By GORDON GLANTZ
GORDONVILLE — My maternal grandfather – i.e. Poppy – was among an interesting ensemble cast of characters than made up the first act of comedy-drama that is my life.
Born in 1900, it was always easy to mark history by his life. When the stock market crashed in 1929, he was 29. When Pearl Harbor was attacked in 1941, he was 41. When I was born in 1965, he was 65.
In a time when non-WASPs were put on quotas at most colleges of distinction, he rose above the intolerance.
He went to the University of Pennsylvania and Jefferson Medical School, becoming a physician.
He served his country during the back end of World War I and, as a doctor, volunteered to give physicals for the draft board during World War II (he even received a letter of commendation from FDR).
An avid reader, Poppy’s mind was like a steel trap on a variety of subjects. He loved sports, watching game after game on the tube, and music. He played every string instrument created, with the violin being his specialty.
And, like most people, he was a dichotomy.
Many summer mornings in Atlantic City, I would be awakened by the sound of his distinctive laughter. The source of his bemusement was the low-brow humor of the “The Three Stooges.”
At 11 p.m., when most were tuning in the nightly news to see who shot whom or have Jim O’Brien tell us the weather by throwing clouds off his map, Poppy would turn to some UHF channel to catch “The Gong Show.”
Even at a young age, I found zero humor in silliness and slapstick, but this man of more education than the rest of the family put together responded to it.
In the late 1970s, I had already outgrown “Happy Days.” It was the show where the term “jump the shark” originated, and it had done that for me.
I don’t recall Poppy ever watching Fonzie and Co., but he somehow got hooked on one of its spinoffs, “Mork and Mindy.”
It ran from 1978 to 1982 — meaning 13-17 for me and 78-82 for Poppy — and I tried humoring him and watching it, I really did.
But, to be kind, we’ll say it didn’t float my boat.
At that age, I was either watching hockey or playing hockey.
I remember my school mates talking about it, but I tuned them out. I had been there, done that and didn’t want to go back.
So, while that show introduced many of my generation to its star, Robin Williams, I was off to a late and shaky start with the guy playing Mork.
I think that aversion, and lack of girls wanting to go the movies with me anyway, kept me away from his first major role in “The World According to Garp.”
By 1984, when Poppy was 84, the CE (Cute Era) had commenced for me. Girls would go the movies with me and I caught “Moscow On The Hudson” on a date. The girl said Williams kind of reminded her of me, which I wasn’t sure how to take at the time. It may have had something to do with him being so hairy, as I didn’t speak with a Russian accent.
Beyond that assessment, which I have since come to realize was a major compliment – even if not intended – I was coming around.
He made his share of middling movies in the 1980s, but two more – “Good Morning, Vietnam” (1987) and “Dead Poets Society” (1989) – cemented him in Gordonville as a talent who can make you both laugh and cry with nuanced facial expressions or gestures.
He was the ultimate sad clown of my generation, matching Charlie Chaplin of Poppy’s era, but there was a more daring side.
He had an edge to his game.
I also caught some of his HBO specials and, in addition to laughing at humor that would not have been Poppy’s style, appreciated the all-important underlying social commentary.
In 1997, the year that he had a small part in Woody Allen’s “Deconstructing Harry,” Williams stepped to the plate as Sean Maguire, Will Hunting’s therapist, in “Good Will Hunting.”
I consider that movie a modern classic, one that should be required viewing for young adult males looking to find their place in the world they are about to enter. It would have been a good movie without Williams, but it was his spin on the role — often improvising on the script of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon – that made it great (and I rarely use that overused word).
He won an Oscar for best supporting actor.
And won my heart by touching my soul.
Poppy left us three years earlier, and likely would not have believed that it was Mork from wherever up on the big screen.
He also would have had a hard time understanding that Williams, at age 63, succumbed to depression and took his own life (We are now hearing that a recent diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease may have factored in.).
It is hard for all us to believe, but we are not in his shoes. All that made Williams who he was to the world is what proved to be what haunted him. He felt too deeply. He felt a need to laugh and cry at one time, perhaps not knowing which emotion would win out, and was able to get us to do it as well.
