The work line was forwarded to my cell phone. It chirped at me during the middle portion of my ice cream sandwich.
She beat around the bush for a bit, then asked me whether the Texas Workforce Commission was illegally discriminating against her by suggesting she learn Spanish to help her get a receptionist position. The weary woman said she was 40 years old and couldn't learn Spanish tomorrow.
I sympathized with her frustration and told her I'm not a labor lawyer, but that if a job required a bilingual employee then her inability to speak Spanish seemed to be a legitimate reason to not hire her. Like a company not hiring a disabled person for a job requiring heavy lifting. I recollected that the employer had to make reasonable accomodations for disabled folks, but being monolingual is not a disability.
It took a few tries to convey the overall message to her.
"So basically you're saying you're with the illegals. Fuck you!"
Not exactly what I had in mind after spending five minutes of my evening and some cell phone airtime to try to help someone.
Everyday realities like those experienced by my caller continually inflame the white trash extremists in our midst, friends. The folks who can't cope with the truth -- that they have fewer marketable skills than a 18 year old bilingual high school grad -- would rather blame the world for their problems and hide behind racist dogma. They'd rather seek legal redress for their "injury" then take positive action to make things better in their own lives. Ironically, it is these same extremists who accuse other racial groups of laziness and mooching off the government.
It's just easier to complain, call random attorneys out of the phone book, and get drunk.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Special Relationship
Gordon Brown's ascension to the premiership of the United Kingdom wasn't just the end of the Tony Blair era -- it was a notable downturn in the "special relationship" between the U.S. and U.K.
Britons are understandably eager to separate themselves from the U.S. in general and George W. Bush in particular. The war in Iraq is even less popular in the U.K. than it is here, and the Blair government was unfairly seen as subservient to the U.S. Tony Blair's popularity in the U.S. wasn't just because he supported us in Iraq -- it was due to his own charisma and character, not to mention his effectiveness in international dialogue. Tony Blair smoothed over Bush's corn-pone attitude and intellectual shallowness. Even though Bush was over his head at G-4 summits and other key gatherings, Blair was like the wise college senior showing the energetic freshman the ropes.
The special relationship between our nations was then largely maintained by the special relationship between Bush and Blair, forged in the aftermath of 9/11. It was Blair alone that made the "coalition" of forces in Iraq more than a political label and transformed the war and occupation into something other than a unilateral U.S. policy decision.
With Gordon Brown in and Blair out, the bond between our nations has weakened, one hopes not critically. One suspects that British leaders will cast a doubtful eye on future joint foreign policy adventures. Our next president will have some serious fence-mending to do.
A significant number of ordinary Americans care deeply about the U.K. and hate to see the special relationship on the rocks. We know who our friends are. And we want to elect a president that makes a state visit to the U.K. with one simple message: "how can we help you?"
Britons are understandably eager to separate themselves from the U.S. in general and George W. Bush in particular. The war in Iraq is even less popular in the U.K. than it is here, and the Blair government was unfairly seen as subservient to the U.S. Tony Blair's popularity in the U.S. wasn't just because he supported us in Iraq -- it was due to his own charisma and character, not to mention his effectiveness in international dialogue. Tony Blair smoothed over Bush's corn-pone attitude and intellectual shallowness. Even though Bush was over his head at G-4 summits and other key gatherings, Blair was like the wise college senior showing the energetic freshman the ropes.
The special relationship between our nations was then largely maintained by the special relationship between Bush and Blair, forged in the aftermath of 9/11. It was Blair alone that made the "coalition" of forces in Iraq more than a political label and transformed the war and occupation into something other than a unilateral U.S. policy decision.
With Gordon Brown in and Blair out, the bond between our nations has weakened, one hopes not critically. One suspects that British leaders will cast a doubtful eye on future joint foreign policy adventures. Our next president will have some serious fence-mending to do.
A significant number of ordinary Americans care deeply about the U.K. and hate to see the special relationship on the rocks. We know who our friends are. And we want to elect a president that makes a state visit to the U.K. with one simple message: "how can we help you?"
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Police: Recapturing an Era
The return of The Police was probably the most anticipated rock reunion since The Eagles rejoined a few years ago, and not without good reason: The Police were one of a handful of influential bands (including Journey and U2) in the new wave/rock era of the late 70's and early 80s whose appeal was widespread. I have probably purchased all five Police albums three times apiece.
