Wednesday, April 09, 2008
I’ve now seen 17 episodes of The Sopranos – the entire first season plus the first four episodes of the second season – and I am getting a feel for the show. But that doesn’t mean I understand it in any critical sense, though I certainly enjoy it and think it very good. Fact is, I’ve now seen enough that I’m wondering: What’s it about?
Yes, I know, it’s about Tony Soprano, his shrink, and his two families. The one family, of course, is his wife and kids and so forth, while the other consists of his business associates in the mob. There is some overlap between the two groups, and that is certainly one of the things this series is about, negotiating one’s life between home and workplace. That is hardly a novel problem; on the contrary, it is ubiquitous. Most adult Americans face it in some way, but not quite this way. Perhaps that is part of its appeal, a defamiliarizing look at a familiar situation.
This particular theme was brought home to me in episode nine, “Boca,” as in Boca Raton, but also, according to the Wikipedia, a pun on bocca, Italian for “mouth,” and, by extension, gossip. Corrado Soprano, Tony’s nominal boss in the mob (and his uncle as well; he’s often called “Uncle Junior”) takes his long-term mistress to Boca Raton, where they enjoy a satisfying romantic interlude in which she compliments Junior on his skill in cunnilingus. I want to set this plotline aside, however, to look at the other one, which involves Ally Vandermeed, a friend of Tony’s daughter, Meadow, in an affair with the coach of the high-school soccer team.
Coach Hauser is very good and his team has a chance of going to the playoffs. He’s so good that he’s been recruited to coach at the University of Rhode Island. When this news hits the papers, Tony and two of his friends, who also have daughters on the team, are very upset. They decide to see if they can convince the coach to turn the job down.
One of these friends, Silvio Danto, is Tony’s consigliore in the mob. The other one, Artie Bucco, has known Tony since childhood, but is not involved in the mob. Artie’s a restaurateur, as was his father, but, of course, he knows that Tony’s a gangster. He has no foreknowledge of what Tony and Silvio do to persuade the coach to stick around.
First, they send him a 50-inch wide-screen surround-sound TV, which he angrily refuses, accusing Tony’s guys of extortion. They refuse his refusal and leave the box in his driveway. At this point I began to get upset. It seemed to me that Tony was out-of-line here. Then Tony had another henchman, Chris, steal the coach’s dog and then return it to him. Yeah, I felt, it’s too bad that the coach is leaving, but Tony should not be attempting to make him stick around, not like this.
Why was I upset? This little bit of business is nothing compared to what I’d seen Tony do in earlier episodes. In the first episode he ran into a guy with a car and then beat him up. In the fifth episode he garroted a man. Neither of those actions bothered me, though I knew they were wrong. I accepted them as “baseline” events in a drama of this type. Why was I bothered by Tony’s attempts to intimidate the soccer coach?
The only thing I can think of is the beating and the murder were done in the course of business. The man that Tony beat-up owed him a quarter of a million dollars in gambling debts while the man that he strangled had been in the mob and had testified against them in court. Thus Tony’s actions were governed by a grim reciprocity: you don’t pay what you owe me, I beat you up; you rat on your friends and mine, I’ll get revenge. No such reciprocity holds between Tony Soprano and his daughter’s soccer coach. That’s why attempting to coerce the coach felt wrong. At least that’s my best guess.
Let’s continue on with the story. Remember Artie, Tony’s restaurateur buddy, who also has a daughter on the team? Well, Artie’s wife Charmaine knows the coach’s wife, who called her to complain about the TV. She told Artie and Artie, in turn, decided to confront Tony. He went to Tony’s office – in a back room at the Bada Bing strip club – and had his confrontation. Silvio was there as well. Artie states his case, quickly and forcefully, and then is rocked when Silvio informs him that they now know that the coach has been having sexual relations with one of the girls on the team, Ally Vandermeed, Meadow’s friend. Tony had learned this from Meadow.
Artie exclaims, “He deserves to die! Betraying children!” (And, I might add, crossing the line between his business and his personal life.) Tony: “Artie, believe me. He ain’t gonna’ being doing that shit no more. I guarantee you that.” Artie sits down at the table with Tony as Silvio paces in the background. The scene ends.
