturbed that they leave the table mid-speech. Tucker’s tactics are just as manipulative as anything Ferguson tries and yet Coppola writes off his protagonist’s approach as comical and ingenious and the Big Three’s approach as immoral.
Tucker argues for the necessity of a new model on the basis that Ford, Chrysler, and General Motors “don’t give a damn about people. All they care about is profits.” If Tucker is nothing else he is a man of great emotion, and this a grave accusation based on feeling, not facts. He finishes his proposal with an equally powerful indictment: "Well let me tell you something, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, the entire automobile industry of America is guilty of criminal negligence, and if it were up to me they would be tried and convicted of manslaughter."
The padded interior Once again Tucker fails to recognize the repercussions of his actions. Accusing someone of murder is a serious charge, one that nobody – whether an individual or a company – is going to let slide. The Big Three initially respond to this threat by raising the price of clay (to build models) and doubling the price of steel (to build a prototype) for Tucker’s company in hopes of discouraging him from making good on his promise to create a better automobile. Instead of bowing out of the car game, Tucker turns around and purchases an old airplane hangar in Chicago and converts it into his factory. This is supposed to be another example of Tucker’s ingenuity, but it also hints at a deeper understanding of Ferguson’s motives. With Tucker’s production line centered in another state Ferguson stands to lose the jobs, prestige, and millions of dollars in annual income that the Big Three bring to his state. Of course he would want to protect those interests.
Tucker and Karatz proceed to meet with Ferguson to try to straighten out the cost discrepancies, but are summarily blown off. After brief introductions and a crack at Karatz’s last name (another reminder that the audience should dislike the senator and respect the protagonist) Ferguson’s secretary informs him that he has to leave for another meeting. While walking to his car he makes vague threats about pushing forward on the Tucker 48. A confused Preston Tucker asks Abe to explain what just happened: “He said stay out of the car business…or he’ll cut your nuggies off.”
Tucker and Karatz proceed to meet with Ferguson to try to straighten out the cost discrepancies, but are summarily blown off. After brief introductions and a crack at Karatz’s last name (another reminder that the audience should dislike the senator and respect the protagonist) Ferguson’s secretary informs him that he has to leave for another meeting. While walking to his car he makes vague threats about pushing forward on the Tucker 48. A confused Preston Tucker asks Abe to explain what just happened: “He said stay out of the car business…or he’ll cut your nuggies off.”
When this passive-aggressive approach fails to dissuade Tucker, Ferguson ups the ante and begins slandering his name in the news and on radio. Strapped for cash, Tucker had worked out a clever investment system wherein he sold Tucker dealerships to existing auto salesman before the Tucker 48 even existed. The media then claims that Preston Tucker never intended to build the car but merely wanted to defraud the American people and rob them of their cash. Further allegations are made that the car’s prototype can’t even back up and that the features Tucker pitched to investors – padded dashboard, rear engine, pop-out shatterproof windshield, and seatbelts, among others – will not make it to the final product. While some of the accusations were true of the prototype, Tucker and his men had since figured out the kinks and they were no longer an issue. And Tucker certainly never intended to scam anyone. That being said, Ferguson’s slandering of Tucker is not out-of-line with Tucker’s own slandering of the Big Three at his proposal luncheon. The only real difference is that Tucker’s opponents are able to operate on much large scale and reach more ears. So many more ears that Ferguson uses his political connections with the War Assets Administration to evict Tucker from his Chicago plant as well as heads an SEC investigation into Tucker’s company. He eventually brings our hero to trial on these charges and the outcome falls on whether or not Tucker can fulfill his initial promise to investors: can he incorporate the new technologies into the Tucker 48?
To Tucker this is a ridiculous question as he is not a greedy or power-hungry man. He is simply occupied with creating something new and following that creation through to completion. The safety and performance features are the physical things created, but they are not ends in and of themselves. While he cares about safety he cares a lot more about his conception of his own honor. And it is this innate sense of nobility that drives him to finish the initial line of fifty-one automobiles containing all of the features he originally promised. In his mind (and in Coppola’s mind) Tucker is really put on trial for daring to dream in a way that’s not in accordance with the prevailing mindset. He draws attention to this central point of the film in a sobering speech to the jury: "According to the law, if I tried to make the cars, even if they weren’t any good, even if I didn’t make any...but if you believe that I tried, well, then I’m not guilty.”