All we can do now is enjoy the body of work – whether it is “Mork and Mindy” or some of my personal favorites (“What Dreams May Come” and “The Fisher King”) or one of the new movies that will be released posthumously – that he leaves behind.
All of it is not for all us, but most of it is for most of us.
And instead of pounding our judge’s gavels about how his life ended, let’s focus on how he brought life to his alter egos.
If I could talk to him now, I would thank him for making Poppy laugh through his grief during the years when my beloved grandmother — and Sofia’s namesake — died suddenly of stroke.
And I would steal a line from my favorite Robin Williams role and say: “It’s not your fault.”
If I had to repeat it, like he did to Will Hunting, I would.
And if he needed a hug, I’d give him one.
By GORDON GLANTZ
GORDONVILLE — America’s voyeuristic pop culture world went into shock during the final episode of “The Bachelor” Monday.
Juan Pablo, who had all the bachelorettes smitten at hello and lost them all before goodbye, spurned Clare and picked her archrival, Nikki.
But he did not propose to Nikki. He kept the ring in his pocket, even though she had already professed her love for him.
After giving her the final rose, which she accepted (probably thinking the visibility will launch her modeling career), they did an on-camera smooch.
And he said, to the groans of the live studio audience and millions watching from their sofas, “I like you … I like you a lot.”
What else would you expect from a playboy ex-jock named Juan Pablo?
Love at first sight – particularly with the willowy Nikki – would come from the likes of guys named Byron.
A day later, when NFL free agency kicked off, I was feeling a bit like Juan Pablo myself.
The Eagles were decisive, busting some moves – signing a B-list safety in Malcolm Jenkins, special teamers Chris Maragos and Bryan “Don’t Call Me Norman” Braman and cornerback Nolan Carroll.
Like Nikki, they would likely want me – as a season ticket holder and perpetual naysayer –to fall in love.
But like Juan Pablo, I can’t fully commit.
I like it, though.
I like it a lot.
The book on Jenkins, a converted corner, is that his strength is a lack of obvious weaknesses.
That is certainly an upgrade after watching safeties in the post-Brian Dawkins era whose weakness was their lack of any discernable strength.
He is not Jairus Byrd, T.J. Ward — or even Antoine Bethea or Donte Whitner – but signing Jenkins is better than sitting on their hands or worse (bringing back Nate Allen and/or Kurt Coleman, although Allen’s return is not a dead issue).
But as long as they add another safety early in the draft to compete with second-year man Earl Wolff for the role of Robin to Jenkins’ Batman, I’m good with it.
Maragos played behind one of the best safety tandems in the league in Seattle, so he might have some upside as a fourth safety (which is why bringing back Allen would be an unnecessary move). Braman adds wedge-buster size (6-foot-5, 250 pounds) and reckless abandon (the Yiddish word “mashugana” comes to mind) to the special teams, and Carroll, a physical corner with starts under his belt, could push for playing time this season and could be a starter by the following season (when cornerback Cary Williams’ contract balloons).
The Eagles also made a trade, sending a fifth-rounder to New Orleans for utility back Darren Sproles.
If you went to a factory and asked them to custom build the quintessential third-down back, the 10th-year man out of Kansas State would be it. Sproles is dangerous on draws and screens and returns both kicks and punts. In fact, his kickoff return in the playoffs last season sealed the Eagles’ fate, as it set up the game-winning field goal as time expired in a 26-24 Saints’ win.
Still, when the trade was announced, you would have thought it was Christmas in March around the Delaware Valley.
Seems like premature adulation.
Not to get all Juan Pablo on you, people, but I don’t love it.
I like it. I like it a lot.
But I’m not giving out the ring – in this case, Super Bowl rings.
Sproles, who will be 31 years old by training camp, never carried the ball more than 93 times in a season. And this coming season, 2014, will put him three beyond his peak season of 2011, when he set a benchmark for all-purpose yards with 2,696.