When the band went into its 25-year hiatus, I doubted it would reform. Sting clearly had creative needs that were not being met within the Police. So the question for me remained: why the reunion?
Aside from the financial windfall, which no doubt be greater than anything earned by Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers in the last ten years, one hoped the motivating factor for the tour was a love for their music and a desire to share it with their fans. After attending their concert last night, I left with the overall feeling that the purpose of the tour was, in large part, a celebration of their music and of their era.
Energy/Attitude of the Band: B
At the outset of the show, the band's energy level of the band was high and they were clearly eager to perform. Stewart and Andy, in particular, seemed almost grateful to the audience for the ovations and reponsiveness. However, the as the set was approximately 100 minutes long, the band started to tire during the second hour of the show. Stewart was drumming his ass off on a festooned drum kit and a nifty percussion stage while Andy kept up with technically difficult guitar parts with aplomb. A dip in energy levels is forgivable, considering their age and low levels of touring stamina after so many years on the shelf.
Sting, in terrific physical condition, was the least obviously tired of the band, yet at times he lacked the humility of his bandmates and I wasn't sure he really wanted to be there. At his best, Sting is melodic, relevant, and a charismatic stage presence. At his worst, Sting can be arrogant, aloof, and a bit of a lyrical and musical snob. In that latter mode, he fails to connect with the audience as deeply as his cohorts -- men who understand that a reunion concert tour is an emotional journey back in time. Sting's comments and exhortations to the audience had a scripted feel, creating further emotional separation from the audience. I suppose I was expecting the Sting that fronted The Police for the opening of the Academy Awards this year.
Performance: B+
The bandmembers' skill level has never been in doubt. At times, though, they were out of synch or simply weren't "tight." Whether due to rust or the newness of the arrangements, from time to time one of the band would look over to his mates for cues on getting back into the song.
The individual performances, however, were wonderful. Stewart was the most prepared and refined of the trio. He was also the most focused; reports of his perfectionist streak were not exaggerating. Andy had a very cool, understated presence on the guitar. He is possibly the least selfish guitarist of any major rock band. And Sting's voice was nearly perfect, though on a few occasions he sang at a lower octave. Still, he tried to reach the notes of his youth and hit them on all but one noticable ocassion. Sting's bass playing was solid and remains the most underrated of his many musical talents.
A few more weeks together on the road will doubtless improve the band's coherence as a unit.
Stage Presentation/Technical : B-
The stage itself was delightfully minimalist: a simple three-piece triangle formation with risers along the side and back. Above the stage (in their arena setup) was a bank of video screens. The stage lighting was simple but state-of-the-art; particularly innovative were column-mounted lights that could be independently raised and lowered.
This (by modern standards) bare presentation was refreshing and effective, were it not marred by poor sound levels (Andy's guitar and the backup vocals were barely audible at times) and the cheesy nature of the video selections played on the screens when the band themselves were not shown. During "Walking in Your Footsteps" giant dinosaur-bone feet "walked" along the screen; on other occasions, iconic images from the band's albums flashed whenever a particular song was played. During "Synchronicity II," for instance, the screen displayed the familiar red, yellow and blue paint slash. These touches were an unwelcome distraction from the otherwise minimalist staging.
Set List: A
The band played nearly all of their notable hits as well as a few interesting arrangements of lesser known gems like "Voices Inside My Head." Kicking off with "Message in a Bottle" got the arena jumping and set an energetic tone for the remainder of the show. "Walking On The Moon," always a personal favorite, was sharp and had a great, call-and-response with Sting.
Notably absent from the list were two hits from Ghost in the Machine: "Demolition Man" and "Spirits in the Material World." While both of those songs would probably have to be reworked to be performed live in a three-piece band, they were solid songs in their day that deserve a fresh life. Either one of those songs would have been better received than "Walking In Your Footsteps," but that's a small quibble.
Overall Grade: B+
A very good show that could be great with additional time playing together, refinements to the set list and technical sound issues, and a touch of heart and humility from Sting.
The Police will only go as far as Sting allows. It's clear now that while Andy and Stewart are having the time of their lives, Sting needs to recapture the mindset of the soulful songwriter of his early 20's and channel that somehow into his live performances.
When the band went into its 25-year hiatus, I doubted it would reform. Sting clearly had creative needs that were not being met within the Police. So the question for me remained: why the reunion?
