Epictetus has previously noted that there is nothing on "The Sopranos" that's simple filler; what might look throwaways are usually, in fact, crucial clues, significant details, or indicators of what might lie in store. Or, they function to underscore and deepen character and long-standing themes. Whether it's camera angle, snippet of dialogue, or reaction shot, there's something meaningful to be gleaned; there is always more than meets the eye.

In the most recently aired episode (April 30), the Vito storyline appears to take a sentimental turn, with sticky sweet dialogue and soft-focus love scenes amid wildflowers. As if Jim's handle-bar mustache and grill skills aren't enough, he's also a biker. And volunteer fireman. And hero! And good with his fists. And fair–he would never stoop to Vito's level and grab whatever implement was at hand. Yet he also forgives. What a man, as Epictetus's mother would say.

And what a town: Aside from the typically boring B&B conversation, Dartford is darn near perfect, a haven (heaven) for Vito. But for how long? The exaggerated sentimentality must be serving as a mask; it's done ironically, probably both in homage to and parody of "Brokeback Mountain." It's done as counterpoint to posit what Vito must suspect: That it is only an idyll, and that whether or not he is literally whacked (never the most important issue on "The Sopranos"), there is something unreal about it, that it is destined to end, that his previous life will come calling–at his own behest. "Don't do it," more than one viewer shouted, watching with unfolding horror as Vito dialed his wife from a borrowed cell phone. Does he really think that name that appeared on the readout won't get back to Philly L.? The sentimentality glossing this portion of the episode was just that–gloss, and sign of how much the show's creators (especially David Chase himself) detest that worst of Italian traits.

It's confirmed in the scenes that take place back in the North Ward. When Tony waves to the old woman across the street, we think for a moment he might turn down Julianna's final bid. But $275 a square foot? Goodbye old neighborhood, as if it ever really existed at all. Anyone who knows a little about Newark and surrounding environs (Bloomfield, East Orange) knows that a little gentrification might be a good thing. The sentimental sheen applied in heavy layers by successive generations of Italians is a coverup–these are the folks who've fled to North Caldwell and East Brunswick and Livingston, after all, leaving the core neighborhoods of the old cities to rot.

And a great bit of dramatic craft, there, again: With the image of the old lady before us, how much were we rooting for Tony to say no to the arrival of Jamba Juice? But he is nothing if not a pragmatist–and corporate pragmatist, at that–and it will be up the Parisi's and Baccala's of the organization to seek other monetizing opportunities besides the simple shakedown. Look for more out-of-the-box thinking on the order of Bobby B's staged shooting of the would-be hip-hop star. Like functionaries inflating page views and ad clicks by spreading content over several web pages, the crew will have to work to do more (and make more) with less. And like oil execs and real estate tycoons manipulating their markets, Tony can benefit from the great American capitalist marketplace.

Other notes: Is Tony as liquid as we've been led to believe? His hospital stay put the issue out there, and it was touched on again when Tony winced at AJ's comment: "But you have all the money in the world!" And lest anyone think children don't notice the habits of their parents, AJ's comment about Tony's bowl of ice cream was perfect–much more real, much more authentic, and much less sentimental than any of the prefab crap about Godfather I and II. And the ever-blanker looks on AJ's face with each mention of his father by his club-kid friends were simple proof of the pain at the core.

Small moments, all of them, and as in the best of art they tell us big truths. The secret is in the precision of detail. Forget the broad gestures and potential whacks; focus on the fine points. And always be suspicious when small towns are shot in soft focus.

Issues of identity once again took center stage in last night's episode of "The Sopranos." This has proved a dicey avenue of discussion for the series, the embarrasingly bad Columbus Day installment of several seasons back being a prime example. Yet for anyone who has paid more than passing attention to the Italian American experience, identity insecurity is never very far below the surface. Thus "The Sopranos" is obligated to examine it, no matter the risks (risks like earnestness, preciousness, over-simplification, or simple misguidedness).

But the concise, post-romancin' roundelet between Meadow and Finn really hit the mark. Meadow expresses respect for the white-collar scam the firm for which she is interning is prosecuting (forget med school or law–the girl's got organized crime in mind). Finn dismisses her romanticism of the "impoverished mezzogiorno" while expressing legitimate fears for and of the man he's officially outed. Meadow castigates her prospective father-in-law for his dumb Italian jokes. Meadow's name is Meadow. Finn's is Finn. What kind of Italians are these?