Despite his back-breaking return in the playoffs –more the combination of a feeble kickoff, subsequent coverage breakdown and an experienced return man taking advantage – Sproles is not as explosive in that area as he was in the past.
He has not taken a kickoff all the way to the house since 2008 or a punt since 2011. Last season, he had career lows in kick return (21.3) and punt return (6.7) average. That is almost identical to what the Eagles averaged last season – 21.4 on kick returns and 6.6 on punt returns.
And for around the same monetary investment, the Eagles could have gotten a similar player in his prime, Dexter McCluster, 25, who was the AFC’s Pro Bowl selection as a return specialist last season. The former Kansas City Chief, who was also a second-team All-Pro return man last year, signed for a fairly modest $12 million over four years. If the Eagles snapped him, it would have had the added benefit of sticking it to Reid.
Sproles comes from a good team, and good teams don’t let good players walk without good reason.
The fact that he was available should keep you from falling head over heels in love, like the Eagles brass apparently has already.
Despite throwing nickels around like manhole covers, they already gave him a two-year extension with guaranteed money.
The most troubling part of the deal is that Joe DiFannio, fueled by the irresponsible and Tweeter-happy media – from talk radio to television to print – is already concocting trades for backup running back Bryce Brown.
And this, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, really has my Irish up.
The Eagles committed highway robbery in 2012 when they drafted Brown in the seventh round. A blue-chip high school recruit, he had only played one full year of college ball at Tennessee (463 yards, three touchdowns as a true freshman) before transferring to be with his brother, Arthur (now with the Baltimore Ravens), at Kansas State and then leaving that program.
The pick of a 220-pound back with sub-4.4 speed was a stroke of genius, and his play as a rookie was one of the few bright lights in the darkness of Andy Reid’s final year of steering the ship aground.
He fumbled a lot, though.
This past season, with Kelly deploying a new offense and blocking scheme, Brown seemed tentative running, but hit his stride as the season wore on, scoring touchdowns in the final two regular-season games (including the game-winner against Dallas to seal the NFC East).
It was widely questioned – by many of the same closet GMs trying to ship him out of town now for a bag of deflated footballs – why Kelly didn’t ride Brown’s fresh legs a bit in the aforementioned playoff loss to Sproles & Co.
The Eagles have no reason to unload Brown – or fellow promising third-year back Chris Polk, for that matter. They were empty milk containers on trash night, and both are still playing on their rookie deals at bargain salaries (Polk was an undrafted free agent).
Comparing Sproles to Brown – or Polk – is not apples to apples. They don’t really play the same position.
Expect Sproles, still a prolific receiver, to be on the field a lot at the same time as LeSean McCoy, lining up a lot in the slot. Brown and Polk, who is not as talented as Brown but is a better blocker and a special-teams contributor, are there to spell McCoy from the tailback spot.
And consider the worst-case scenario, one the Eagles artfully dodged during last year’s typical charmed life under a first-year coach ‑- a substantive injury to McCoy.
When Reid stupidly left McCoy in the game late in a blowout loss against Washington in 2012, leading to a concussion, it gave Brown the chance to play – and run regularly, as opposed to a carry here or there – and he responded with big numbers (247 yards in his first two starts, along with four touchdowns … and three fumbles).
If McCoy went down this season, even for a game or two, would you entrust that workload to the 5-foot-6 Sproles?
The best chance they would have of still functioning, and frightening other teams, would be a combination of Brown (13-15 carries) and Polk (8-10 carries) with Sproles still lining up all over the field.
Just because Sproles is listed as a running back, like Brown and Polk, doesn’t mean he takes away one of their spots on the roster. That would only be if his arrival put them up against the cap, which it clearly doesn’t.
Just as it seemed obvious the Eagles could re-sign Jeremy Maclin and add him to the receiving corps without also bringing back Riley Cooper after a breakout season, they are not in either/or mode here.
They are not an import-export business, not when it comes to stockpiling offensive weapons.
Sproles’ greatest value to the team is that he fills a lot of needs and they have some roster flexibility, no longer having to carry as many receivers on their active roster as they have in the past.
