Tony Soprano's Final Ride Down the New Jersey Turnpike

By Max Fraser, The Nation. Posted June 11, 2007.

Editor's note: HBO broadcast on Sunday night the final episode of The Sopranos, of which Associated Press TV reviewer Frazier Moore writes, "In the end, the only ending that mattered was the one masterminded by Sopranos creator David Chase. And playing against viewer expectations, as always, Chase refused to stage a mass extermination, put the characters through any changes, or provide his viewers with comfortable closure. Or catharsis. After all, he declined to pass moral judgment on Tony -- he reminded viewers all season what a thug Tony is, then gave him a pass." Read the full review of the last episode here.

Two doors shut on Tony Soprano during the second-to-last episode of the iconic HBO creation that bears his name, the series that David Remnick eulogized in The New Yorker as "the greatest achievement in the history of television." The first is slammed closed by his psychiatrist, Dr. Jennifer Melfi, ending what seems to be their final session. It comes as a symbolic rupture in the show's original comic conceit, which set the panicked paterfamilias in the therapist's plush armchair, seeking relief from the twin stresses of organized crime and suburban domesticity. The second door Tony shuts behind himself, a final barricade against a hostile world fast closing in on him. We watch the door through his eyes with an ominous sense of foreboding; the nearness of an end -- the end -- is palpable. Instead of the man whose sins the late Ellen Willis, in her essay "Our Mobsters, Ourselves," found "in all of us," we are now inside of him, taking one final look back over the last eight years. What do we see?

No television show in recent memory has earned the critical accolades heaped on The Sopranos since its premiere in 1999. A cable sensation of unprecedented proportions, it swept up Emmys, cultural cachet and middling acting careers (most notably those of James Gandolfini and Edie Falco) during seven at times painfully drawn-out seasons.

From its earliest episodes, The Sopranos was compared with Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather trilogy and Martin Scorsese's GoodFellas and eventually joined them in a holy trinity of American Mafia fiction. Like its predecessors, the show has been a rich send-up of the old Horatio Alger rags-to-riches narrative so closely associated with our collective national identity. But instead of the traditional portrayal of the Mafia -- bound by its code of omertà and a glorification of violence -- The Sopranos often gave us a brutal and diminished anachronism. "The show took the concept of il declino del padrino -- the decline of the godfather -- and made it very central to the series," says George De Stefano, author of An Offer We Can't Refuse: The Mafia in the Mind of America. Or as Regina Barreca, who has written about the show and teaches English literature at the University of Connecticut, puts it, "These guys are trying to be larger than life figures, but it's not possible. They're in New Jersey -- it's not even the Brooklyn mob. They're always one step removed from greatness."

The distinction is significant, and not only because of the stench emanating from the Jersey Turnpike. "In The Godfather: Part II," De Stefano points out, "Hyman Roth says to Michael Corleone, 'We're bigger than US Steel.' On The Sopranos, we have gangsters fighting over stolen power tools and provolone. It shatters any of the mythology and romanticism of the Mafia image."

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Max Fraser, a fall 2006 intern at The Nation, is at work on The Nation Guide to The Nation.