Which is exactly the point. Anyone who says "The Sopranos" stereotypes Italian Americans (and in the experience of Epictetus, it's Italian Americans who say this the most) is wrong. The opposite is true. If "The Sopranos" stereotypes anyone, it's human beings–all the behaviors of man/woman are examined under a bright, but not always harsh, light. It's what keeps everyone watching. The Italian Americans of the show are tribal and clannish and exhibit similar surface behaviors, but really they're individuals representing all types, creeds, colors, ethnicities.

Identity is also at play in the shifting dynamic between Carmella and the other ladies who lunch. "She's seeming not like one of us, but one of them," is the comment from Rosalie Apriele as they witness the transformation of Pussy's widow from helplessness to ruthlessness. Carmella rubs vitamin E into Tony's scar–the almost pathetically good wife–while awaiting her husband's special kind of help with the building inspector. It's anther typically on-target update of the old stereotype (yes) of the American housewife.

Consider too the reactions of various characterize to Vito's homosexuality. Chris basically laughs; Tony is uncomfortable but pragmatic (Vito is a good earner)–and even shows some signs of kindness. Paulie sees it in terms of himself ("how much more betrayal can I take?"). The others inhabit various points on the spectrum, from disgust to rage to confusion. There is no monolithic belief or prejudice or opinion among this group–except that maybe getting ahead is what counts. Their common faith is capitalism, and even "Qaedas" (as Tony calls them) have a place if they're helping the marketplace work its magic. It's a restatement of traditional conservative ideals, leavened with Clinton-era DLC global villagism.

Speaking of which: While it would be nice for Vito to live out his days in blissful, liberated immersion in Americana, the thinking here is that paradise will offer limited shelter. Philly Leotardo asks Vito's wife where he might have gone, and though the question goes unanswered, doesn't it stand to reason that she knows he has/had cousins in New Hampshire? "Live free or die" works well as a motto, but if you think New Hampshire has always literally practiced the sentiment engraved on its license plates, think again. Epictetus sees it as ironic foreshadowing.

Plagued by nightmares sparked by Seymour Hirsch's terrifying New Yorker story on Bush's messianic plotting, Epictetus awoke (groggily) in search of comforting words. The finely architected sentences that comprise "The Ambassadors" helped speed the subway ride, but for some reason, Henry James's descriptions of Paris did surprisingly little to dispel the dread this time.

So, on to Juan Cole, who does his usual in reminding all and sundry of reality. Read him if you want to know how far off Iran is from being a threat (and it's far). He even allows that Bush may be engaged in traditional sabre rattling–since he, like the Irani ruling faction, is suffering such dismal approval numbers. But don't look for any comforting words on whether Bush will actually hold back. This president, as succinctly summed up by Lady Epicteta over wine last night, "is delusional. And you know what? I blame him less than those people who voted for him."

Hard to know what to make of "The Sopranos" episode from Sunday night. Hopes were high on seeing Steve Buscemi's name under the director's credit (the infamous Pine Barrens episode having been shot under his watchful gaze). Yet there was something plodding about the wedding-dominated plot, which like Ginny Sac herself seemed at times to be in danger of going glassy-eyed and passing out after too many anisette-soaked pastries at the reception.

So be it. It's tough to hold an entire season's worth of episodes to the standard set in the past few weeks. The two-part Finnerty installment and its aftermath were high points not just for "The Sopranos" but for television drama in general. An ordinary episode is only to be expected now and then, and "ordinary" for this crew still blows away most everything else. Besides, in a program with arcs as complicated, tangled, and interdependent as those that characterize the best novels, time must be given over to getting the next set of pieces in place.

Still, an Italian-American wedding? We've seen it a lot before, and this depiction shed nothing new on it, except that apparently the price of marrying off little Daniella or Maria has skyrocketed since Epictetus and his betrothed enjoyed the generosity of hundreds of unknown Sicilian and Napolitano relatives on their own blessed day. The writers all but acknowledged the cliche by referencing, to good comedic effect, the sine qua non of Italian American wedding scenes–that in "The Godfather" (aka "One," as Christopher always refers to the first part of the saga).

OK, so maybe viewers never will tire of the bad bands, the tall cakes, the deaf grandmothers, the murder contracts–the whole beggars' banquet thing that for the bulk of the population seems to emblemize the entire Italian-American experience dating from Columbus's sail up the Hudson. "Tony, the rolletine!" might very well be shouted every Saturday afternoon at some reception palace in New Jersey or Long Island, and hearing it come from Carmella's mouth was funny (and it rang true). But so what?

