A denouement of the little things
Last Wednesday night I watched “The Soprano’s” finale.
I was never a big fan, mainly because I wasn’t able to watch it. I lived without HBO for most of the show’s run, but I was able to catch the first three seasons. Even though I didn’t watch it much (at the time I was more interested in “Six Feet Under”), I did catch an episode every now and then. The recurring plot lines and conflicts eluded me since I wasn’t a regular viewer, but anything about the mob isn’t too hard to catch on to (all you have to do is watch the first two “Godfather” movies and “Goodfellas” and you’re set).
Despite my clouded knowledge and sketchy past with the show, I wanted to catch the finale, even if it meant tapping into On Demand and watching it three days later. It was a groundbreaking, artistic, and true-to-life drama about an American existence. As an artist I felt drawn to experience its denouement.
When I was a junior at Iowa I took a class called American Values. It was an American Studies class that examined the American Dream, American ideals, and American society — anything and everything about how we live and think in the United States. As interesting and eye opening as it was (it was one of those classes where I always found myself thinking, “Holy shit! I never though of it that way!”), I only attended one lecture the entire semester. Lecture was on Monday, and the two discussion classes were on Wednesday and Friday. I always attended discussion, but after the first lecture I never went back to Shambaugh Auditorium.
And you know what showed up on my second semester report card? American Values: B+. Boo-yah!
Anyway, the only lecture I attended was packed. In classic UI style, 250 students were crammed into an auditorium with 200 seats. People were sitting in the isles, on the stairs, and standing against the walls. I was one of the lucky ones who got a seat. The professor rolled down the huge, white screen, and started his Power Point presentation. Immediately, the ultimate irony of the class showed itself: The all knowing American Studies professor walking back and forth on stage, introducing the course, was an Englishman.
I don’t remember much of the lecture, but I do remember the end. Before ending class early, the professor played the title sequence from “The Soprano’s” — Tony Soprano emerges from a New York City tunnel and drives through an industrial district and aging suburb to his home in New Jersey.
I was intrigued. There was something very deep and historical imbedded in the opening credits, but I couldn’t figure out what. The professor was obviously setting us up so we’d listen to what he had to say for the next four months; he’d help us understand the meaning behind Tony Soprano’s drive home. I never went back (it was laziness, pure and simple), but his lessons reached me through the required readings and discussion classes.
We discussed the exodus of the middle class from inner cities, the growing suburbs, and constant inflow of immigrants. We analyzed billboards, advertising campaigns, and the influence of automobiles. Slowly I began to understand the opening of “The Soprano’s” in a new light. Tony Soprano’s drive home from New York City was a quick, visual map of our country’s social hierarchy, and a symbolic history of the changing American Dream. As he drives, he leaves behind the crowded city, the busy industrial fringe, and the dilapidated and crumbling infrastructure for the quiet, well built satellite cities. The American Dream has moved.
Maybe it was a stretch. You can read too much into anything, but I liked the interpretation. And it goes deeper, too. I kept the beginning images and lessons from American Values in mind as I watched the finale, and I picked up on other small touches. During a scene in New York’s Little Italy, a tour bus passed the camera and a guide says the Italian neighborhood once spanned ten blocks, but had now shrunk to just one street (this is the scene where some mafia guy practically walks the length of Little Italy and finds himself in Chinatown). A different change is also being alluded to. A detective asks a gas station attendant about a suspect who may have used the pay phone, but the attendant say, “We don’t have a pay phone. Not many stations have them anymore.” At one point, a car of mafiosos drives past a gas station and one of them says, “No pay phones.” With this in mind, take into consideration that the whole series began with Tony Soprano’s first visit to a psychiatrist, where he says it feels like he’s come to the end of something, and describes a reverence for past times (thanks for the info, Wikipedia).
I love those little metaphors, the things in movies and books that don’t seem like they’re anything important but mean the world. A single word or action can represent so much. And, through good crafting, they tie into an overlying theme and meaning. The little details are what make it possible for us to step back and understand the big picture. They’re the dots we connect.
