I have two families that currently reside in suburban New Jersey. I'm losing one of them on Sunday night.
Like my parents in Central Jersey — and millions elsewhere — I'll be glued to the flat screen for final episode of "The Sopranos," the single greatest artistic success in the history of television. I laugh when this Mafia serial gets thrown into the same category as completely inferior "high art" on television; nothing comes close to its narrative complexity, its cinematic scope, or the emotional impact. And yes, I have seen "The Wire."
The end of original episodes of "The Sopranos" marks the end of an era — not just for HBO, but for TV. I loved the first season of "Heroes," but put it up against this show and it's like comparing a bucket of movie popcorn against a seven-course tasting menu from a master chef. "Lost" should be re-titled "Making This $@#$ Up As We Go Along." Ditto "Battlestar Galactica," which used to come close to a "Sopranos"-level of achievement before the wheels fell off last season.
Perhaps my attachment to the show can be chalked up to my roots in the Garden State. I had friends who were Meadow Sopranos, and had Carmela Sopranos for mothers. Their fathers weren't Tony Sopranos — usually more like Bobby Baccalieris, to be honest. Italians in Jersey are a lot of things, and "hungry" is most of them.
If you grew up in Jersey or over in the City or even down in Philly, chances are you heard whispers about some kid with a lot of vowels in his last name having a "connected" family. Chances are there were some bars and restaurants in your town that only seemed to serve a particular clientele, or seemed to stay in business without ever doing much business.
It was all around us in Jersey, but it was hard to separate the myth from the fact. That's one of the reasons the show worked: it took a cartoonish premise from a Billy Crystal comedy and created something organic. The characters themselves were aware of the glamorization and mythology of gangsters; Christopher's adventures in Hollywood both acknowledged and parodied them, while creator David Chase preyed on his viewers' institutional knowledge of the genre to tease, taunt and titillate us.
"The Sopranos" has been called a television program that's about redefining family. While I agree with that notion, I believe it's also one of the most in-depth and thorough explorations of addiction I've ever seen. I've heard criticisms that these characters don't change throughout the series, but that's the point: like a junkie, for every step forward, it's two steps back. Sometimes it's literal addiction, like with Christopher's drug abuse. In Tony's case, it's an addiction to women, past and present. Mostly, these characters are addicted to the lifestyle — think of gay Vito leaving his homo-Valhalla to return to his certain demise — and the money, misery and meaning it gives them.
I'm going to miss this show like a painter misses his favorite vista. It was a beautiful moment; thank god DVD and A&E have captured it.
Now, in celebration of the finale of "The Sopranos," I give you a Jester's Quart exclusive. In the penultimate episode of the series, there was an amazing moment in which Tony Soprano's friend and restaurateur Artie Bucco brought him over to meet New York Jets head coach Eric Mangini, who was dining at Bucco's Nuovo Vesuvio eatery. Turns out the original scene was much longer than the one that made the final cut. Here, dear readers, is an exclusive look at that deleted scene from "The Blue Comet," the 85th episode of the series:
[INT - Nuovo Vesuvio. ARTIE BUCCO and TONY SOPRANO walk over to a schlub dining with his wife. It is ERIC MANGINI, the 36-year-old head coach of the New York Jets.]
ARTIE: Ah, good — glad to see the Vongole en Brodo arrived on time. Coach Man-genius, I give you Mr. Anthony Soprano.
TONY: Uh, Tony's fine. (Extends his hand.) How you do'in, coach?
MANGINI: Uh, Eric's fine. Listen, Artie, can I get a minute here? (Tony takes two steps away as Artie and Mangini confer.) Are you out of your $@#$ mind? I know who that is and you know who that is. The wrong person sees me in here with him and I'm toast.
ARTIE: Like who?
MANGINI: Does the name Roger Goodell ring a bell? How about "No Fun League?" Where do you think commiserating with a known felon in the Mafia ranks compared to dog fighting or failing a drug test or attacking a stripper? I run a clean operation, Artie; I can't have that image corrupted.
