Watching the long goodbye of The Sopranos has been a test, and for many of us a proof, of how deep the show's hooks had penetrated. At some point in its long run it came perhaps to be taken for granted. Undeniably, during recent seasons, I had found myself carping about stasis, a hint of aridity, an aura of grogginess. Hadn't all this gone on long enough? Hadn't we spent enough time watching Tony Soprano and the crew conspiring in the back room of Satriale's Pork Store, or trading lacerating verbal jabs at the bar of the Bada Bing club while the strippers in the background went through their changeless paces? How many times could Carmela swallow her misgivings after she and Tony once again quarreled and reconciled? Yet as the seventh and final season rolled out, I found myself inwardly whining—in the tones of an addict as helpless as Christopher Moltisanti's fellow substance abusers in his twelve- Step group or Dave Scatino, the compulsive gambler lured to his doom in Tony's executive poker game—'Why does it have to end?'
Review, 4918 words
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