Sproles almost becomes your de facto fourth or fifth receiver, depending on if one is drafted, while tight end Zach Ertz is also likely to line up outside or in the slot, creating mismatches with linebackers and slower safeties.
Sproles is a nice addition, another piece to the puzzle intended to end the championship drought.
It is not a cause for subsequent subtraction of an ascending player with age on their side.
And you have to like that.
You have to like it a lot.
The column originally appeared at http://www.phillyphanatics.com
By GORDON GLANTZ
GORDONVILLE — Perfectly slotted between when Sofia came home from school and when she had to leave for dance was “The Poseidon Adventure” — the original from 1972, not the remake (a practice that should be illegal in Hollywood without written permission from the Gordonville high court).
At age 7, just about six months older than my little princess is now, I saw this action-adventure flick — cut from the cloth of “Airplane” and “Towering Inferno” made during the era of shag carpets and man-perms — I saw this in a movie theater (no Net Flix back then).
Sofia came into the room at the pinnacle scene, when Gene Hackman‘s character — the heroic Rev. Scott — plummeted to his death after making the rescue possible for the other survivors (Come on! It was 41 years ago, putting me a year beyond the statute of limitations on spoiler alerts, so I don’t want to hear it.).
I warned her that it was “just pretend” and that I could prove to her by showing her one of the other 98 movies starring Hackman (not an exaggeration, he has 99 credited roles), but she was a soldier undaunted anyway.
“When is he going to come back?” she asked, as the cast of mostly “B” actors (save Hackman and Ernest Borgnine, whose interaction were a highlight) were being blow-torched out and spirited away in a helicopter as the credits began to roll.
For those who say that history doesn’t repeat, those were the same thoughts running through my young head in 1972, when the song “The Morning After” from this movie topped by the charts (who can name the singer without cheating on Google or IMDB?).
It was the first time I saw a bittersweet ending, at least to my knowledge; the first time a protagonist gave the ultimate sacrifice.
Likely the same for Sofia.
It was meaningful, in a weird way, to share it together.
And maybe it was the nostalgia, but they don’t make them like they used to, do they?
Bringing us back to the mourning after.
I’m not a real big fan of this type of movie. I haven’t been for a long time. Maybe it is because I saw the classics, and got them out of my system, at a young and impressionable age (even though it took today’s viewing to realize some tawdry tricks, like having Pamela Sue Martin and the other actresses, other than Shelley Winters, strip down to nothing early on under the guise of needing to shed clothing to climb a Christmas tree out of the dining area).
It made an impression then and now.
For all the times I click through all 678 channels and find nothing to watch, this was right on time.
At the perfect time.
By GORDON GLANTZ
GORDONVILLE — So I was rapping to this guy the other day, and I was describing some ordinary situation in my day. I added that it annoyed the heck out of me.
His response: “Everything annoys you.”
Well, not everything.
But enough “things” that the point is well-taken and met with little resistance.
Near the top of the AL – Annoyance List, not American League – standings is the propensity on the nightly news, usually on a Sunday, to list the top movies of the week.
The criteria? The box office sales are it, which is really a sad commentary on culture, given the subject matter of the majority of the movies.
Want to raise the bar on Hollywood, challenging it to do better than it does with lame scripts and gratuitous violence? Change the approach. Why not list the “best” movies, according to critics, that week?
Not so, dumb-dumb.
Not an alien concept, really. AP and USA Today release Top 25 rankings for college football and basketball – among other sports – on a weekly basis. Those votes are also based on media observations from those with trained eyes.
Why doesn’t this happen in the movie universe? Well, if you subscribe to the theory that everything is a conspiracy until proven otherwise, Hollywood is in cahoots with the networks that broadcast these lists of high-budget B movies.
It’s not that, say, science fiction cannot have a role in storytelling. At its best, the genre uses an alternate setting to send a strong message. But how often, realistically, does that happen anymore?
I have an idea for the perfect sci-fi thriller, as it eerily hits close to home. It need not be set too far into the future, either. Maybe 50-75 years, tops.
