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The Sopranos Fade To Black — Jun 11th 2007

By James Marcus

After seven years of backstabbing, Byzantine fun, The Sopranos ended not with bang but with an onion-ring-scented whimper. In this sense, series creator David Chase--who stepped in to write and direct the final installment--toyed with our expectations to the very last frame. Obviously the attrition rate had been pretty steep during the concluding episodes. Anticipating Tony Soprano's death became a kind of national sport, the main question being whether he would be done in by a blood relative or by part of his extended, pistol-packing family, whose thinning ranks seemed to narrow down the list of candidates.



Chase did keep us guessing throughout the valedictory hour. In the first half, James Gandolfini popped out of his safe house for a series of courtesy calls, including an appearance at his brother-in-law's funeral. Looking paunchier than ever in his leather jacket, and with much of the crinkly satisfaction gone from his small eyes, he resembled a walking (or perhaps lumbering) target. Surely Tony was no longer at the top of the food chain--note the jump cut from Bobby's graveside to the generalized pig-out at his funeral reception--and would soon be devoured by some pinky-ring-wearing predator.

Nope. He survived. And this upset not only the narrative momentum but a moral calculus that many viewers had been counting on. For all his charm, for all his neurotic ambivalence, Tony Soprano was ultimately a serial murderer. That recognition, alternately obscured and shoved in our faces for the past seven years, was what caused Dr. Melfi to wash her hands of him in the penultimate episode. (Nothing like having Lorraine Bracco as your superego!)

In the end, however, Tony dodges the bullet--in every sense of the term. The years of therapy, with their glimmers of self-recognition, he writes off as a joke: "My mother was a borderline personality. So what?" He urges his sister to "form a new nuclear family," having personally killed or dismembered at least two of her previous mates. And he exits the long march of The Sopranos with his corruption gloriously intact.

True to form, it's the other characters--especially the men--who get contaminated. FBI Agent Dwight Harris, who's been playing footsie with Tony throughout the entire season, finally fingers Phil Leotardo for him. It's another one of those furtive cell phone calls, made from a motel room where Matt Servitto's balding fed has plainly been cheating on his wife. This may be the first specimen of adultery in Sopranos history that could make you wince--the others were impersonal acts, like an unusually exciting manicure. Harris knows he's screwed up (with a fellow agent, no less) and the scene sticks with you.

Which is more than you can say for Anthony Junior. The moment he emerged from his depression, Robert Iler's AJ reverted to cartoonish idealism. Now, having accidentally destroyed his SUV (and shaking off the Oedipal shackles), he decides to join the U.S. Army and serve his country. Shades of Michael Corleone, no? But this rebellious son is swiftly bought off by his parents, who hook him up with an idiotic film production gig and replace the smoldering SUV with a sportier BMW. Just when he thought he was out, they pull him back in!

If David Chase relented and gave us one more season, I suppose something could darken Tony's skies. There's a potential indictment, since a thug named Carlo has flipped, and there's always the putrefying past, the "dead rat in the wall" that seems to attract that stray cat at Satriale's. But we'll never know: it's over. I feel sorry for James Gandolfini, because this intensely physical actor with the V-shaped furrow in his brow will never, ever be handed a role half as good as Tony Soprano. I feel sorry for the state of New Jersey, which has lost one of its signature franchises. And I feel sorry for me, too, and for the millions of fans who reveled in the show's exquisite detail and freaky three-dimensionality, which approached and sometimes briefly surpassed the illusionism of a great novel. What will we do next Sunday night?


Tags: David Chase, DavidChase, james gandolfini, JamesGandolfini, sopranos

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