The last (I think) word on the 'Sopranos'

First, a comment from SunDevil Joe:

I have to agree with you that the ending was great and could go into all of the nuances and symbollogy that was there. However, what blew me away was, once again, was the familiarity I have with all of the locations in the show. For example, everytime there was a scene at Satriale's, my mind conjured up a picture of the entire neighborhood as I had passed that place hundreds of times as a child. So, when Carmela announced they were going to dinner at Holsten's (it's official name is Holsten's ice cream parlor), I turned to DesertRose and said "oh, that's in Bloomfield" as I had been there many times in my youth. That place was perfect for the ending but I can't vouch for sure that it has a pull chain toilet.

By the way, Tony K and Tom Shales both thought it was brilliant.

Then, there is this.

There has been no genre so exploited by Hollywood so much as the Western and the Gangster Picture. This was Chase's problem. Yesterday, jogging through River Oaks, I wondered: what ending hadn't been done to death, or done so well that we wouldn't need another? Without cribbbing, there was no way David Chase could pull off the triumphant all-out massacre (The Godfather), the what-profiteth-a-man-to-gain-the-world-if-he-loseth-his-soul (The Godfather, Part II), the deal with the Feds (Goodfellas), the going-out-in-a-blaze of-glory (White Heat), the antihero-killed-at-the-end (Public Enemy), the inadvertant death of the relative (Godfather III), the sloppy hit (Mean Streets), or everybody-kills-everybody (The Departed).

Finally, was was left fot Chase?

The answer is

The 'Sopranos,' one day later

Just finished re-watching the final Sopranos, convinced more than ever that we all witnessed a classic, something that held me (at least) spellbound for most of its hour. What I missed the first time--or forgot, actually--was the extent of Butchie's frustration with Phil, and the accompanying intransigence of Phil that becomes Phil's undoing.

The sit-down in the freezing cold, the performance of Hairy FBI Guy, the varied nuttiness of Paulie and Uncle June--these are things that approach perfection. Tony's last scene with the exasperating Janice, the bargain-basement variation of Micheal Corleone's changing relationship with Connie.

And, that final scene. One thing.

There was no hit. This piece of the puzzle comes courtesy of Dean Barnett, aka the Sainted Soxblog. Barnett posits that:

*If seven seasons (and the past few weeks) have demonstrated, hits are complicated endeavors. Writer Chase made a point of making Holsten's a last-minute decision made withing the small-f family (unless you count Rhiannon as a potential rat--anyone think so)? No way Butchie or anyone else could set up a hit that fast.

*Phil was whacked with the implicit approval of Butchie, who is due to move up to Boss. All quiet on the Hudson Front.

To which I would add:

*No way Bathroom Guy is the shooter, someone who would sit, stare, then go to the restroom. Tony's sixth sense would be too strong for such a risk. (The notion that the gun was in the toilet, ala Michael Corleone's take-out of Sollozzo, is prepostrous. For one thing, I'm guessing even Holsten's doesn't have the old-fashioned toilets sported by Louie's in the Bronx, and the whole point of planting the gun was that Michael was frisked by the crooked cop.)

*Cub Scout Guy and Girlfriend Guy aren't even worth mentioning. Old Guy, too.

*The two black guys at the end? A reminder of the second time Uncle June went after Tony (using, as Christopher wrote, "Boys II Men"), and the attempt was a disaster. The guys were more interested in the food than anything.

*Finally, the worst-kept secret in Jersey is that Tony is facing, finally, some serious legal problems. Why not let the Feds do your work for you?

So, then, the final scene.

My extended family comes not only from that region, not only from that state, but that extended series of metropoli; my father reports he passed Satriale's hundreds of times.

This series had its basis in Tony Soprano's psyche: his depression, his panic attacks; but also his sociopathology, his self-pity, his compartmentalization, his narcissism. (Does anyone remember its comparison with the long-forgotten film Analyze This?) Vito Corleone took to crime in desperation, only after being fired as a grocer's helper, and then took to murder only when a local crime boss threatened this new livelihood. He did what he did ("I don't apologize") to feed his family; the rationalizations came later. Tony Soprano was born into the life, brought in by his father and Uncle June when, as a middle-class white male, he was free to choose from a thousand different other professions. Something in him wanted the money, the big house in Jersey, the jewelry for his wife. Something in his sociopathic mind enjoyed what he did, and what it brought him . . . but at the same time, given his native intelligence, he could not escape the realization that his enemies were real, and armed, and that his victims were flesh and blood.