And it is rooted in today’s headlines.
Seems that a day doesn’t go by without hearing of bears infringing upon man’s arrogant eminent domain and attacking and mauling, right? Ditto for coyotes. And we all know about deer daring to get in our way on the roads to the extent that hunting season is cast in a way that is supposed to be for our best interest – and that of the hunted (LOL!). And we are also getting more reports of shark attacks than ever.
Some of it is the 24-hour news cycle and Internet bringing this stuff to light more readily, but it’s hard to buy as the only reason.
Where there is smoke, there is fire.
So here is the plot. The bucks, with their mighty antlers, decide to get angry about the violence perpetrated against their women and children and begin turning aggressive toward human women and children. The bears, the sharks and coyotes – and maybe alligators and snakes — follow suit.
The only way to stem the tide is for the adult male of the future where just about all (49 of 50) are stricken with autism (1 in 50 boys now, in 2013, and the epidemic is getting worse, so it’s not outlandish) to find a way to communicate and work together, to create an environment where we can co-exist with these animals again and reverse the risk factors for Austism Spectrum Disorder – clearly in the polluted air, the food loaded with additives and medication we take in the U.S. at a rate well beyond that of the rest of the planet – to have that Hollywood ending.
We can call the movie “The Revolution Starts Now” after the Steve Earle song (I have Steve Earle on the brain after he rocked my world at the Sellersville Theater Thursday night).
Nah, too close for comfort.
Bring on the vampires and zombies and keep on annoying me.
I’ll be OK. It’s just another example of … drum roll … What Is And What Should Never Be.
Ready for more?
What Is: A study conducted by the University of Michigan – my favorite college football team once each year, when Penn State is the opponent – reveals that making connections, via Facebook, might have us singing the blues.
And What Should Never Be: Letting a positive turn into a negative.
The point of the study was a good one. Facebook time can cause us to compare our lives to that of others and leaving us coming away feeling like we have bought one-way tickets to Loserville.
I have been there, done that. Not gonna lie.
For myself, being home a lot this summer with Sofia has led to time interacting on Facebook, often engaging in political debates and just touching base with people I am better for knowing.
It’s just a phase, though. I have gone – and will go – through others where it’s a secondary activity and not my immediate connection to the outside world.
We just have to take it for it is, and stare the truth in the eye.
Certain people, for whatever reason – who and what they represent in relation to our own life and times, and ensuing trials and tribulations – can put us in a funk by paging through their pictures or status posts about how they are in this place or that enjoying wine and cheese with friends.
But this is an onion that needs peeling, the study cautions. In actuality, it is the people who “socialize the most in real life” that are most prone to these oft-unhealthy comparisons.
According to John Jonides, the research co-author and a University of Michigan cognitive neuroscientist: “It suggests that when you are engaging in social interactions a lot, you’re more aware of what others are doing and, consequently, you might be more sensitized about what’s happening on Facebook and comparing that to your own life.”
I would have to say that more good than bad has come of entering the Facebook universe that allows room to breathe, despite 1.1 billion co-inhabitants.
What Is: Just to prove that man does not live by Facebook alone, a more recent discovery – Netflix – has opened up new horizons.
And What Should Never Be: Having a closed mind.
I had heard how Netflix reinvented itself for years, but figured the likes of HBO had me covered in the quest for inspiring and intriguing entertainment.
Even knowing that Netflix had an original series starring Steven Van Zandt wasn’t enough.
But then I got an iPad for my birthday in March and I took the plunge, figuring seeing the likes of “The Wonder Years” and “Star Trek” – while playing catch-up on “Mad Men” — was worth the price of admission.
Turns out, I went off in a completely different direction. First it was “Sons Of Anarchy.” Then, a friend told me about a show called “Freaks and Geeks” about high school in the early 1980s, which is when we were in high school. The only bad part of the show was that it only lasted one season and left me lamenting what could and should have been.
Next, I turned to the Van Zandt vehicle, “Lillyhammer,” and got a kick out of him pretty much reprising the role of Silvio Dante (“The Sopranos”) in a bizarre setting (a New York mob guy in witness protection in Norway).