Which could also be said for the same "Daddy's little girl" pap that dominated the first forty-five minutes. Not very surprising, all in all; the incestuous undertones of the father-daughter relationship tend to bubble up to the surface come wedding day, especially when the band helpfully supplies the lyrics.

But then there were those lingering, hungry close-ups of the thugs' biceps toward episode's close: Tony's own homoerotic scope-out, a figurative juxtaposition to the broad slapstick of Vito's turn in leather. Both displace the sexual tension that hovered like a haze over the dearly beloved gathered in the church that day (there's a reason it's compared to a steambath). So T proves he's the big daddy of the salumeria's back room–which is just another way of thinking of a CEO or football captain or platoon leader. Remember the episode that ended with credits rolling to Kasey Chambers's "Captain"?

It's the wrong kind of man who sheds tears on his daugter's wedding day, as the lachrymose Johnny Sac ought to have realized, given his line of work: This episode, in arranging the table for the next couple of courses, showed that he might not have a seat. What's more clear is that for all his quips about mercy fucks and Viagra, that's not just a rolletine in Tony' pocket.

Pursuant to a recent post, Epictetus is copping to a spontaneous viewing of "Body Heat" last night on Cinemax or Showtime or Starz or HBO, or incarnations thereof, or somewhere on what the previous generation quaintly called "the dial."

What quickly became clear (other than how different Kathleen Turner once looked) is that "Body Heat" could have been made in the forties with Fred MacMurray or John Garfield in the Ned Racine role. (Ned Racine! What a great name.) The sex was not all that explicit–in fact, the steamy clinches really were reminiscent of similar scenes in classic noir, save for tasteful display of bared shoulders here and sweaty abdomen there, plus one or two other body parts visible in Super Bowl telecasts of yore–and even the score seemed more appropriate to the flicks running on TCM most nights. And let's not forget the underrated Ted Danson, who shows unexpected nimbleness in his soft-shoe scenes (dancin', Danson–get it?).

Anyway, the question comes up again: Is this something Epictectus et familia would have actually and actively spent energy and money to see (digital cable being the ultimate passive medium)? Probably not (and thanks to babalicious for commenting on this issue).

But it also raises what might be a more interesting question: What are the criteria for specifically selecting a given certain film/program on DVD or pay-per-view? Which movies are worth the effort and money–and which just cannot be watched spontaneously, no matter what? Which demand your specific attention and why?

Example: Epictetus would probably not stop to watch "The Bicycle Thief" if it unexpectedly showed up on cable (an unlikely event, but never mind that). But Epictetus would rent it with the express purpose of sitting down to view it. Yes to "The Seven Samurai" on DVD, but no to "The Magnificent Seven" on DVD. And so forth.

There's an allegory waiting to happen when officials named "Rice" and "Straw" are dispatched Iraq to douse the ongoing fires, especially if their mere appearance amounts to spraying gasoline on the flames. Iraqi politicians say their arrival has only hardened opposition and proven immensely counterproductive. Epictetus will leave it to the modern satirists (Christopher Buckley, maybe…?) to write the definitive, skewering account that seems tailor-made for Swift or Waugh or maybe Voltaire.

Funny how a Joe Klein could spin gold from the chaff of one incorrigible horn-dog's misadventures and triangulations, but there's no one willing–or perhaps able–to take apart these guys for such arrogantly public acts of immorality perpetrated on the public they were elected to serve. On the other hand, maybe it's that unapologetic transparency that makes them unripe subjects for satire. Someone recently said satirists actually have to like the targets of their poison pens–have to be won over by their foibles and personalities. Fact is, the Cheney/Bush crowd is just plain unlikable, and their foibles are not recognizably human. Perhaps, then, their story is better left for telling in a war crimes court?

Until then, if you really want to keep breast of actual events in Iraq, Epictetus highly recommends the writings of Juan Cole. His Informed Comment site, and the pieces he occasionally does for Salon, succinctly and clearly depicts the situation. And "informed" is the key word here: As a professor of history at the University of Michigan, he brings a supple and comprehensive knowledge of how the past will always dictate the future in Iraq and elsewhere in the Middle East. Also note his dismantling of the Kerry plan for withdrawl: "Kerry," he notes dryly, "seems to be under the impression the U.S. is fighting al Qaeda in Iraq, which is generally not true."