The first episode was Dr. Melfi, the panic attacks, and the ducks. The last episode was Holsten's. As an analogy, we proceed from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest to A Beautiful Mind: from an external manifestation of psychotic disorder to an inside-out dramatization of the actual experience. Tony may serve a stretch on the gun charge--leaving, ugh, Paulie in charge. He may be killed tomorrow. What we saw in the last scene was a Tony's-eye view of the world, in all its paranoia and dread.

Bathroom Guy? Are you kidding me? But if you're Tony Soprano, something like Bathroom Guy is enough to make you physically ill, every time, for the rest of your life.

So, the blackout--for a count of ten--that caused tens of millions to jump from their sofas. Message: that's it. The crap is gonna come without warning.

Other obserevations, chronologically:

1. Again with the casket . . . organ music tinkling into classic rock; I'm more convinced than ever that Chase wanted to give us a few seconds, at the beginning of the episode, to think Tony was dead.

2. Darkness turning to light at the airport runway, illuminating Tony's face: shades of the first appearance of Orson Welles's first appearance as Harry Lime in The Third Man.

3. Carm (seeing Rhiannon come down the stairs, pull on a boot): "That bothers me."
Tony: "Who's she gonna tell?"

4. At the Wake: Vivaldi's "Winter."

5. Paulie; "You can take Two Thousand and Seven and give it back to the Indians."

6. Butchie, in the cold, on the same street used for the Italian festival in Godfather II, for my money the best sequence of either original or sequel: DeNiro's stalking, and killing, of Fanucci.

7. In the SUV, a demonstration--yet again--the Bob Dylan has done more damage to narcissistic youth than any Post-War American artist besides JD Salinger.

8. Line of the night. AJ: "We need to break our dependence on foreign oil!"

9. Priceless: The expression on Carm's face when she discovers that Meadow's loser girlfriend is in her second year of med school. Really? Great!

10. AJ roaring into the school parking lot with his Beamer. Guess he's okay.

Ultimate 'Sopranos'

So . . . let the carping begin.

I think.

For whatever reason, series finales always come in for a lot of complaints. Run a regular, day-in-the-life-of-the-workplace episode (Hill Street Blues, save for Bundtz's firing), and everyone complains. Change the uber-reality of the show's world (St. Elsewhere), and everyone complains. Run a glorified clips show, complete with a curtain call for the extended over-the-years cast (Seinfeld), and everyone complains.

Go the it's-a-wonderful-life route (Dallas), and nobody cares.

So we have tonight. As soon as the opening credits ran, as soon as I read "Written and Directed by David Chase," I knew there was going to be no whacking ala the Christening Massacre in The Godfather, nothing like the post-Lufthansa massacre in Goodfellas. I started with the previous Sunday, where--for the first time, save in a musical montage in The Godfather--we were treated to the first actual witnessing of mob guys going "to the mattresses," a pathetic sight if ever there was one. All their big talk, all their swag, all their guns, and here they were: a collection of frightened, flabby old men hiding for their lives, then ordering pizzas like a group of 12 year-olds on a sleep-over.

My worst feeling was in the show's first few seconds, when Tony was asleep--adrift, perhaps--in what looked like a casket. I thought, Oh, no. Tell me the show won't go the Sunset Boulevard route, with Tony dead and all of us wondering: What Brought Him Here?

Because we know, damnit.

Okay. Crisis averted.

I've been thinking, these past few days, about the influx of great TV going on the past dozen years or more. Just counting the shows that made it: The Simpsons, The X-Files, The West Wing, The Gilmore Girls, Frasier, Seinfeld, Cops, 24, Lost, NYPD Blue, Southpark, The Restaurant, Grey's Anatomy, The Practice, Boston Legal, Friday Night Lights. And this doesn't even count a few other shows that came and went: A terrific reality-based high school show called Yearbook, just this past year the black Groundhog Day on ABC, that lasted six weeks. Anyway, just thinking. What these shows had, in large part, was a sense of the intelligence of their audience, the idea that things could be said but not explained. So tonight, when Tony complained that AJ was taking something and "Making a molehill out of it," when of course he meant the opposite, we were meant to catch on without being told.

In the first half, three things:

1) The FBI guy (the Flonaze dude), himself with marital problems, treating Tony almost as a moral equal . . . than showing us why, as he has his own girlfriend, in the person of a hottie armed Special Agent; and goes out of his way to basically allow Tony to set up Phil, whom both families now realize is at the heart of their problems.