I think we can assume that Tony and Silvio didn’t make any explicit plans with Artie in the room. He may be a friend and fellow father, but he’s not in “our thing” with them. They wouldn’t put him or themselves in danger by having such a conversation. We do not, however, have to merely assume that Artie left under the belief that they were going to do something drastic. When next we see him, he’s in his garden, furiously weeding away, when his wife comes to talk to him. Coach Hauser’s transgression is now common knowledge within this particular social circle. Charmaine is angry and horrified: “He’s not gonna’ get away with this!” Artie: “You got that right!” Charmaine: “What!?” She divines that Tony’s up to something and convinces Artie that it’s wrong.
I’m with Charmaine on this. What the coach did was terrible, but Tony has no standing to intervene here. Note that Charmaine is generally disapproving of Tony; she certainly would not approve of him murdering the man who turned on his mob buddies. If I were living in her world, neither would I. But I’m not living in that world; I’m watching a TV show.
Artie returns to the Bada Bing and talks to Tony, telling him not to do it, whatever “it” is. Artie leaves, Tony paces the floor. And calls it off. The episode ends with the coach perp-walking on TV and Tony drunkenly rolling on his living-room floor, saying that he didn’t hurt anyone. End of episode.
And thus it was that Tony Soprano was able to maintain a separation between his business and his life outside the mob. But it wasn’t easy, and he didn’t do it alone. It took people outside the mob, Artie and Charmaine, to convince him to hold the line.
Meanwhile, we have Junior (aka “Corrado”) Soprano and his oral skills. What does that have to do with maintaining a separation between mob business and personal business? When Bobbi, his mistress, compliments him on his skill, he tells her never to utter a word about that to anyone. When she presses him on that, which seems silly to her, he tells her that it would hurt him in the eyes of his associates. It’s OK for him to get her a job with the union he controls, and to spend $20K on a junket to Boca Raton, but talking about his skill at oral sex, that could hurt his professional reputation.
Unfortunately, that horse had already left the barn by the time Junior had laid down the law to Bobbi. She’d been gossiping with her manicurist and someone had overheard. That someone told Tony’s wife, Carmella, and Carmella ended up telling Tony, who then uses that information against his Uncle Junior during a golf match. He doesn’t say anything explicit, just makes mysterious remarks about smelling sushi and (singing) “South of the border, where the tuna fish play” as he makes his drive.
The innuendo is enough to tell Junior that Bobbie had gossiped and the information had gotten out to at least one guy in the mob, his nephew and arch-rival. And so, in a scene that’s roughly four minutes from the end of the episode, Junior confronts Bobbie in the union office. It’s after hours and they’d obviously had a date scheduled; she had gotten some food for them. He’s very angry, threatens to hit her with his fist (see screen shots in the appendix), she begs him not to. He notices a lemon meringue pie on a nearby desk, grabs it, and viciously rams it into her face, grinding it in. She’s in tears. He yells: “You stupid fuckin’ blabbermouth cunt!” He orders her to clear out her things and not report for work the next day.
Then he leaves, still furious. And, one suspects, not simply over her for gossiping, but over the end of a 16-year relationship. As he walks from the building he appears to be – manfully – holding back tears. He’s furious at himself.
That was the dramatic climax of the episode. It was the most violent scene in the episode and, more to the point, it felt more violent than the one (in the first episode) where Tony ran his car into the gambler or the one (in the fifth episode) where he garroted the squealer. The physical violence – a pie in the face – was not comparable to the violence in those other scenes, but the dramatic violence was greater. The resolution of the soccer coach plot, when Tony calls it off, is simply the denouement.
How does this plotline exhibit the thematics of business life vs. family life? Bobbi clearly belongs to Junior’s personal life. She is not privy to his mob business. But she certainly knows that he is a man of some importance in the mob. After all, he’s gotten her a job with a union he controls and has just signed a union check for $20,000 to cover their tryst in Boca. These he regards as the perks of high rank in the mob. As he remarked to his lawyer earlier in the episode, “If you can’t get your friends jobs, what’s the purpose of attaining success?”