Cole does not need to note the machinations, dissemblings, and deceit on the part of the administration that might have forced Kerry to inhabit such a position. "So what are YOU going to do?" is their only response to the legitimate questioning of its decision to invade Iraq in the first place. Come to think of it, there's a bit of "Animal Farm" to this whole thing already–and with helpful, illustrative names like "Dick," "Bush," and "Rove" in abundant supply, along with a daily unscrolling of developments you just couldn't make up, someone of talent could surely turn out a biting, incisive, and definitive account to last for the ages. Right?

Pity the billions belonging to the major western religions for the knee-capping their faiths received on Sunday's installment of "The Sopranos." Duplicity, hypocrisy, ignorance, arrogance, gullibility: Thank God for Catholics, evangelical Christians, and Jews. Someone has to inhabit the pole opposite the Ojibwe and Schrodingerian adherents who advocate "oneness" and reject the very notion of duality. At least Hesch is given the chance to strike a blow for modern pragmatism, with his dismissive response to his wife's comment that evangelicals might be the Jews' best friends. "Just you wait," he snorts. Amen.

Of course, pity is never as major a motif on "The Sopranos" as self-pity, and Sunday's episode was redolent with it. Johnny Sac, Tony, Paulie, Da Lux and his struggling minion, Sister Dottie, Paulie's "mom," Schwinn, Janice–each was given an opporunity, overtly or subtly, to complain how bad he or she had it compared to the next guy. Listen closely and it sounds like most of the conversations we have in the course of our days. If we're not bitching about the quotidian "crises" our jobs present us with–those little fictions a workplace runs on, whether it's tight deadlines or the loss of the "skim" on a trash route–we're complaining about the sleep we didn't get, the love we didn't get, the appreciation we still don't get. How boring, in other words.

It's not simply a close call with death that spurs Tony to think deeper; it's the thought of endless days spent in this mindless recitation of the meaningless. Hell on earth, you could say–an irony on which Schwinn might like to comment if only he hadn't had his larynx removed (an irony in itself). The silence now emanating from Schwinn's room as Tony passes it on the way out of the hospital is not just the silence of the crypt, but the cosmic silence of humankind's insignificance.

But whether Tony truly understands this, gives only passing thought to it, or remains simply too afraid to face it is an open question, the answer to which may or may not have come even if he did stop in to "say goodbye." "There's enough garbage for everyone," Tony says, and though it functions nicely as North Jersey philosophying it's really nothing more than an evasion. It's a quip that underscores his continued avoidance of meaningful engagement with the big issues. He remains, like a child, more moved by comparisons of man's presence on earth to postage stamps at the top of the Empire State Building.

On the other hand, at least it's a start. But even if Tony could acknowledge the Ojibwe wind carrying him along, the cyclones conjured by Schwinn to explain the nature of oneness are more apt an image. The leaves rustle, wavelets breast the placid water of the pool, but up in Kearny a boy witnesses the beating of his father, while another son wades into water way too deep and is now into Paulie for four thousand dollars a month.

When violence churns the air like a tornado, it's hard to contemplate the meaningless of dualities; in fact, seeing things in black and white seems the only course–a necessity. But it's a trap, as the events and rhetoric of our own world have shown us in the past few years. Evil and good? Heaven and hell? It's way too simple, and that's the big problem, just as Schwinn insists. Just you wait.

In January 2003, Epictetus purchased from a sidewalk vendor an orange button about the size of a silver dollar and inscribed with the words, "No War in Iraq," written in black. Simple, bold, and highly visible from its position of display–pinned to the side of a messenger bag–it expressed all Epictetus wanted to express about the impending invasion of a sovereign country that neither had attacked us nor represented an imminent threat. And in the face of the prevailing attitude of bloodlust at the time, it seemed no timid gesture.

Being firsthand witness to death on a mass scale nearly 14 months earlier hardened rather than weakened a moral opposition to war forged over a lifetime, and affirmed a standing aversion to any ideology of which violence is an explicit or implicit tenet. (Interestingly, many of those who lived through the event itself, rather than viewing it on television, are generally reported to have developed a similar distaste for and distrust in the espousal and stated motives of armed conflict.) Purchasing the orange-and-black button was as natural and necessary as holding the hand of my then six-year-old son so that he wouldn't get lost in the crowds surrounding us on that city sidewalk–a moral choice, and an instinctive one.