The cool thing about Netflix is that, like Facebook, it takes a snapshot of what you like and suggests more ideas.
That led me to another original Netflix series, “Orange Is The New Black,” and I roared through the first season in about two weeks. Ditto for the award-winning “House of Cards.”
HBO cornered the market with the catch-phrase of “it’s not TV, it’s HBO.” Now, one has to consider saying, “it’s not HBO, it’s Netflix.”
Then again, “Boardwalk Empire” returns Sept. 8 on HBO.
How do I know?
What Is: The aforementioned Steve Earle – even though his show ended too late to stay in line for an autograph, which I may live to regret – got me thinking about our place and time in history (including the story line for the movie, as he spoke of his toddler son with autism).
And Should Never Be: Not turning the deep thinking to action.
Earle explained that all songwriters of his generation follow in Bob Dylan’s footsteps, whether they want to admit it or not (don’t the ones who refuse to submit just annoy you?). He continued to explain that Dylan modeled himself after Woody Guthrie, whose legacy was pretty much creating the realistic soundtrack of The Great Depression era. Earle added that Dylan would be the first to admit that he never experienced America going through the hard times as seen through the eyes of his hero, Guthrie.
Earle, who has been touring by bus for a while, said that it has struck him that the America he is now seeing is as horrific as that of Guthrie’s time.
And he’s spot-on accurate.
I blame Bush, you blame Obama.
Others point to Wall Street.
And maybe we should just look in the mirror, blame ourselves and start doing something about it.
After Earle and his band – The Dukes – aptly ended their show with “The Revolution Starts Now,” the lights went up and a recording of Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land” (should be the national anthem, but don’t get me started on that) began to play.
It sounded new again.
It sounded great.
- Netflix the ‘New HBO’? Get Real (variety.com)
- Steve Earle; The Voice of Reason … (keenemusic.wordpress.com)
- Netflix’s Latest Content Grab: All Weinstein Movies (businessweek.com)
- REVIEW: Steve Earle at Sellersville Theater: Roots rocker plays big show in intimate venue (blogs.mcall.com)
- Netflix Is Still No HBO (dailyfinance.com)
- In Defense Of … Netflix Being the Future of Television (Column) (popmatters.com)
- Netflix Strikes Movie Deal With Weinstein Co. (abcnews.go.com)
Below dig the deep thoughts (well, mostly) of an award-winning journalist while in exile.
Wrote this immediately after the passing of the great James Gandolfini (Tony Soprano) a while back. At the time, I couldn’t bring myself to watch “The Sopranos” but I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t the best way to honor his memory.
By GORDON GLANTZ
GORDONVILLE — We all need our dreams, and one of mine was that “The Sopranos” would return one day, either to the big or small screen.
The dream ended this past week when the man who made Tony Soprano a household name, James Gandolfini, died at age 51 of a massive heart attack while vacationing with his son in Italy.
For all the times I have been touched, and touched deeply by his acting, I remain in stunned silence.
Not much in the way of tears, or overt sadness.
That might come when I watch the show again, which I, myself, have been unable to do.
Right now, I probably won’t make it through the opening credits.
Right now, I’m just trying to make it through one of the most difficult columns I’ve ever had to write.
It was much the same way when I lost close family members – my father (2008), father-in-law (2010) and stepfather (2011) — during these intervening years.
It took a while for the reality to set in.
And mock me if you will, I almost feel like I lost a member of my family in Gandolfini.
“The Sopranos” was in perpetual syndication in Gordonville.
It never got old.
Perhaps, I craved that sameness amid the many changes in my life – good and bad, sad and glad, personal and professional — since it first aired in 1999.
Perhaps, it just appealed to me as a fan of the mob genre. After all, the great movie of my generation is “The Godfather.”
Perhaps, it’s a mixture of all the above, along with the fact that I saw a lot of myself in Tony (sans actually whacking people). I have been known to have a short fuse, but I also have a big heart – exemplified by a love of four-legged creatures displayed by Tony — and expend a lot of needless energy worrying what other people think.
