It's not TV. It's HBO a complete mindfuck.
I've been "miffled" for a while now. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated the first half of the season and actually really enjoyed the Vito storyline. Homosexuality in the mafia is something that hasn't really been explored by the media and it was interesting to see a realistic portrayal as well as Chase's take on it. But the second half of the season with the bizarre Vegas episode (and I'm usually a fan of the more surreal episodes of the show) and Chris' completely anticlimactic death were staggering disappointments. Christopher Moltisanti -- the man who committed the first murder on the show, the man who signed the death warrant for his own fiancee, the man who was going to hell for Tony Soprano -- deserved a warrior's death. Not a cold, merciful snuffing out.
In Sopranoland, people die in a hailstorm of bullets. They are suffocated, garroted and beaten to death. But, Sopranoland exists in the realm of reality and in reality -- car crashes claim lives as well. Sometimes, the Reaper appears down the barrel of a nine, but more often than not -- he pulls alongside you at 70 mph. I should have seen Chris' death as foreshadowing for the finale. Death can be violent and gloriously cinematic but it can also be understated and entirely realistic.
I gasped alongside the millions last night when the screen cut to black and immediately blamed a technological error. When I saw the credits roll, I stared at the screen incredulously -- "That's it? Six fucking years and that's it?!"
But, given a little time to ruminate, I've actually come to the conclusion that the finale was perfect. Did I want to see a blaze of bullets and bloodshed? Sure -- I take the same macabre glee in it as the rest of the country does, but if Chase gave in to our blood lust, it just wouldn't be the same.
The Sopranos has never belonged to the collective conscience. It's always been David Chase's show. He doesn't care what the audience wants. He does what he does and if you like it, great. If not, fuck you (New Jersey to the very core).
The last five minutes of the show gave the audience the most crystalline peek into Tony Soprano's life to date. The man is wrought with constant paranoia. The Members-Only Jacket guy headed into the bathroom -- is he going to come out brandishing a gun like Michael Corleone in The Godfather? What about those two black guys who just walked in? Are they coming for me? Meadow outside trying in vain to parallel park -- is someone going to come up to the window and slam a bullet in her brain because she's my kid?
No wonder the guy needed therapy.
No resolution, no catharsis and no heart-stopping climax. In the words of the immortal Steve Perry:
Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to sing the blues
Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on.
It goes on and on, but unfortunately -- we don't get to peer into the fishbowl anymore.
P.S. -- My theory on the finale? Chase was just gonna snow globe the whole thing -- Tony Soprano would be nothing more than a figment from the imagination of a comatose Kevin Finnerty. Thank God I don't write for the show.
I've been "miffled" for a while now. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated the first half of the season and actually really enjoyed the Vito storyline. Homosexuality in the mafia is something that hasn't really been explored by the media and it was interesting to see a realistic portrayal as well as Chase's take on it. But the second half of the season with the bizarre Vegas episode (and I'm usually a fan of the more surreal episodes of the show) and Chris' completely anticlimactic death were staggering disappointments. Christopher Moltisanti -- the man who committed the first murder on the show, the man who signed the death warrant for his own fiancee, the man who was going to hell for Tony Soprano -- deserved a warrior's death. Not a cold, merciful snuffing out.
In Sopranoland, people die in a hailstorm of bullets. They are suffocated, garroted and beaten to death. But, Sopranoland exists in the realm of reality and in reality -- car crashes claim lives as well. Sometimes, the Reaper appears down the barrel of a nine, but more often than not -- he pulls alongside you at 70 mph. I should have seen Chris' death as foreshadowing for the finale. Death can be violent and gloriously cinematic but it can also be understated and entirely realistic.
I gasped alongside the millions last night when the screen cut to black and immediately blamed a technological error. When I saw the credits roll, I stared at the screen incredulously -- "That's it? Six fucking years and that's it?!"
But, given a little time to ruminate, I've actually come to the conclusion that the finale was perfect. Did I want to see a blaze of bullets and bloodshed? Sure -- I take the same macabre glee in it as the rest of the country does, but if Chase gave in to our blood lust, it just wouldn't be the same.
The Sopranos has never belonged to the collective conscience. It's always been David Chase's show. He doesn't care what the audience wants. He does what he does and if you like it, great. If not, fuck you (New Jersey to the very core).
The last five minutes of the show gave the audience the most crystalline peek into Tony Soprano's life to date. The man is wrought with constant paranoia. The Members-Only Jacket guy headed into the bathroom -- is he going to come out brandishing a gun like Michael Corleone in The Godfather? What about those two black guys who just walked in? Are they coming for me? Meadow outside trying in vain to parallel park -- is someone going to come up to the window and slam a bullet in her brain because she's my kid?
No wonder the guy needed therapy.
No resolution, no catharsis and no heart-stopping climax. In the words of the immortal Steve Perry:
Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to sing the blues
Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on.
It goes on and on, but unfortunately -- we don't get to peer into the fishbowl anymore.
P.S. -- My theory on the finale? Chase was just gonna snow globe the whole thing -- Tony Soprano would be nothing more than a figment from the imagination of a comatose Kevin Finnerty. Thank God I don't write for the show.
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