And, for the record, I liked the ending.
I was never a big fan, mainly because I wasn’t able to watch it. I lived without HBO for most of the show’s run, but I was able to catch the first three seasons. Even though I didn’t watch it much (at the time I was more interested in “Six Feet Under”), I did catch an episode every now and then. The recurring plot lines and conflicts eluded me since I wasn’t a regular viewer, but anything about the mob isn’t too hard to catch on to (all you have to do is watch the first two “Godfather” movies and “Goodfellas” and you’re set).
Despite my clouded knowledge and sketchy past with the show, I wanted to catch the finale, even if it meant tapping into On Demand and watching it three days later. It was a groundbreaking, artistic, and true-to-life drama about an American existence. As an artist I felt drawn to experience its denouement.
When I was a junior at Iowa I took a class called American Values. It was an American Studies class that examined the American Dream, American ideals, and American society — anything and everything about how we live and think in the United States. As interesting and eye opening as it was (it was one of those classes where I always found myself thinking, “Holy shit! I never though of it that way!”), I only attended one lecture the entire semester. Lecture was on Monday, and the two discussion classes were on Wednesday and Friday. I always attended discussion, but after the first lecture I never went back to Shambaugh Auditorium.
And you know what showed up on my second semester report card? American Values: B+. Boo-yah!
Anyway, the only lecture I attended was packed. In classic UI style, 250 students were crammed into an auditorium with 200 seats. People were sitting in the isles, on the stairs, and standing against the walls. I was one of the lucky ones who got a seat. The professor rolled down the huge, white screen, and started his Power Point presentation. Immediately, the ultimate irony of the class showed itself: The all knowing American Studies professor walking back and forth on stage, introducing the course, was an Englishman.
I don’t remember much of the lecture, but I do remember the end. Before ending class early, the professor played the title sequence from “The Soprano’s” — Tony Soprano emerges from a New York City tunnel and drives through an industrial district and aging suburb to his home in New Jersey.
I was intrigued. There was something very deep and historical imbedded in the opening credits, but I couldn’t figure out what. The professor was obviously setting us up so we’d listen to what he had to say for the next four months; he’d help us understand the meaning behind Tony Soprano’s drive home. I never went back (it was laziness, pure and simple), but his lessons reached me through the required readings and discussion classes.
We discussed the exodus of the middle class from inner cities, the growing suburbs, and constant inflow of immigrants. We analyzed billboards, advertising campaigns, and the influence of automobiles. Slowly I began to understand the opening of “The Soprano’s” in a new light. Tony Soprano’s drive home from New York City was a quick, visual map of our country’s social hierarchy, and a symbolic history of the changing American Dream. As he drives, he leaves behind the crowded city, the busy industrial fringe, and the dilapidated and crumbling infrastructure for the quiet, well built satellite cities. The American Dream has moved.
Maybe it was a stretch. You can read too much into anything, but I liked the interpretation. And it goes deeper, too. I kept the beginning images and lessons from American Values in mind as I watched the finale, and I picked up on other small touches. During a scene in New York’s Little Italy, a tour bus passed the camera and a guide says the Italian neighborhood once spanned ten blocks, but had now shrunk to just one street (this is the scene where some mafia guy practically walks the length of Little Italy and finds himself in Chinatown). A different change is also being alluded to. A detective asks a gas station attendant about a suspect who may have used the pay phone, but the attendant say, “We don’t have a pay phone. Not many stations have them anymore.” At one point, a car of mafiosos drives past a gas station and one of them says, “No pay phones.” With this in mind, take into consideration that the whole series began with Tony Soprano’s first visit to a psychiatrist, where he says it feels like he’s come to the end of something, and describes a reverence for past times (thanks for the info, Wikipedia).
I love those little metaphors, the things in movies and books that don’t seem like they’re anything important but mean the world. A single word or action can represent so much. And, through good crafting, they tie into an overlying theme and meaning. The little details are what make it possible for us to step back and understand the big picture. They’re the dots we connect.
And, for the record, I liked the ending.
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