Aside from the financial windfall, which no doubt be greater than anything earned by Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers in the last ten years, one hoped the motivating factor for the tour was a love for their music and a desire to share it with their fans. After attending their concert last night, I left with the overall feeling that the purpose of the tour was, in large part, a celebration of their music and of their era.
Energy/Attitude of the Band: B
At the outset of the show, the band's energy level of the band was high and they were clearly eager to perform. Stewart and Andy, in particular, seemed almost grateful to the audience for the ovations and reponsiveness. However, the as the set was approximately 100 minutes long, the band started to tire during the second hour of the show. Stewart was drumming his ass off on a festooned drum kit and a nifty percussion stage while Andy kept up with technically difficult guitar parts with aplomb. A dip in energy levels is forgivable, considering their age and low levels of touring stamina after so many years on the shelf.
Sting, in terrific physical condition, was the least obviously tired of the band, yet at times he lacked the humility of his bandmates and I wasn't sure he really wanted to be there. At his best, Sting is melodic, relevant, and a charismatic stage presence. At his worst, Sting can be arrogant, aloof, and a bit of a lyrical and musical snob. In that latter mode, he fails to connect with the audience as deeply as his cohorts -- men who understand that a reunion concert tour is an emotional journey back in time. Sting's comments and exhortations to the audience had a scripted feel, creating further emotional separation from the audience. I suppose I was expecting the Sting that fronted The Police for the opening of the Academy Awards this year.
Performance: B+
The bandmembers' skill level has never been in doubt. At times, though, they were out of synch or simply weren't "tight." Whether due to rust or the newness of the arrangements, from time to time one of the band would look over to his mates for cues on getting back into the song.
The individual performances, however, were wonderful. Stewart was the most prepared and refined of the trio. He was also the most focused; reports of his perfectionist streak were not exaggerating. Andy had a very cool, understated presence on the guitar. He is possibly the least selfish guitarist of any major rock band. And Sting's voice was nearly perfect, though on a few occasions he sang at a lower octave. Still, he tried to reach the notes of his youth and hit them on all but one noticable ocassion. Sting's bass playing was solid and remains the most underrated of his many musical talents.
A few more weeks together on the road will doubtless improve the band's coherence as a unit.
Stage Presentation/Technical : B-
The stage itself was delightfully minimalist: a simple three-piece triangle formation with risers along the side and back. Above the stage (in their arena setup) was a bank of video screens. The stage lighting was simple but state-of-the-art; particularly innovative were column-mounted lights that could be independently raised and lowered.
This (by modern standards) bare presentation was refreshing and effective, were it not marred by poor sound levels (Andy's guitar and the backup vocals were barely audible at times) and the cheesy nature of the video selections played on the screens when the band themselves were not shown. During "Walking in Your Footsteps" giant dinosaur-bone feet "walked" along the screen; on other occasions, iconic images from the band's albums flashed whenever a particular song was played. During "Synchronicity II," for instance, the screen displayed the familiar red, yellow and blue paint slash. These touches were an unwelcome distraction from the otherwise minimalist staging.
Set List: A
The band played nearly all of their notable hits as well as a few interesting arrangements of lesser known gems like "Voices Inside My Head." Kicking off with "Message in a Bottle" got the arena jumping and set an energetic tone for the remainder of the show. "Walking On The Moon," always a personal favorite, was sharp and had a great, call-and-response with Sting.
Notably absent from the list were two hits from Ghost in the Machine: "Demolition Man" and "Spirits in the Material World." While both of those songs would probably have to be reworked to be performed live in a three-piece band, they were solid songs in their day that deserve a fresh life. Either one of those songs would have been better received than "Walking In Your Footsteps," but that's a small quibble.
Overall Grade: B+
A very good show that could be great with additional time playing together, refinements to the set list and technical sound issues, and a touch of heart and humility from Sting.
The Police will only go as far as Sting allows. It's clear now that while Andy and Stewart are having the time of their lives, Sting needs to recapture the mindset of the soulful songwriter of his early 20's and channel that somehow into his live performances.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
True Crime
Not too long ago, my True Love and I were in the drive-through lane at Braum's (an ice cream & burger joint, for you non-Texans). While handing over her rocky road / mint chocolate chip calorific treat, I noticed something alarming in the parking lot of the seedy apartment complex that backed up to the store.
He was white, lanky, dirty, and young, possessed of chronic bed-head and a wispy beard. She was fat, string-haired and sweaty, her obesity lending her the unfortunate squinty-eyed look of a spring hog. She was trying to get away from him; he kept grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the apartment.
