Surf's Up (or, Sopranos Finale)
So, after eight absolutely fantastic fucking seasons, The Sopranos run has come to an end. The finale was a mixed bag, and the salt in the wound is that the lame-ish ending is followed by the premiere of a fucking surfer show.
The Sopranos has entertained me on so many levels it will take much more than a blog post at this hour to explain it. Suffice to say, the lingo brings back memories of my youth and my quote database is proof of that. The first time Brenda & I watched the show we were in a hotel room with HBO and after 15 seconds of the opening sequence, where Tony drives through the Lincoln Tunnel, past the Hoboken exit, and then onto the NJ Turnpike and past the oil tanks in Linden (Drive Safely!), we were hooked. The show went on to document the North Jersey Italian-American experience, and I'm not (just) talking about the mob shit, I'm talking about the manigoot (manicotti). The lingo, the mores, the food, the clothes: when I watched The Sopranos it was like a visit to Aunt Mary's house; the only thing missing was the pinch on the cheek.
But you can't run a crew these days without some strife, and Tony made his bed, sure as shit. So after last week's mayhem we were on the edge of our seats for the finale tonight. I haven't been this upset since the end of N.Y.P.D. Blue, but Brenda & I pulled up a chair and dutifully watched the end of what is probably the greatest TV Show Ever tonight, and had a good time with it.
The finale was a mixed bag. (Spoiler alert, whatever...) Phil Leotardo's demise was great theatre, and that cocksucker got what he fucking deserved. But the fake foreshadowing with A.J. was very annoying. When his car caught on fire I thought for sure he was caught in the crosshairs, and was gonna be the victim of a car bomb. But, no. When he started driving the BMW and backed up to the camera sporting a NJ license plate with the letters "RDX", I thought for sure he was going out in a blaze of glory. But, no. Vague talk of indictments on the way led us to a final scene at a diner with a shifty patron headed to the bathroom and we have to assume he didn't come outta there with just his dick in his hand. As Meadow heads for the door of the diner, some black dudes enter, another reminder of the gas station scene where Phil's head goes out like a grape, aaaaannnnnd, scene.
Scene! Not even fade to black, just black. Black, credits, that's it, thanks for coming, motherfuckers.
Draw your own conclusions, I have mine. Bottom line, The Sopranos is over, one way or another, end of story.
I realize David Milch is behind the new series "John from Cincinnati", which is being groomed as the Sopranos replacement. Milch is the genius behind N.Y.P.D. Blue, my last TV tragedy. But I'm thinking that "Entourage" and "The Wire" have more of a chance of retaining my HBO subscription money than this new surfer bullshit (that I'm about to watch).
Is Frank Vincent like not the most typecast tragic mob guy in all of mob cinema?! Like gosh! And I even saw "Ten Benny", so I know what the fuck I'm talking about.
lighting simulationist, crossfitter, former drinker.