The problem, as we’ve seen, concerns the specific details of their sexual life. That is, of course, his personal business. But his mob associates care about those details, inferring more general aspects of character from such things. In the scene where Carmella told Tony about Junior’s expertise, Tony breaks out in laughter, muttering about “whistling to the wheat field” and “a Bushman of the Kalahari.” When Carmella offers that Tony and his friends all do it, Tony indignantly replies, “What goes on in this bedroom, stays here. And you know that.” It is thus clear that Junior is not the only one who believes in, but fails to obey, a taboo on oral sex.
The only way to maintain the taboo and evade it at the same time, to have your cake and eat it too, is to keep the evasion secret. If the secret gets out, then the game is blown. The boundary between personal life and mob business has been dangerously breeched. When Corrado ended his relationship with Bobbi he did so to restore the separation between those two arenas of his life space.
Now, we might ask, why did David Chase put that specific action at the dramatic climax of this episode? More specifically, why did he put it between a scene in which Tony is thinking about calling off the hit on coach Hauser and the scene where he actually makes the phone call? Of course, this bit of construction links the two plotlines at the thematic level. But it is an odd juxtaposition: Corrado commits a violent act, Tony declines to have a violent act committed. Tony accepts a limitation on his desires and authority. Corrado accepts a limitation on his desires as the price of forcefully asserting his authority.
In order to go much beyond those formulations – which I like, but do not find satisfying – I suspect I would have to go into psychoanalytic territory. Were I to do so, I would be heading toward infant-mother separation anxiety; but I don’t know how to get there quickly and easily. Obviously, Corrado does separate himself from a woman over oral matters – remember the title of the episode, “Boca” and the Italian for mouth and gossip, bocca. And Tony’s troubled relationship with his mother frames the entire season. The elements are there. But getting from the surface features of this episode, and the specific way the episode unfolds, that strikes me as being a tricky and delicate matter. Tempting though the argument is, I must pass.
* * * * *
But I would like to make one final comment, one that is about the way Chase has structured this episode, and about my response to it. Though I have not indicated it in my summary descriptions, Chase interleaves these two plotlines throughout the episode, along with scenes that could be assigned to both plotlines, or to neither. That surely affects how we experience the episode.
And now we go meta.
It follows that a critical approach that is content to explain the desires and motives of the characters will have little to say about just how Chase (or the people who wrote, directed, and edited this episode) has crafted his story and how that craft affects us. For those motives and desires are independent of how we encounter the action. Those motives and desires are whatever they are regardless of where Corrado’s brutal treatment of Bobbi is placed in relation to Tony’s actions with respect to the soccer coach. Those two lines of action are causally independent of one another.
But the effects those actions have on the viewer, they are not independent of one another. They depend on what Chase reveals to us, and when he does so. He has interlinked them and so our responses to the two plot lines are necessarily interlinked. This is particularly important in a medium where the viewer’s attention is necessarily entrained to and thus controlled by the narrative medium. We can leaf through written texts at will; we do not have such freedom with televised narratives – though we can move about on a DVD fairly freely, if we so choose.
By my count, this episode runs about 49 minutes, excluding the title sequence and the end credits. It has 36 scenes, which works out to an average of 82 seconds per scene, some longer, some shorter. The mind can shift between perceptual and cognitive states relatively rapidly, within the space of a single frame of film. Emotional shifts can be considerably slower. While we can be surprised into high arousal relatively quickly, it takes awhile for the arousal to dissipate – if dissipation is appropriate. Thus there is likely to be considerable emotional inertia between these short scenes.
So far as I know, we do not have a criticism that is deeply responsive to such issues. To be sure, we have literary theories of reader response, but, so far as I know, we do not have a practical reader response criticism that attempts to trace reader response to a “text” as it unfolds from beginning to end.