To Tucker this is a ridiculous question as he is not a greedy or power-hungry man. He is simply occupied with creating something new and following that creation through to completion. The safety and performance features are the physical things created, but they are not ends in and of themselves. While he cares about safety he cares a lot more about his conception of his own honor. And it is this innate sense of nobility that drives him to finish the initial line of fifty-one automobiles containing all of the features he originally promised. In his mind (and in Coppola’s mind) Tucker is really put on trial for daring to dream in a way that’s not in accordance with the prevailing mindset. He draws attention to this central point of the film in a sobering speech to the jury: "According to the law, if I tried to make the cars, even if they weren’t any good, even if I didn’t make any...but if you believe that I tried, well, then I’m not guilty.”
Conclusion
And the verdict? Not guilty. The film ends with Tucker being acquitted and the entire courtroom walking outside to take a ride in the brand new cars. While this is a victory of sorts, the Tucker Corporation was disbanded and Preston Tucker was legally unable to produce a fifty-second car. He made the “car of tomorrow” a reality, but was barred from bringing it to the general public. Frustratingly, when Abe asks if his friend if he is mad that he failed, Tucker just smiles, “What’s the difference? Fifty or fifty million. That’s only machinery. It’s the idea that counts, Abe. The dream.”
The difference is actually a whole lot. Tucker is right: it is the idea that counts. But his idea failed. He made a few cars, but making a few cars was not his dream. Tucker’s dream was to design and build a revolutionary car that could be offered to all of the American people, and that did not happen. The fact that he smiles and writes the whole thing off, seemingly unharmed by the trial’s outcome and wasting no time to ponder his next project, is indicative of the overall problem with the film: Tucker is completely unaffected by reality. He is such a dreamer that ultimately, if he is the only one who believes in his dreams then he has succeeded. He is always a success and his character never has to come to grips with loss or failure, and therefore he never changes. Despite living through this whole saga he is exactly the same man at the beginning of the film as he is at the end, and so he is, ultimately, an uninteresting character.
Of course, Coppola would disagree. His intended message is more along the lines of to win the battle is to win the war. In the eyes of the society Tucker failed hard. His dream was crushed, he was unable to bring the Tucker 48 to mass production, and his death seven years after the trial meant he never got close to attaining that original goal. While the Big Three auto manufacturers eventually included the vast improvements Tucker introduced to the automobile, they did it on their own timetable and in a way that allowed them to maintain their wealth and power during the “transition.” And so Tucker won neither the battle nor the war. He changed the automobile industry indirectly but his name did not live on before or after Coppola completed this film.
It’s difficult to say if this is a good or bad movie. Setting aside the many connotations of those words the value of Tucker is still difficult to assess. Is it entertaining? Yes. Is the story interesting and clear? Enough. Are the cinematography, acting, and other technical elements well crafted? Absolutely. The film succeeds on all of these levels and yet still somehow leaves something important – necessary even – to be desired.
While critics of the day mostly praised Tucker, modern audiences are divided. One user on Rotten Tomatoes felt that "the movie didn't have any moment that lingers in your mind for long" while another reviewer argued that "Coppola always makes his films so unnecessarily heavy, even when they're not supposed to be." In other words, it’s a nice film but fails to offer any real depth. Dozens of shallow films are released every year; what makes this one so disappointing is that one senses Coppola really tried. In the midst of a decades-long battle to connect with audiences Coppola chose to direct a film that he himself deeply connected with. Tucker: The Man and His Dream is a very personal film specifically because Francis Ford Coppola in many ways is Preston Tucker. They both fought for the right to make their creative visions a reality. They both took risks.
Coppola is a filmmaker who, since the inception of his career, challenged classic storytelling conventions time and again. He is a man whose creative visions grouped him alongside Steven Spielberg, Brian De Palma and Martin Scorsese in a film clique known as the “Young Turks.” Although his first few films were critical darlings he always emphasized the importance of self-expression over attention from awards committees. When he could have ridden the post-Oscar wave of success as far as it would take him Coppola dared to take his storytelling off the beaten path. Against the wishes of big Hollywood studios Coppola took risks and tried something new rather than cash in on old ideas. He did what he showed us Preston Tucker do time and time again: take a risk even – especially – if that risk welcomes failure as much as it welcomes success.
