"Don't stop..."
Here is a man who would not take it anymore, all your ballyhooing over the ambiguous ending to the greatest drama cable television has yet produced. The myriad think-pieces arguing whether Tony Soprano gets whacked in that diner have done little to bolster appreciation for the show, or for television as an art in general. Arguing over whether Tony is alive or dead is as silly as arguing whether Schrodinger's cat is alive or dead. (It's both, obviously.) It misses the point, and it does a grave disservice to a show that spurred a tremendous upheaval in the nature of prime time television. The most notable example of a terribly misguided reading of the show's ending is that infamous anonymous blog that vivisects the final scene, shot by shot, cut by cut, using a keen understanding of formalism but little appreciation for the nebulous nature of art. Since then loyalties have only become more fervid: Tony Lives and Tony Dies is the highbrow equivalent to Team Jacob and Team Edward.
Few shows have become as deeply embedded into the pop-culture subconscious as The Sopranos. From the first time the opening credits rolled on television sets across the country in 1999, and we saw Tony cruising through the smoke stack-laden highways of North Jersey, and we heard the sultry sound of Alabama 3's "Woke Up This Morning" ("Chosen One Remix") pumping like a shot of espresso in our collective veins, we knew we were watching something different. Everything in the pilot means something: the fleeting shot of the grave yard and gradually-increasing space between the houses Tony passes in the opening credits (signifying the death of the old guard and the changes engendered and experienced by the younger generations); the opening shot of Tony peering through the legs of a statue of a naked woman in his therapist's office (signifying how Tony, alpha though he may be, is still powerless against the triumvirate of women in his life: his therapist, his wife, and his querulous, conniving mother); the religious symbolism (Tony being fed into the CT Scan machine, like Jesus entering the cave, as Tony's wife tells him he's going to hell. The Sopranos is rife with imagery and metaphor, but, as Chase has stated numerous times, the writers never wanted to spoon-feed viewers.
But these moments pale in comparison to the ending of "Made in America," perhaps the finest finale in television history. (I would say it's THE best finale, but adding "perhaps" makes me sound more reasonable.) It's been discussed more than any other finale, surpassing St. Elsewhere's and Newhart's rug-pullers, and Seinfeld's (artfully) non-resolution in which, of course, nothing happens. Only Twin Peaks' final episode approaches the devastating sense of not knowing conjured by Chase. of By now everyone knows the score: only the second episode directed by Chase (the other being the very first episode), "Made in America" ends with a disquieting serene scene of Tony and his family sitting in a diner, listening to Journey, while a man in a Member's Only jacket watches them ominously. Chase establishes his visual vocabulary and points of view quickly and deftly cuts back and forth between Tony, Tony's POV, and a omnipotent, possibly benevolent third view. He establishes a rhythm, a sequence of events, and a certain tone. It's masterful directing. Go watch it now, because I can't do it justice.
Few shows have become as deeply embedded into the pop-culture subconscious as The Sopranos. From the first time the opening credits rolled on television sets across the country in 1999, and we saw Tony cruising through the smoke stack-laden highways of North Jersey, and we heard the sultry sound of Alabama 3's "Woke Up This Morning" ("Chosen One Remix") pumping like a shot of espresso in our collective veins, we knew we were watching something different. Everything in the pilot means something: the fleeting shot of the grave yard and gradually-increasing space between the houses Tony passes in the opening credits (signifying the death of the old guard and the changes engendered and experienced by the younger generations); the opening shot of Tony peering through the legs of a statue of a naked woman in his therapist's office (signifying how Tony, alpha though he may be, is still powerless against the triumvirate of women in his life: his therapist, his wife, and his querulous, conniving mother); the religious symbolism (Tony being fed into the CT Scan machine, like Jesus entering the cave, as Tony's wife tells him he's going to hell. The Sopranos is rife with imagery and metaphor, but, as Chase has stated numerous times, the writers never wanted to spoon-feed viewers.