Nor, so far as I know (though I might well be mistaken in this), do we have reader or viewer response research programs that attempt to ascertain just how readers or viewers respond to specific moments in a narrative. I know how I responded to the final scene between Corrado and Bobbi. When Corrado approached her and gathered his fist to pummel her in the face, at that moment I flinched. I didn’t want to see it. Fortunately, Bobbi begged him not to hit her, and he didn’t. Instead, he smashed a pie in her face, a brutal gesture, though a trope normally encountered in comedy. Do other viewers respond (more or less) like this? I would imagine so, for Chase and his team are skilled in their craft. They “know” how an episode should unfold if it is to be satisfying to viewers.
One could investigate such matters by simple means: ask people how they felt. One could also use sophisticated instruments for physiological monitoring, including brain activity. Given such information, and our ability simply to describe what happens, we might begin to create a new criticism.
Are we willing to hazard such a criticism? These issues have nothing specifically to do with The Sopranos, much less this specific episode. They are general issues that can be raised through any text in any medium one chooses. They aren’t going away. If we don’t address them, we’re not going to understand how these things work, not The Sopranos, not Kurt Vonnegut, nor Shakespeare either.
Appendix: Corrodo Gets Tough
The first three screen shots are from the scene where Corrodo breaks off with Bobbi.
The next two screen shots show Corrodo on the street outside the union office after his break-up with Bobbi.
This last shot shows Tony returning home after having watched the coach’s arrest on TV at the Bada Bing. The point of view – from above – is unusual and echos the final shot of Corrodo, also from above.
You’re raised some terrific issues here.
With respect to the interweaving of the two plotlines, it seems to me that part of Chase’s intention is to call attention to the effect of sexual secrets. Tony and the community are shocked and angered by the coach’s behavior; meanwhile, every charge that could be leveled against the coach—exploitation, unequal power dynamics, and imposing a secret—are, to varying degrees of seriousness, also true of Tony and the rest of the cast. In many of these episodes, there is a tension between sincere appreciation for Tony’s hard work, and an unflinching evaluation of the costs (as I wrote in the post on The Wire). Here, part of the issue is the cost of maintaining certain masculine fictions, including fictions about what men won’t do to please a (mere) woman.
I agree with Joe: this is a really interesting post.
The unfunny pie-in-the-face is interesting, isn’t it; underlining that for this show the violence is never violence per se (as in, for instance, Clockwork Orange): it’s instrumental. It’s about coercing and/or (usually and) humiliating the other person. When a character in the show pops up who enjoys being violent for the sake of the violence the other mobsters are far from comfortable: I’m thinking of Ralph Cifaretto: Tony [sorry Bill, this is a spoiler for you; look away now] eventually kills him basically because Ralph enjoys killing for killing’s sake. He projects his own self-loathing at the violent life onto this violent other.
Speaking broadly, the show succeeds, I think, to the extent that it refuses the standard tv-cinematic jack-bauer logic that violence simplifies situations; and in fact the insight that violence complexifies life actually beyond the capacity of the ordinary psyche to cope with is where the show opens. One of my favourite moments from the second series is when (I think I’m remembering this right) Tony is talking to Melfi about sitting in his car whilst Furio, newly over from Italy, is sent into a shop to show that he has what it takes to administer an effective beating to somebody who owed Tony money. ‘What were you feelings?’ Melfi asks, as he looks back on this moment--the point being, of course, that Tony is obscurely sad about it. Tony looks wistful, as if remembering when he was young and there was a straightforward joy to be had in just beating people up before the burdens of command oppressed him, and replies: ‘I thought about the beating. I wished I was in there.’ Melfi’s then asks one of her most insightful questions: ‘giving it, or receiving it?’
In a way, secrets define the texture of the show, secrets and and unspeakable. The originating premise is that Tony is driven by unconscious secrets into having panic attacks. So he goes to a shrink, where the object is to uncover those secrets. But the very nature of his business makes it impossible for him to talk about some of the most obvious and superficial aspects of his life. And then we have Uncle Junior and Livia talk about killing Tony without ever explicitly talking about killing. It seems to me that there’s an aweful lot of communication that takes place through indirection, a lot of people who need plausible deniability for their own actions and desires, not so much so they can deny them to others, but so they can deny them to themselves.