As nobody was doing anything about it, I pulled over. Lacking both a cell phone to call the police and a white horse to ride, I handed my vanilla cone to my True Love and fairly leapt out of my silver Honda. There was 50 feet and a collapsed chain-link fence between us.
I'm sure I yelled something akin to "unhand that woman, fiend!" or somesuch. His momentary surprise was soon replaced with a hangdog look and a muttered "mind your own business." She looked at me, then him, and appeared even more upset than before. Now she had both the domineering boyfriend and the embarrasing do-gooder to contend with. He still was manhandling her.
When I told him to let her go or the police would be notified, I was alerted to the presence of The Neighbor. Wearing the unstoppable wife-beater-undershirt-and-baggy-shorts combo, this Mexican-American parolee was the avatar of all things tattoo. "Leave my friend alone, man," he yelled at me. At me!
The Neighbor was not swayed by my pointing out that his lanky block-mate was in the process of abusing his significant other. That really had nothing to do with it. I was invading his turf. "I'm gonna get my gat, man," he concluded.
It was obvious that I was outmanuevered. With both the ice cream and my True Love melting in the car, I decided to leave. As we were pulling away, I had to resist the urge to floor it and run every red light home. My hands were shaking. It was then that my True Love told me that a "gat" was urban slang for a gun, as in "gatling gun," one presumes. That knowledge didn't exactly lighten my foot on the accelerator.
Once home, I called the police, feeling equal parts nimwit and coward, ashamed by the fear I'd felt and cursing myself that I'd escalated a bad situation.
No one said doing the right thing is easy, or even natural. Sometimes we stand up and get smacked back down. I'll never know whether the police found the abusive man or his ex-con defender. Moreover, I'll never know if the poor, fat woman got away or even appreciated my efforts. I might have even made things worse for her. I'm sure the police would say to call them first and leave it to them -- and they're right, of course.
I'm still torn by the urge to be a moral actor in the real world; yet the fearful reality can quickly bring one back to a myopic world-view focused on self-preservation. It's made me simultaneously, and paradoxically, both more vigilant and cautious. I'm trying to pick my battles a little better, too. A week or so after the Braumfrontation, I was over it and promised My True Love to avoid unneccessary future acts of derring-do.
But I still think about it when I pass that Braum's.
He was white, lanky, dirty, and young, possessed of chronic bed-head and a wispy beard. She was fat, string-haired and sweaty, her obesity lending her the unfortunate squinty-eyed look of a spring hog. She was trying to get away from him; he kept grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the apartment.
As nobody was doing anything about it, I pulled over. Lacking both a cell phone to call the police and a white horse to ride, I handed my vanilla cone to my True Love and fairly leapt out of my silver Honda. There was 50 feet and a collapsed chain-link fence between us.
I'm sure I yelled something akin to "unhand that woman, fiend!" or somesuch. His momentary surprise was soon replaced with a hangdog look and a muttered "mind your own business." She looked at me, then him, and appeared even more upset than before. Now she had both the domineering boyfriend and the embarrasing do-gooder to contend with. He still was manhandling her.
When I told him to let her go or the police would be notified, I was alerted to the presence of The Neighbor. Wearing the unstoppable wife-beater-undershirt-and-baggy-shorts combo, this Mexican-American parolee was the avatar of all things tattoo. "Leave my friend alone, man," he yelled at me. At me!
The Neighbor was not swayed by my pointing out that his lanky block-mate was in the process of abusing his significant other. That really had nothing to do with it. I was invading his turf. "I'm gonna get my gat, man," he concluded.
It was obvious that I was outmanuevered. With both the ice cream and my True Love melting in the car, I decided to leave. As we were pulling away, I had to resist the urge to floor it and run every red light home. My hands were shaking. It was then that my True Love told me that a "gat" was urban slang for a gun, as in "gatling gun," one presumes. That knowledge didn't exactly lighten my foot on the accelerator.
Once home, I called the police, feeling equal parts nimwit and coward, ashamed by the fear I'd felt and cursing myself that I'd escalated a bad situation.
No one said doing the right thing is easy, or even natural. Sometimes we stand up and get smacked back down. I'll never know whether the police found the abusive man or his ex-con defender. Moreover, I'll never know if the poor, fat woman got away or even appreciated my efforts. I might have even made things worse for her. I'm sure the police would say to call them first and leave it to them -- and they're right, of course.
