In one of the episodes of the Soprano’s first season, baby mobster Christopher Moltisanti, who’s trying to write his life into a screenplay, comments that a movie script is about 120 pages. David Chase takes advantage of the story-telling space in a 13-hour season to pull together a form more like a novel: developing characters, unfolding themes, interlocking plots, arcs, and pointed social commentary.
I’ve been watching the Sopranos for the first time on DVD this past week; it’s as good as its reputation.
I love the emotional range in the characters gesture and expression. Tony Soprano at turns affectionate, sarcastic and brutal, honest and cagy. Carmela shows intertwined love and hatred when her chronically unfaithful husband is about to be slid into an MRI machine after collapsing mysteriously. Boss figurehead Junior Soprano reveals insecurity and envy.
In classic novel mode, the show takes on the hypocrisy of the American aspiring middle class. Carmela Soprano strives to be socially accepted in the upper-middle class world, hosting fundraisers, getting her daughter into the ivy league. Gambling rackets aren’t all that different from insider trading and stock speculation, except mob debtors get beaten up. Elegant dining room table chit-chat is politically correct, self-righteous, barbed, and snobbish. The suburban world’s questionable sources of wisdom include psychotherapy, mixing insight and narcissism; and religion, shown as vulnerable to psychobabble and corruption.
I love the storytelling, and I don’t have enough tv/film vocabulary to describe what I like about it. The interlocking plot structure comes from the conventional vocabulary of tv drama. Some of the the addictive quality derives from soap opera techniques — plot suspense driven by characters — the tensions in Tony and Carmela’s marriage, the ambitions of Christopher Moltisanti. Some of the intellectually satisfying structural symmetry comes from classic theater — the gun on the mantel in the first act will be fired by the last act.
There’s also something about the pacing that seems distinctive. It doesn’t have the racing quality of tv hyperdrama; nor does it have the static, echoe-ey feel of soap operas. And it doesn’t have the schematic feel of a theatrical play adapted to screen, either. If you’re a tv/film fan, and can put your finger on this quality, please write in.
It’s definitely addictive — reading blog entries about the show, I’m glad to hear that I’m not the only person who watched in three days spaced over a week.
In contrast to Adaptation’s parody and ultimate surrender to Hollywood cliches, the Sopranos embraces and transcends genre, and accomplishes art.