Tony, You Keep Me Hangin’ On

How does the saying go? Life imitates art? Or is it the other way around?

Anyway, life is rarely tidy. There are always loose ends, questions, twists and turns. Art, when done right, is the same, leaving more fodder for rumination than pat conclusions.

Which brings us to yet another consideration of the abrupt conclusion without closure of The Sopranos. Don’t worry I know this is not the first thing you’ve read about it.

We were left with the nuclear family munching on onion rings at a neighborhood restaurant. And lots of red herrings to digest. Who were those mean looking brothers by the juke box? What about the guy in the USA ballcap drinking joe in a booth? And that menacing fellow who kept glancing at Tony on the way to the bathroom.

So Tony tried to reach out to Uncle Junior. He said goodbye to Syl.

The FBI agent, it turns out, has been kind of rooting for Tony all along. And he’s shtupping one of his cohorts. Is she the Brooklyn connection that gave the info on Phil Leotardo?

And we still don’t know what the real deal is with Paulie Walnuts? Is the guy with greatest doo on TV the canary singing to the grand jury? Of course, we’re all pissed that he’s the last goombah standing by Tony’s side. If, in fact, that’s what he’s doing.

What I do know is this. This series was television as good as it gets. A lot of intelligent people with good sense were locked in. In our household we dismissed any idea of going out to dinner to celebrate U of L’s baseball success, because it would have overlapped with the opening credits of the final episode. About ten minutes before the show, the film babe already wanted to turn it over to HBO, just to make sure we didn’t miss a moment.

Closure would have been nice. In the end, it’s better there is none. Whether Tony plays it out to a natural retirement, turning his empire over to A.J. or the more inclined, Meadow, we will never know. Do the Feds get him? Does he beat the rap? Does an up and comer from New York, or even Jersey, fill him full of holes in the parking lot of the Bada Bing?

That we don’t know for sure is a good thing.

Of course, series creator David Chase played with all our hearts. Almost to the point of cute. The series ended with a Journey song and black screen that surely had many grabbing the phone to their cable company. And the opening of the final episode — Tony waking up to Vanilla Fudge. Set me free, why don’t you babe?

I like it.

I could have done without all the dead ends. A.J.’s car blowing up. Meadow having trouble getting her car into the parking space outside the restaurant.

But what strikes me most salient is this. Here I am, a reasonably intelligent, mature individual with a real life. And I’m spending time blogging on this TV show, the final episode of which is all that people are talking about on the web today. And that you are reading this, when you’ve probably dissected the whole thing with friends and read a lot of those other blogs.

This is way beyond who shot J.R.. This is not the mushy finale of M*A*S*H. This was a viewing audience of increasing size through the decade that was locked into a very human Jersey crime gang. Sociopath or not, Tony Soprano grabbed us by the short and curlies and didn’t let go.

That’s art. What’s left is contemplation. And lots of reruns on networks that will cut out the cussing and nudity but leave in the gore.

So, yeah, Tony you’re gone, but as the song says, You keep me hangin’ on.

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