I'm still torn by the urge to be a moral actor in the real world; yet the fearful reality can quickly bring one back to a myopic world-view focused on self-preservation. It's made me simultaneously, and paradoxically, both more vigilant and cautious. I'm trying to pick my battles a little better, too. A week or so after the Braumfrontation, I was over it and promised My True Love to avoid unneccessary future acts of derring-do.
But I still think about it when I pass that Braum's.
Get Some Gene Therapy!
Having trouble with your career, love life, or just pondering the meaning of it all? Let's talk about it. Send your questions or concerns to me at mygenetherapy@gmail.com.
-- Gene
This is not a solicitation to render legal services to anyone. Any opinions given herein are for informational purposes and are not legal advice. You should consult with a competent attorney in your area if you have questions on legal matters.
-- Gene
This is not a solicitation to render legal services to anyone. Any opinions given herein are for informational purposes and are not legal advice. You should consult with a competent attorney in your area if you have questions on legal matters.
Why The Sopranos Finale Failed
Tony arrives at the diner, entering with a puzzled look on his face -- he has an out-of-body experience as he sees himself in a booth. One by one, patrons enter, each suggestive of Tony's possible doom and yet also evoking quintessential Americana. Each time they enter, the bell on the door rings and Tony looks up -- is it anticipation or fear on his face? Carmela, then A.J. join him at the table. A.J. is preceded by a man of Italian descent who sits at the bar and looks over at Tony. Is that a look of menace or an idle glance? Meadow is running late and is maddeningly unable to parallel-park her car. A.J. reminds Tony that we should remember the good times. The man at the bar gets up and passes Tony on his way to the men's room. Meadow jogs across the street to the diner. The doorbell rings and Tony looks up.
And then the Darkness.
Within minutes of the conclusion, the Internet was flooded with posts on message boards and discussion forums. Most of the initial reaction was poor, and the frustration, confusion, and disappointment was palpable. Viewers nationwide offered theories and vented on two topics: the meaning of the ending, and whether the ending was satisfactory. These topics are inextricably intertwined.
Did life go on for Tony and his family? Was Tony suddenly killed? Or, as some shrewd viewers suggested, were we killed in the sudden darkness?
The Non-Ending
The silver lining is that we must struggle with the meaning of the ending no longer. After the airing of the final episode, creator/writer/director David Chase has stated (at http://www.nj.com/) that he won’t comment on the meaning of the ending, but that he’ll “never say never” to a Sopranos movie. Ponder that for a moment.
Since Chase has kept his foot in the door for a potential future Sopranos vehicle, the final episode must be viewed as a non-ending. An intentional non-ending. We’ll never know whether life goes on for Tony and his family, or whether the mysterious “Man in Members Only Jacket” kills Tony after emerging, a la Michael Corleone, from the men’s room. Chase doesn’t know either, or if he does know, he isn’t telling.
We must therefore conclude that The Sopranos' non-ending was written (1) as a cop-out to avoid writing an ending (2) because Chase had a creative block and couldn't conceive an appropriate ending (3) out of protectiveness of his future income stream, to keep his options open, or (4) intentionally and most shockingly, that he actually thought the non-ending was the best ending.
Some say (http://paullevinson.blogspot.com/2007/06/sopranos-end-and-closure-junkies.html) that he was none of these things in choosing his ending; rather, Chase’s non-closure ending represents creative license. Doesn’t Chase have the right to buck convention and pen his own finale? After all, we as viewers cannot and should not have a leash on the artist's Muse.
But we, as viewers, have a right to expect some dramatic resolution of the main character’s story. If we didn’t care about the story enough to want a conclusion of some sort, would we have patiently stayed to the end of a 10-year, frequently-on-hiatus television series? While we appreciated his artistic talents, we did not just tune in to be awed by David Chase’s technical work product; we were watching to see what happened next. If an artist cloaks himself as a storyteller, he shouldn’t be surprised when we howl that a story was not told.
It’s true that consumers of any creative product subordinate themselves, willingly, to the whims of the artist. A fan of The Sopranos is, consciously or not, a fan of David Chase. We buy into the creative output of the artist because we are fascinated, entertained, and enlightened -- and thereby allow ourselves to care about the art itself. When that art is a storytelling medium, it’s reasonable for the audience to expect that something important to the main characters will be resolved.