2) AJ, constantly thrown into the presence of women who, in the normal course of events, would be untouchable. A month ago it was his literature professor (but of course Chase went Russian Dude on us, and dropped her without comment); then a 15 year-old fashion model, then another hottie psychologist. So he gets Rhiannon (on which, more soon).

3) This was Astro-Girl's catch. Patsy's wife, played by . . . Donna Pescow*!, whom John Travolta dumped for the Manhattan chick in Saturday Night Fever, and who we now, at this late date, we catch checking the service on the bottom of the plates. Class with a capital K.

Now, three last things from the second half.

1) AJ in the Army, then not. Those who thought AJ would go the way of Fredo weren't watching the past month (mei culpa). It now appears the pool scene of a few weeks ago was the metaphor for his life; perpetually, AJ will be fished out of trouble. After a season of whiney self-pity, followed by a torching of his SUV, he has A) a movie job; B) a Beamer; C) A horny fashion-model girlfriend. Some people fall upwards.

2) The Jersey FBI office, which--thanks to the Middle East? the Stockholm Syndrome?--has gone from Tony's rival to his friendly rival to practically his ally, announcing, "Damn it, we're going to win this thing!" This is the Stockholm Syndrome writ large.

3) The one killing: Phil. This was a delicate matter, with Phil's captain Butchie finding what was, to him, a delicate middle--essentially, giving up Phil, conceding that New York will not lift a finger if Phil dies, but not going that one extra yard and revealing his location.

4) Finally, the last scene. I thought the show would go out one of two ways: either a blaze of glory, or else everything back to normal, with Carm dishing out the baked ziti in the dining room with Janice and the kids and Rhiannon in tow. What we had was a strange, wonderful, middle: Tony with "Don't Stop Believin'" on the jukebox; Carm in after him; then AJ with his pissing and moaning; then Meadow with her parking space. An indictment over a stupid gun charge hanging over Tony. One menacing guy at the counter. Two black guys entering. Then . . . blackness, silence.

What a perfect evocation of the dread that has hung over this family, and this Family, since the first day.

Well, brilliant, anyway.

*(Update: Helpful reader corrects: Donna Pescow, not Prescow.)

Ninety minutes out

A few thoughts, as down the stretch they come:

1. There are a few consensus memes being thrown around radio, TV, and the internet as regards the final Sopranos. To wit: Tony does not die (no Gandolfini, no potential movie deal down the line; we have, in Gandolfini, an actor who has dominated an ensemble show as confidently as James Arness did Gunsmoke, as Daniel Travanti did Hill Street Blues, or as John Spencer did The West Wing, before medical considerations, and ultimately death, curtailed his participation). Meadow does not die (too close to the unfortunate Godfather III; comedian Larry Miller's greatest quote: "I saw Godfather III again last night, and it's still terrible.") Phil does not die, for the simple reason that evil triumphs (this seems the weakest of the three, but David Chase has made millions running away from expectations, so who knows?) To which I would add: Carm does not die (too close to the original Godfather, with Apollonia, and can anyone imagine a Sopranos movie without Edie freaking Falco? That would only leave AJ, so AJ dying would be too easy, so AJ doesn't die. The rest I leave to the passage of time: Sil, Paulie, the rest.

2. As I type this, Astro-Girl (aka Mrs. Texasyank) is cooking home-made lasagna. Wanted to throw that in.

3. Long-running television shows offer an advantage you won't find in movies or plays: the benefit of watching characters grow in real time, of actors aging along with their parts. The best example I can think of is Hill Street Blues, in which--over the span of seven years--we saw JD LaRue progress from a falling-down drunk to an amiable rogue, Belker from a self-loathing loner to a husband and family man, and Captain Furillo from a screwed-too-tight recovering alcoholic police captain to a more relaxed, still straight-as-an-arrow recovering alcoholic police captain. (I've always felt that Cpt. Furillo has gotten short shrift as a historical TV character; as a figure of restraint and moral ethos, he ranks with Captain Kirk, Marshall Dillon and the Fonz.) In The Sporanos we have watched the simultaneous ascent of Meadow and descent of AJ, the steadying presence of Silvio (as long as he wasn't asked to be boss), Junior's descent into madness, Bobby's (RIP) late coming-of-age, Christopher's demons, Paulie's Wal-nuttiness, etc., etc. With enough time to watch, absorb, and reflect over the years, the characters have become like, yes, the worst cliche, people we know.

4. So what now? Guessing at this point would be futile. So I'll just watch.