Identity Issues

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.

Crisis and Delusion

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."

Who’s Your Daddy?

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.

Repeat Viewings, Redux

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.

Prime Targets, Informed Comments

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?

Blacks and Whites and Mighty Winds

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.