Chase’s non-ending has also been defended on the grounds that The Sopranos was never intended to tell a story, per se, but was rather a peek inside the New Jersey mob scene. If that explanation is really the sole reason for the show's existence, then the show was nothing more than a fictional documentary. Given that Chase himself comes from a background of writing for dramatic crime television (The Rockford Files, in particular), he surely understands that a skilled writer can evoke a world and its inhabitants, place the audience in that world, and tell a story at the same time. One doesn’t have to read too much great literature (Dickens’ Bleak House and The Lord of the Rings by Tolkein come to mind) to recognize that true Art is evocative while delivering dramatic storytelling for the reader. It’s hard to imagine David Chase not viewing himself as equal parts storyteller and artiste.
Lastly, it could be argued that Chase should follow his Muse, regardless of the outcome -- that to provide a true ending, Chase would have to surrender his creative vision. Setting aside the author's responsibility to his audience for a moment, it's not hard to imagine an ending that incorporated all of the elements of the final scene. Indeed, a final shot of Meadow’s demeanor as she entered the diner would have told whether it was a tragic end for Tony or that life as they knew it would continue. All of the tension would have dramatic release.
Chase's Exploitative Use of Tension
Tension was built and sustained in the final scene by two things: the skillful use of banal dialogue and camera shots (e.g., Meadow parallel-parking her car), and, critically, our knowledge that this was the final episode. Had this been any other episode, there would be no tension, and we would all be scratching our heads about the time spent on such humdrum matters. Therefore, the tension in the scene is at mostly artificial and external to the show itself, relying on Chase’s manipulation of the viewer who knows he is viewing the final episode and is anxiously expecting a conclusion.
The creation of tension without dramatic release is simply a build-up for the sake of itself. Using the viewer’s state of mind to deliver a surprise is a hallmark of clever filmmaking. But used in this manner, it is a cheap trick and is exploitative. Yes, the non-ending was a surprise -- but not a dramatic surprise in the context of the story. It was Chase reaching out and throttling the viewer's own expectations. This is meta-art; art designed to make us question the role of art and our relationship to it. As such, it takes us completely out of the characters and plot and takes us into this discussion. If this was Chase's intention, we should applaud him -- but not at the expense of fulfilling his most basic duty, to tell a story.
It is Chase's specific use of tension in the final scene that distinguishes it from “interpretive” art. Da Vinci does not build up tension when we view the Mona Lisa and ponder the meaning of that enigmatic smile. He simply painted the masterpiece. Stockton, in “The Lady, or the Tiger” did not build up tension over ten years of serial television when he leaves the short story reader dangling over a young man’s fate. Moreover, the finale cannot be viewed as an interpretive ending because by considering a future Sopranos vehicle, Chase is not asking us to guess the ending -- he's expressly telling us he kept all his options open, that there is no ending.
Cut to Black
Chase couldn't make everyone happy in the final episode. Those who wanted Tony's death, or life, would be disappointed if the opposite result occurred. But in writing the non-ending, he failed his audience and, indeed, exploited them for the sake of his vanity and creative cowardice.
And then the Darkness.
Within minutes of the conclusion, the Internet was flooded with posts on message boards and discussion forums. Most of the initial reaction was poor, and the frustration, confusion, and disappointment was palpable. Viewers nationwide offered theories and vented on two topics: the meaning of the ending, and whether the ending was satisfactory. These topics are inextricably intertwined.
Did life go on for Tony and his family? Was Tony suddenly killed? Or, as some shrewd viewers suggested, were we killed in the sudden darkness?
The Non-Ending
The silver lining is that we must struggle with the meaning of the ending no longer. After the airing of the final episode, creator/writer/director David Chase has stated (at http://www.nj.com/) that he won’t comment on the meaning of the ending, but that he’ll “never say never” to a Sopranos movie. Ponder that for a moment.
Since Chase has kept his foot in the door for a potential future Sopranos vehicle, the final episode must be viewed as a non-ending. An intentional non-ending. We’ll never know whether life goes on for Tony and his family, or whether the mysterious “Man in Members Only Jacket” kills Tony after emerging, a la Michael Corleone, from the men’s room. Chase doesn’t know either, or if he does know, he isn’t telling.
