Web Letters: The Sopranos' Last Song

I purchased HBO because of The Sopranos...I can't be alone in that decision. I missed it the first season (I've since gone back and watched all those episodes), and felt like the parched Ben-Hur on his march into galley slavery where the Roman guard says, "No water for him!" Of course, Jesus showed up at that moment with a gourd full of cold water, and HBO kinda did that for me.

Actually, watching The Sopranos became a quasi-religious experience in our house...fitting it's on Sundays. Or has it been like crack addiction? Whatever, it's provided a level of emotional intensity, fascination and ultimate suspension of disbelief that I've rarely experienced in a lifetime of movie and theater-going.

The writing has been so remarkable (with the exception of a few boring episodes here and there centering on the Soprano kids), the acting so accomplished, the characters and plot twists so rich and the verisimilitude so brilliant that my sons and I would often act as if hypnotized from 9-10pm. When the closing credits came on to some whacked-out musical accompaniment, it was momentarily like being snapped at by a bombshell hooker in the middle of your orgasm, "Time's up!" For some reason, my wife rarely showed any interest in the show, and would usually disappear into the bedroom when we settled in to watch. That may be one reason we're calling it a day after three decades (only half-kidding).

Mr. Fraser nails the universal touchpoints intrinsic to Tony Soprano's odyssey through the banalities of the suburban lifestyle, punctuated by thrilling acts of criminality and depravity. "He had his cake, or whatever the f**k else he wanted. and ate it too."

Even after he murders Christopher in one of the most powerful scenes in recent memory--the expression of sheer evil on Tony's face as he holds Chris's nose shut was an exquisite piece of pure non-verbal screen acting by Gandolfini--he not only smoothly transitions back into his family and "work" routines, but feels entitled to jet off to Vegas for a few days of stress-reducing debauchery, under the aegis of clearing up Chris's "business affairs." It's only under the influence of peyote, in the company of a gorgeous hooker no older than his daughter, that he's able to claim personal responsibility for the heinous act of brutally killing his surrogate son.

Is this not the stuff of legends, and at the same time the guy down the street, or...yourself, maybe without the murder? How the hell will we soldier on without Tony and the crew? Simple....DVDs!

Stewart Braunstein

Port Washington , NY