Epictetus is moved to reflect on this by the comments today of Secretary of State Rice, who is being quoted as admitting mistakes in Iraq ("thousands," she bravely confesses). The black-and-orange button remained steadfastly pinned to the bag until, eight or ten months into the misadventure, a passerby pointed and said, "Yes, war in Iraq!"–not as a statement of support for it but as an acknowledgment: There was a war on, it had happened, and it was not going away.

Thousands of mistakes, Rice says. But she's being too hard on herself and on the men whose message she carries. There haven't been thousands. There's been just one. One outsized mistake whose consequences are the exact and timelessly familiar: wanton death, needless destruction, unconscionable suffering, immoral and inadequate justification–and the persecution of those opposed to the above.

So familiar, in fact, that knowledgeable statesmen, scholars, and soldiers of all stripes foresaw with unbelievable accuracy and exact detail just what would transpire, basing their predictions on the evidence history has supplied over and over again, as well as on the ample evidence at hand in early 2003. These unfortunately on-target observers didn't base their grim prognostications on nuanced philosophical and moral beliefs–but rather on data that was availble in abundant supply. Realists, in other words. And like the ordinary citizens forced to accept the actuality of the war and put away their buttons, they can only shake their heads now and say, with no glee or vindication or anything else but sorrow: See?

What is it about certain films that not only helps them stand up to but invite obsessive repeated viewings?

The question has taken on fresh urgency for Epictetus since a recent family gathering at which a tipsy aunt confided something more than mere fondness for "Boogie Nights." "Every time it's on," she whispered from behind a just-topped glass of red wine, "I have to watch it. And. I. Mean. Every. Time."

Epictetus nodded in alarmed yet compassionate understanding: The Paul Thomas Anderson porn industry opus garners another close watching whenever it appears on one of the hundreds of cable stations he's been stuck with since signing up for high-speed modem service. And not just for the pornography, of which there's little. What's more, "Boogie Nights" is not the only movie that rates such attention. There's "Nashville." And "Glengarry, Glen Ross." And "GoodFellas." And "L.A. Confidential." And "The Shining." And "Serpico" and "Dazed and Confused" and "Donnie Brasco" and "Safe" and "Marathon Man" and "Smokey and the Bandit" and "All the President's Men" and "The Hustler" and "Singing in the Rain" and "Napolean Dynamite" and "Some Like It Hot" and "Vacation" and "The Apartment" and "The Third Man" and "The Border" and "Little Big Man" and "Paper Moon" ….

Lady Epictetus (sorry, girls) has a similar and oft-overlapping list, to which she would add "Mean Streets" and "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore." Even Epictetus the Younger ("Rent," "The Great Escape") and little Epicteta ("Babe," "Finding Nemo") are showing early disturbing signs of the same syndrome.

Maybe it's not the movie, then, but the viewer. Many of the titles mentioned above deliver on at least one of the critical counts of quality: acting, writing, directing. Few deliver all ("Some Like It Hot") while some deliver none ("Napolean Dynamite"). Epictetus has a friend who once watched 18 consecutive hours worth of a "Canonball Run" marathon–nine entire beginning-to-end viewings. A llama-feeding goofball, Jackie Gleason in expectorating pursuit of Burt Reynolds, and Sammy Davis Jr. draped in "rosary bleeds" [sic] should not inspire such devotion. And even if Paul Newman and Julianne Moore should, should they really, so much, all the time?

So maybe it's something else. Maybe it's a combination of habits, desires, and compulsions mixed with memories and topped by the unbidden, unanticipated arrival of something into your home of something that pleases, for whatever reason. Epictetus once held dear an idea about "the randomness of radio" (disregarding the reality of predetermined playlists in order to make his argument–hey, that's philosophy): You never knew exactly what was coming next, which made you keep listening for more.

Who would ever buy anything with Anthony Michael Hall in it? Who takes the time and energy to go out and rent anything with Anthony Michael Hall in it? Who even bothers to press "select" from the On Demand menu? But stumble across him at 2:40 pm on a Sunday afternoon in March on TBS, or on Jack Lemmon  as Sheldon Levine, or Lorraine Bracco screaming at "that whore Janice Rossi!"–at any hour of the day or night on any channel–and you can't turn away. That's just how it happens. Every. Time.

Edith Wharton in The House of Mirth: "It was from [his mother] that Selden inherited his detachment from the sumptuary side of life: the stoic's carelessness of material things, combined with the epicurean's pleasure in them. Life shorn of either feeling appeared to him a diminished thing…."