The Sopranos has something to say about everything. A day rarely passes during which I don't make a reference to the show, to the unwavering apathy of my friends. It's permeated my life because it raises questions instead of offering answers. The show's central themes concern morality and personal identity: does doing something bad make you a bad person? Can a person change? Do we ever really know who we are? Many of the show's finest moments, the ones that linger in your mind long after the credits have faded, are ambivalent to some degree: the Russian Paulie swears he shot; Tony stepping out of the Bing into the blinding stream of light as an Ennio Morricone song plays; Christopher fixing the tree that keeps falling down, the camera resting on the tree as we wait to see if it's gonna fall again (we never see it); the long dream sequences of which Chase and co. grew increasingly fond; and, of course, those goddamn ducks. Other moments are great because they pose questions regarding a character's motivations and morals: that heavy silence followed by Dr. Melfi's shattering, single-syllable resolution--"No."-- at the end of "Employee of the Month"; the burned-down horse stable and Tony's response in "Whoever Did This"; Tony refusing to kill Vito, his top earner, in the first half of season 6; Tony coming to terms with killing his best friend, with his mother hating him, with his father being a bastard, with his son being a loser, with the ruination of the lives of those he loves.
But these moments pale in comparison to the ending of "Made in America," perhaps the finest finale in television history. (I would say it's THE best finale, but adding "perhaps" makes me sound more reasonable.) It's been discussed more than any other finale, surpassing St. Elsewhere's and Newhart's rug-pullers, and Seinfeld's (artfully) non-resolution in which, of course, nothing happens. Only Twin Peaks' final episode approaches the devastating sense of not knowing conjured by Chase. of By now everyone knows the score: only the second episode directed by Chase (the other being the very first episode), "Made in America" ends with a disquieting serene scene of Tony and his family sitting in a diner, listening to Journey, while a man in a Member's Only jacket watches them ominously. Chase establishes his visual vocabulary and points of view quickly and deftly cuts back and forth between Tony, Tony's POV, and a omnipotent, possibly benevolent third view. He establishes a rhythm, a sequence of events, and a certain tone. It's masterful directing. Go watch it now, because I can't do it justice.
Then, after five long minutes of nothing happening, the screen goes black, the sound cut dead, just as we should get back to Tony's POV. The final words heard are "Don't stop."
The common argument is that Tony has been killed by the man in the Member's Only jacket because earlier in the season Bobby told Tony that, at any time, without notice, without sound, they could be killed. They wouldn't see or hear it coming. Just sudden blackness. The conversation is repeated in the second-to-last episode, in which Bobby dies (though he definitely sees it coming, albeit too late).
According to strict film theory, then yeah, Tony's dead. Member's Only Jacket, in the diner, with the pistol. But such a clear-cut resolution defies everything that made The Sopranos so great.
Of course Tony dies. Maybe he dies in that diner, maybe he gets shot in the back of the head Godfather-style (the Michael Corleone restaurant shooting is Tony's favorite movie scene). Maybe he dies in a car accident, as he nearly does several times throughout the show. Maybe he has a heart attack, or gets whacked five years down the road. Maybe he goes to jail and gets shanked, or dies alone and old in a retirement community. Maybe he gets lung cancer like Johnny Sack. It doesn't matter: in the finale half-season, my choice for finest season of cable television, Chase goes to great lengths to show us the irony of the mob life. People die all the time, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. If the vicissitudes of fate decide to intervene against your behalf, you're fucked. But you don't know when it's gonna happen. Johnny Sack is given at least three erroneous diagnoses in jail, ultimate dying in his hospital bed, shriveled, pale, confused, and pathetic. After being outed as gay by Tony's daughter's boyfriend, Vito manages to elude death by running away to New England. But, stupidly, he comes home to ask Tony for forgiveness and gets killed in a gruesome, disgusting manner by the invidious Phil Leotardo. (Tony confesses to Dr. Melfi that he doesn't care what Vito does in his personal life as long as he keeps earning, one of the more enlightened moments of Tony's very slow progression as a human.) Big Pussy rats out his family and gets gunned down by his closest friends. He asks for a bullet between the eyes but instead gets 3 clips to the stomach.
What does knowing whether Tony lived or died add to The Sopranos? How does it make the show better? It doesn't. People need closure because it makes them comfortable, but The Sopranos went out of its way to deny closure and make viewers uncomfortable. By cutting us off from Tony Soprano's world, David Chase made us feel exactly what Tony feels: that sense of not knowing what's gonna happen, when it's gonna end.
"Made in America" gets five Fuck-Yous out of five
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