ARTIE: So Justin Miller won't be returning kicks for the Jets next season?
MANGINI: Are you kidding me? The kid was in the Pro Bowl.
ARTIE: Look, I'm not sure what you've heard about my friend, but all I know about his business pursuits is that he's a waste management consultant to Barone Sanitation.
MANGINI: Oh, my mistake. I can't see the league having a problem with a waste management consultant, unless he's trying to tailgate in two parking spaces before the game. Invite him back, please.
TONY: You ladies done with your coffee clash?
ARTIE: I was just telling Coach that this wasn't the first time I've had New York Football Jets celebrities in my establishment. My old restaurant, Vesuvio...
MANGINI: The one that accidentally burned down?
ARTIE: (Shooting a sheepish look at Tony) ... yeah, that one. Anyways, we're about to close up, and who comes walking in? Emerson Boozer and Don Maynard. Epitome of class. Maynard had the Spaghetti Della Casa. I made Cannelloni alla Romana special for Boozer.
MANGINI: I'm sorry, I was born a year after The Beatles broke up. Emerson what and who Maynard?
TONY: Never mind. You ever talk to your friend on da udder side, Coach Coughlin?
MANGINI: Nah, he's scary. Yells a lot. I asked him if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee one day and he screamed back, "Caffeine impairs the senses, Chubs!" and told me to drop and give him 20.
TONY: Well, he's a boss. And sometimes bosses gotta do things they regret. Like killing your best friend 'cause he's weak. Or killing your cousin 'cause he's weak. Or killing your nephew 'cause he's weak. Or wasting everyone's time by slipping into a coma and having two episodes full of hallucinations about being an insurance salesman. Those kinds of things...
ARTIE: You worried about the Patriots this season, Coach?
MANGINI: I think you always have to be worried when you've got Belichick on the other sideline. We don't exactly see eye-to-eye, but he's a hell of a coach and I hope we can find a way to get by him.
TONY: This Belly Chick seems to be a problem for you. Causing you undue stress. My therapist ... former therapist ... said that which causes undue stress can be alleviated through patience and understanding. But I think she's a crazy @#$#$%. Some of the boys at the Bing have been waitin' since [Joe] Namath for your team to get back to the Big Game. So dis Belly Chick ... you want I should...?
MANGINI: No, that's okay.
TONY: I mean, we could easily rent a boat and...
MANGINI: Again, please don't.
TONY: Look, all I sayin' is dat the guy has to start his car sometime...
MANGINI: NO! THANK! YOU! Listen, I'd really like to just get back to this veal whatever.
ARTIE: (Clears throat) I believe you mean your Osso Bucco alla Milanese...
TONY: I don't think I care for dis tone you're takin'. Dis attitude. With dis level of disrespect you're showing here, no wonder you're coaching da Jets instead of Big Blue! I mean, all due respect, but you don't know $#$%@ nuthin' about $@#!$ nuthin'!
MANGINI: You know what I know, Tony? That your son is a physical manifestation of your own clinical depression, from the temporary happiness women, drugs, and violence provided him to the sniveling adolescent tirade he unleashes when he's told he needs to "be a man" but would prefer to wallow in his psychotic mire. I know that there was a time when you projected your love for your family onto the family of ducks that lived in your swimming pool. When you drained that pool after the near-suicide of your rapidly decomposing super-ego, e.g. your son, you've effectively eliminated any semblance of familial connectivity in your life, leading one to believe that your existence will be one of increasing isolation and loneliness. And as simplistically Freudian as it may seem, the overall intensity of your emotions toward women comes from a deep-seeded and unfulfilled desire to have intercourse with your domineering mother. (Takes a bite of the veal.) Now how about them apples?
TONY: (Standing there, mouth agape.) Normally, you'd be chewing on a curb with my foot on da back of your head. But I gotta say you were right, Artie: he's a freakin' Man-genius...
Greg Wyshynski is the Features Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington, DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book is "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History." His columns appear every Saturday on Sports Central. You can e-mail Greg at [email protected].
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