Monday, April 9, 2007
Memories Are Made Of This
(When my brother gifted me this blog I hoped it would be a decent forum for some spirited dialogue about the In's and Out's of pop culture, (aside from affording me a platform to assuage my ever expanding ego, translate my know-it-allness to the masses, and spread the gospel about all things popcultural), yet there really hasn't been much give-and-take action after the initial flurry of call and response stuff. C'mon, I know for certain that my pallie, buds, and galfriends, are ever opinionated and mostly whip-smart when it comes to the hurly burly swirl of culturevulturism.(That's a blatant ego massage directed at you, dear readership.) Speak up, join in, get up on the debate thang, let me a hear the sound of two fingers typing, and either blog it up yerselves or at least weigh in occasionally with yet another all-knowing or downright pithy comment.)
A knock on the door and Carmela's Godot-like response, "Is this it?" The Sopranos couldn't have opened this, the final nine week run, on a more prescient note. For those who really watch the groundbreaking series is been obvious from the initial season on, that despite the whackings, the brutality, the wonderful array of characters, the many soul-wrenching moments and those that have achieved a piquant sense of black hilarity, that this so-called gangster drama has always been a cross between a blue collar Macbeth and a kitchen sink King Lear, a multi-layered and full scale mediation on the very values and issues us everyday folk have to bear--the tug and pull of family, the secretly terrifying process of aging, the juggling of responsibility and pleasure, the tightrope balancing act of simply doing the right thing. The first episode took place primarily in the odd but bucolic setting of the great outdoors, and a restful county getaway was the setting for what we come to expect from Tony and the gang--simmering resentments, unfulfilled promises, middle-age craziness, In my mind, it was a perfectly crafted and sublimely moderated (with a grunting wrestling match and a quick snuff-out thrown in for those not-so-patient Soprano-watchers), an overt declaration that this endgame will be a slow boil, that creator David Chase is going to pour on the existentialism, trot out the ducks, and bring this once-in-a-lifetime television experience all the way home. Like most of you, I quiver with both anticipation and dread--Eight to go, my friends.