In addition to sharing paranoia bordering on unhealthy, we both held disdain for those who drift through life – and in between the raindrops without getting wet — as the “happy wanderer.”
When he described himself as “the sad clown,” I completely caught his drift.
The most amazing times were the first viewings of episodes, on Sunday nights, when I would be thinking exactly what Tony was thinking before he made his gestures of war and peace, and understood the indecision that followed his decisiveness.
Part of the immediate appeal of “The Sopranos” – when I first caught it during one of those free enticement weekends of HBO — was that the star, while captivating, was not a dashing leading man in the traditional sense.
It gave it brevity and levity.
And it shot to No.1 with a bullet in my heart, my soul and mind.
I soon took to wearing jogging suits and using the verbiage. It gave me a shield for my sensitivity.
In 2007, the same year my daughter was born, “The Sopranos” aired its final episode, with the screen suddenly fading to black while Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” was halted at “don’t stop.” I defended it publicly, but secretly found it a bitter pill to swallow.
Still, I had the body of work — like that of The Beatles, Shakespeare or “The Brady Bunch” – to rely on.
And, like fans of the Fab Four – up until the death of John Lennon — I held out hope for more.
My little lullaby: The final show’s ending could mean anything.
Maybe Tony didn’t die in that diner, even though the fade-to-black hint was foretold in a prior episode. Maybe Silvio (Van Zandt) will come out of his coma. Maybe Chase, the show’s visionary, won’t take himself so seriously and will create a new world around Tony and Carmela (brilliantly played by Edie Falco) by using top-shelf Italian-American actors that would be at his disposal for a feature film or HBO mini-series.
And maybe Gandolfini, who turned Tony into the character that stirred “da gravy,” would wake up one day and have an epiphany. Maybe he would realize that he was meant to play Tony, not second bananas in big-budget movies, and call Chase and get on the same page for a new chapter.
While it seemed less and less likely, “The Sopranos” never let me down.
The show became my beacon. Nothing before it, or since, will ever take its place.
Part of its brilliance is that it never gets old.
It has kept me grounded, and kept me thinking.
I don’t drink, gamble or smoke. I don’t even golf or play cards with the guys.
My outlet, when the house is dark and no one else is awake, is to watch “The Sopranos.”
The more I allegedly evolve – or at least change – the more I glean from watching it on a continual loop.
My holy trinity – if Jewish guys are allowed such things – consisted of Sofia, Springsteen and “The Sopranos.”
And Gandolfini is the main reason it achieves such lofty status.
A night or two before I learned of Gandolfini’s passing, I watched an episode on HBO Signature. It was the one where the inner-circle holds a drug intervention for Christopher Moltisanti (played to perfection by the unheralded Michael Imperioli).
Christopher lashes out at each person in the room, including Tony. He tells him that he is going to die of a heart attack “before 50” if he keeps eating the way he does.
Ironically, Gandolfini – in a rare interview – was quoted as saying it would be “kind of lame” if the show ended with Tony dying of a heart attack.
Instead, that’s how the dream ended.
As much as Hollywood thrives on remakes, the curtain has now fallen on “The Sopranos.” The greatest compliment to Gandolfini is that if they made a remake 50 years from now, it wouldn’t work. No one can replicate his masterful portrayal.
In that sense, he was a true original.
He takes that to his early grave.
I am not one of Gandolfini’s loved ones — a group that includes both family and his many professional associates — and I can’t pretend to imagine how they feel.
But I count myself among his legion of enduring admirers.
Together, in ways we can’t yet fully express – or shouldn’t have to explain to those who “don’t get it” – we mourn his loss.
And I mourn my lost dream.
- James Gandolfini: More than just Tony Soprano (shellshockednerves.com)
- The Sopranos (1999-2007): A Moe’s TV Guide Classic TV review (moeatthemovies.com)
- James Gandolfini funeral: Sopranos creator David Chase pays tribute to his “good boy” leading man in eulogy (mirror.co.uk)