Everybody needs therapy

As I’ve mentioned a few times here, I’ve spent the last few weeks waist deep (or would that be mobb deep?) in gangster shenanigans, frantically racing to, as Tom Cruise would say, catch up to the present. Right now, I’ve got three episodes to go in the fifth season of The Sopranos, and I’m very much enjoying going through Slate’s post-game breakdowns after each one (and unlike Ross Douthat, I’m OK with Slate dropping the feature this year: less temptation to read spoilers). Theoretically, I should finish season five tomorrow and be entirely current by the time 6x05 airs next Sunday. So, knowing that there are still seven episodes of the show that I’ve never seen, and knowing that something monumental is likely to happen in the next few episodes, I’ll share some current thoughts.

As everyone knows, The Sopranos is about the tension between Family and family. Subsequently, it in some ways fits into the recent pattern of post-genre filmmaking, in which the archetypes of genre are deconstructed, made “human,” and explored beyond their superficial, genre-standard traits. Ther superhero genre has certainly had its share, what with Watchmen and Dark Knight Returns. Unforgiven and Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada did it for the Western. My favorite example is The Incredibles. Just as that movie gave us superheroes with chintzy bosses and rowdy kids—Superman as white collar husband and father—The Sopranos gives us a mob boss with organizational problems and all too familiar difficulties in his home life—the crime lord as family man and company manager.

But while most of the genre deconstructions of the last decade allow their protagonists to maintain their original mythic facade (they’re still superheroes, just with the addition of real struggles), The Sopranos has cunningly heisted the aura of legend from its band of hoodlums and hangers-on. These guys live in the shadow of Coppola and Scorcese, and much of what they do is a futile attempt to match the gravitas and glamour of their big-screen counterparts. They all want to be Corleone-style legends, but in all likelihood, they’ll end up as nothing more than tracksuit wearing hoods. The Sopranos doesn’t just add a frail, human dimension to its characters, it reminds us, over and over, that frail and human is all they are. Flaws, insecurities, destructive tendencies, petty jealousies, personal weaknesses—these are the show’s stock in trade, and no one gets off clean. Even the shrink sees a shrink. On this show, the adage is true: Everybody needs therapy, or at least an HBO subscription.