We must therefore conclude that The Sopranos' non-ending was written (1) as a cop-out to avoid writing an ending (2) because Chase had a creative block and couldn't conceive an appropriate ending (3) out of protectiveness of his future income stream, to keep his options open, or (4) intentionally and most shockingly, that he actually thought the non-ending was the best ending.
Some say (http://paullevinson.blogspot.com/2007/06/sopranos-end-and-closure-junkies.html) that he was none of these things in choosing his ending; rather, Chase’s non-closure ending represents creative license. Doesn’t Chase have the right to buck convention and pen his own finale? After all, we as viewers cannot and should not have a leash on the artist's Muse.
But we, as viewers, have a right to expect some dramatic resolution of the main character’s story. If we didn’t care about the story enough to want a conclusion of some sort, would we have patiently stayed to the end of a 10-year, frequently-on-hiatus television series? While we appreciated his artistic talents, we did not just tune in to be awed by David Chase’s technical work product; we were watching to see what happened next. If an artist cloaks himself as a storyteller, he shouldn’t be surprised when we howl that a story was not told.
It’s true that consumers of any creative product subordinate themselves, willingly, to the whims of the artist. A fan of The Sopranos is, consciously or not, a fan of David Chase. We buy into the creative output of the artist because we are fascinated, entertained, and enlightened -- and thereby allow ourselves to care about the art itself. When that art is a storytelling medium, it’s reasonable for the audience to expect that something important to the main characters will be resolved.
Chase’s non-ending has also been defended on the grounds that The Sopranos was never intended to tell a story, per se, but was rather a peek inside the New Jersey mob scene. If that explanation is really the sole reason for the show's existence, then the show was nothing more than a fictional documentary. Given that Chase himself comes from a background of writing for dramatic crime television (The Rockford Files, in particular), he surely understands that a skilled writer can evoke a world and its inhabitants, place the audience in that world, and tell a story at the same time. One doesn’t have to read too much great literature (Dickens’ Bleak House and The Lord of the Rings by Tolkein come to mind) to recognize that true Art is evocative while delivering dramatic storytelling for the reader. It’s hard to imagine David Chase not viewing himself as equal parts storyteller and artiste.
Lastly, it could be argued that Chase should follow his Muse, regardless of the outcome -- that to provide a true ending, Chase would have to surrender his creative vision. Setting aside the author's responsibility to his audience for a moment, it's not hard to imagine an ending that incorporated all of the elements of the final scene. Indeed, a final shot of Meadow’s demeanor as she entered the diner would have told whether it was a tragic end for Tony or that life as they knew it would continue. All of the tension would have dramatic release.
Chase's Exploitative Use of Tension
Tension was built and sustained in the final scene by two things: the skillful use of banal dialogue and camera shots (e.g., Meadow parallel-parking her car), and, critically, our knowledge that this was the final episode. Had this been any other episode, there would be no tension, and we would all be scratching our heads about the time spent on such humdrum matters. Therefore, the tension in the scene is at mostly artificial and external to the show itself, relying on Chase’s manipulation of the viewer who knows he is viewing the final episode and is anxiously expecting a conclusion.
The creation of tension without dramatic release is simply a build-up for the sake of itself. Using the viewer’s state of mind to deliver a surprise is a hallmark of clever filmmaking. But used in this manner, it is a cheap trick and is exploitative. Yes, the non-ending was a surprise -- but not a dramatic surprise in the context of the story. It was Chase reaching out and throttling the viewer's own expectations. This is meta-art; art designed to make us question the role of art and our relationship to it. As such, it takes us completely out of the characters and plot and takes us into this discussion. If this was Chase's intention, we should applaud him -- but not at the expense of fulfilling his most basic duty, to tell a story.
It is Chase's specific use of tension in the final scene that distinguishes it from “interpretive” art. Da Vinci does not build up tension when we view the Mona Lisa and ponder the meaning of that enigmatic smile. He simply painted the masterpiece. Stockton, in “The Lady, or the Tiger” did not build up tension over ten years of serial television when he leaves the short story reader dangling over a young man’s fate. Moreover, the finale cannot be viewed as an interpretive ending because by considering a future Sopranos vehicle, Chase is not asking us to guess the ending -- he's expressly telling us he kept all his options open, that there is no ending.
Cut to Black
Chase couldn't make everyone happy in the final episode. Those who wanted Tony's death, or life, would be disappointed if the opposite result occurred. But in writing the non-ending, he failed his audience and, indeed, exploited them for the sake of his vanity and creative cowardice.
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