Five stages of 'The Sopranos'

Withdrawal pangs:
The five stages of 'The Sopranos'

MELISSA ROTH

First I thought the television had died.

Then I thought the cable had gone out.

Suddenly, I felt an all-too-familiar ache in my heart. The Sopranos were gone.

I missed them immediately. After 52 minutes of excruciating tension and eight years of unbridled devotion, I sat staring at a black screen in utter disbelief.

Stage one: Denial.

It wasn’t so much that I needed everything wrapped up in a tidy little bow, only that I’d devoted a healthy chunk of my mental energy wondering how David Chase, the man who had forever altered the landscape of TV (not to mention character, narrative, and language), would choose to do so.

But when his conclusion to the final episode was revealed– and with it the unnerving fact that we, his audience, would be denied the neat and tidy ending we’ve come to expect from nearly every narrative output on Earth – that was when Chase’s true brilliance came shining through. In denying us that resolution, Chase revealed a sharp understanding of our collective psyche, our desperate need of closure, our fierce attachment to the concept of redemption.

And that kind of pissed me off.

Stage two: Anger

Ultimately, the final episode of “The Sopranos” did something that always leaves me feeling a little prickly. It forced me to look at myself— which isn’t ordinarily my reason for turning on my TV.

Clearly, I wasn’t alone in my feelings. “Sopranos Finale Whacks Fans” emblazoned the front page of the New York Post the following day.

More recently, “Sopranos” fans have claimed that the screen went black because Tony Soprano was killed– harking back to an earlier episode in which Tony and his brother in law, Bobby, wonder about death.

“At the end, you probably don't hear anything,” Bobby said at that time. “Everything just goes black.”

This theory reached such a fever pitch that an HBO spokesperson called the hint “legitimate.” David Chase sustained the mystery by stating, “Anyone who wants to watch it, it’s all there.”

Slowly, I began bandying this theory about in my own head. Surely it made sense; gave a song by Journey added depth; and it didn’t detract from Chase’s shimmering genius. He had cracked a world open– and left it to us viewers to decide. He hooked us, cared about us, thought we were smart. A loving gesture that few TV show creators offer their audience. I could let go of Tony and the clan, or I could not. My choice. Hurrah!

Stage three: Bargaining

But the following Sunday night I had greater blackness to contend with: the new TV lineup. While I was grateful the boys from Entourage were on hand to distract me, it wasn’t enough to ease my crabby anticipating-Monday-morning soul. Nor was John from Cincinnati. I was just too raw to attach myself to another family.

Step four: Depression

Maybe it’s wrong or irresponsible or shallow– what with the atrocities in Iraq and the lakes disappearing in Chile– that I devote so much time, attention and energy to TV.

But I recall few things with as much fondness as those countless Monday mornings at the office, chatting about Christofuh and gabbagool, Paulie and the Bing, stugotz and gumars. Or the years that I knew, with absolute certainly, that everyone I loved and cared about in the world was safe and sound and in front of their TV sets every Sunday night at nine. And in that respect, I know I’m not alone.

Step five: Acceptance

For anyone who wants to watch it, it’s all there. Or, as Steve Perry sang to us that final night:

Oh, the movie never ends. It goes on and on and on and on.







Melissa Roth lives and writes in New York. This essay originally appeared in a slightly different form in madashellclub.net.