Like Tucker, Coppola never gave up hope. Even in his darkest hour he found the strength to pursue new ideas. After declaring bankruptcy two more times he spent over a decade reestablishing his name and finances through his vineyard business. The money he earned allowed him to buy back American Zoetrope (after losing it to bankruptcy) and return to filmmaking. With Tucker: The Man and his Dream, he may not have made his best film but his deep passion for Tucker’s philosophy certainly shines through. And for Francis Ford Coppola, maybe, ultimately, that is the most important thing. If only he had focused less on the importance of his message and more on the characters depicting it, he may have succeeded in actually conveying one.
The difference is actually a whole lot. Tucker is right: it is the idea that counts. But his idea failed. He made a few cars, but making a few cars was not his dream. Tucker’s dream was to design and build a revolutionary car that could be offered to all of the American people, and that did not happen. The fact that he smiles and writes the whole thing off, seemingly unharmed by the trial’s outcome and wasting no time to ponder his next project, is indicative of the overall problem with the film: Tucker is completely unaffected by reality. He is such a dreamer that ultimately, if he is the only one who believes in his dreams then he has succeeded. He is always a success and his character never has to come to grips with loss or failure, and therefore he never changes. Despite living through this whole saga he is exactly the same man at the beginning of the film as he is at the end, and so he is, ultimately, an uninteresting character.
Of course, Coppola would disagree. His intended message is more along the lines of to win the battle is to win the war. In the eyes of the society Tucker failed hard. His dream was crushed, he was unable to bring the Tucker 48 to mass production, and his death seven years after the trial meant he never got close to attaining that original goal. While the Big Three auto manufacturers eventually included the vast improvements Tucker introduced to the automobile, they did it on their own timetable and in a way that allowed them to maintain their wealth and power during the “transition.” And so Tucker won neither the battle nor the war. He changed the automobile industry indirectly but his name did not live on before or after Coppola completed this film.
It’s difficult to say if this is a good or bad movie. Setting aside the many connotations of those words the value of Tucker is still difficult to assess. Is it entertaining? Yes. Is the story interesting and clear? Enough. Are the cinematography, acting, and other technical elements well crafted? Absolutely. The film succeeds on all of these levels and yet still somehow leaves something important – necessary even – to be desired.
While critics of the day mostly praised Tucker, modern audiences are divided. One user on Rotten Tomatoes felt that "the movie didn't have any moment that lingers in your mind for long" while another reviewer argued that "Coppola always makes his films so unnecessarily heavy, even when they're not supposed to be." In other words, it’s a nice film but fails to offer any real depth. Dozens of shallow films are released every year; what makes this one so disappointing is that one senses Coppola really tried. In the midst of a decades-long battle to connect with audiences Coppola chose to direct a film that he himself deeply connected with. Tucker: The Man and His Dream is a very personal film specifically because Francis Ford Coppola in many ways is Preston Tucker. They both fought for the right to make their creative visions a reality. They both took risks.
Coppola is a filmmaker who, since the inception of his career, challenged classic storytelling conventions time and again. He is a man whose creative visions grouped him alongside Steven Spielberg, Brian De Palma and Martin Scorsese in a film clique known as the “Young Turks.” Although his first few films were critical darlings he always emphasized the importance of self-expression over attention from awards committees. When he could have ridden the post-Oscar wave of success as far as it would take him Coppola dared to take his storytelling off the beaten path. Against the wishes of big Hollywood studios Coppola took risks and tried something new rather than cash in on old ideas. He did what he showed us Preston Tucker do time and time again: take a risk even – especially – if that risk welcomes failure as much as it welcomes success.
Like Tucker, Coppola never gave up hope. Even in his darkest hour he found the strength to pursue new ideas. After declaring bankruptcy two more times he spent over a decade reestablishing his name and finances through his vineyard business. The money he earned allowed him to buy back American Zoetrope (after losing it to bankruptcy) and return to filmmaking. With Tucker: The Man and his Dream, he may not have made his best film but his deep passion for Tucker’s philosophy certainly shines through. And for Francis Ford Coppola, maybe, ultimately, that is the most important thing. If only he had focused less on the importance of his message and more on the characters depicting it, he may have succeeded in actually conveying one.