And, yeah, masculine fiction is big in this show. There’s a scene in some episode where Meadow complain’s about Tony’s antequated ideas. He says something to the effect that it may be 1999 out there (outside the house) but it’s 1954 in here. A certain set of gender fictions is a big part of being 1954.
There’s something going on with violence that’s got me puzzled. But I’m not even sure I can frame the question.
I was talking with a friend of mine about the show and he indicated that he’d started watching it when it was first on TV. But he didn’t get past the fifth episode, where Tony garroted the mobster in-hiding. He decided that Tony was evil and he didn’t want to see any more.
Well, I can understand that reaction. Tony IS evil. But the shows many viewers were able to “baseline” that and go on with the show; at least I think they did. What’s the difference between my friend and the show’s many fans? I don’t know.
Ultimately I’m wondering: How’s this work in the brain? One could reasonably say, of course, that we know so little about such matters that it’s not a real question. But . . . what I’m thinking is that we’ve got some innate behavioral equipment that’s derived from our animal nature. And I’m guessing that the distinction I made in my post - between violence in the course of business (even an illegal business) and violence outside that arena - isn’t innate, that it doesn’t exist among our primate relatives, for example, who can be quite nasty toward one another, including ganging up and beating to death. So, that distinction must be one we learn and that is culturally enforced.
Here we’ve got this TV show that takes that distinction and applies it to an imaginary world in a way that’s quite different from what audience members would find acceptable in the real world. How’s that work? I don’t know? And I fear that this little exposition of mine has failed to state the issue usefully.
Then I note that Uncle Junior and Tony have a complex relationship and that, at this point, Junior’s certainly thinking about having Tony killed. He implies as much to Mickey Palmice in a conversation at the clubhouse of the country club where they’d just played golf with Tony. So that’s going to put something of a negative cast on Junior’s violence; but I don’t think that’s enough to explain what’s going on.
Finally, at the most basic perceptual level, there’s the way Junior’s attack on Bobbi was filmed. We’ve got a subjective camera that sees him coming, fist pumping away, straight at us. We’re in the line of fire. I can’t recall any other scene that does this (keep in mind that I’m only 17 episodes in). I’ve seen a lot of brutality, but none of it from the victim’s point of view.
Nor, so far as I know (though I might well be mistaken in this), do we have reader or viewer response research programs that attempt to ascertain just how readers or viewers respond to specific moments in a narrative.
Unfortunately, you’re wrong about this - this is how test screenings of TV shows are (or in any case were recently) conducted. Each audience member gets a dial; they indicate their feelings between ‘Fuck this’ and ‘I’m into it.’
Good TV disregards these findings, which tell us essentially nothing (audiences like funny things and can’t abide setup that isn’t strongly generically cued, etc.).
I’ve read that that sort of thing has been done with movie screenings - to similar effect. Don’t know whether it’s still done.
For my most basic purposes, crude information, even if it contains no surprises, is better than none. & I’m not so much interested in aggregate response as I am in the degree of similarity between people’s responses.
You’ve barely scratched the surface of Soprano spectacle. It’s not just about cognition (which most mortals are not qualified to speak on anyway).....It’s about mafia-TV as a, dare we say, reification of a code, ironic omerta, Puzo, vegas, 24/7. That may be obvious or trite to some: the wise guy-anti-hero has been for years.
Regardless Sopranos reinforces the laissez-faire party spirit that keeps suburbanites, and suburbanite wifeys fat, wet, and happy. The camera work more or less a type of noir-porno as well: rally, in a few years, the pussy-licking will be on prime time, as most likely the mob hits themselves will ............stay tuned for the Lucky Luciano show..........
Uncle Junior and Tony have a complex relationship and that, at this point, Junior’s certainly thinking about having Tony killed. He implies as much to Mickey Palmice in a conversation at the clubhouse of the country club where they’d just played golf with Tony. So that’s going to put something of a negative cast on Junior’s violence; but I don’t think that’s enough to explain what’s going