Finale and No Finality

With fanfare generally reserved for Presidential funerals, The Sopranos was put to rest on Sunday night. Arguably, it was one of the best TV dramas ever. In a lot of respects, you also might call it one of the best TV comedies ever. Whatever chad you poke on your ballot, the finale was generally met with disdain in Monday morning TV quarterbacking circles.

The last five minutes were perhaps the most nerve-wracking moments I have ever spent in front of a TV set. As Tony and Carmella sat down for a quiet family dinner in some folksy New Jersey diner, Tony surveyed the crowd. He was waiting for his kids to arrive, but, also, as an underworld hood would, he was checking out his surroundings always mindful of enemy gang members, Feds, and, given his girth, Jenny Craig consultants. Each time the door opened and there was a little jingle from the overhead bell, Tony steeled himself a bit. And so did we. Most of the patrons of the diner looked unhappy. This didn't throw me. We are, after all, in New Jersey, where a Turnpike rest stop is the virtual equivalent of Lincoln Center to New Yorkers. When the particularly surly guy from the counter went into the men's room, I was convinced we were seeing a Godfather replay. Remember how they taped the gun to the toilet for Michael Corleone? Meanwhile, Meadow was outside doing her best imitation of an Asian driver in her numerous inept attempts to parallel park. Finally, she dings her way into the space and scurries across the street to meet La Familia. Tony makes some goofy comment about onion rings. The bell on the door jingles. He looks up. Cut to black.

Most viewers thought their TV signals had gone kerblooey. Since I was also recording it via the HBO East Coast on my DVR as a backup, I immediately thought the overrun had messed up my set. I was not alone. If I had opened my windows, I would have probably heard the unified sound of remote controls being heaved against walls across the city. Not since the four Seinfeld numbskulls had the jail cell closed behind them has America uttered the following Peggy Lee imitation: "Is that all there is?"

My immediate reaction was disappointment and annoyance. But, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it made sense. This is Tony's life from now on. He has to be on guard every moment until the moment they actually lay him out in that funeral parlor which was getting all their business the past nine years. By laying out that final scene as they did, writer-director David Chase gave us a taste of what that kind of life is like. My phone rang right after the show. I flinched a bit. You know what? It worked.

I, however, apparently fall in the minority on this. HBO's server crashed Sunday night from the weight of all the dodos who needed some sort of bloody closure, as if Phil Leotardo's head becoming a crepe wasn't enough. People were screaming that they would disconnect HBO as a result. I can't blame them for that. They haven't introduced a true water cooler show since "Six Feet Under." And the future doesn't look, since they bounced their longtime programming guy because he couldn't keep his hands from around his girlfriend's neck.

The public outcry is hilarious. I was reading some Sopranos message boards prior to the finale. People were obsessing beyond imagination. Everybody had some inside track to the ending. This one sold salami to James Gandolfini in a Tribeca deli. Another one swept up Edie Falco's hair after she got it cut at a beauty salon. Everybody was clamoring to hold onto some sort of inside connection. And one spoiler after another was wrong. Carmela is shot in the Short Hills Mall. AJ becomes a rodeo clown. Paulie Walnuts puts a contract out on the hosts of "The View." It was insane overkill.

I got a lot of giggles from these nutty boards as these loons were speculating on how throwaway incidents from years ago would be connected to the finale and ultimately resolved. For instance, how would the beacon light that Tony saw in his coma be connected to the beacon that Carmella saw while in Paris? As if there was ever a master plan in David Chase's head for any of this. Most TV writers don't work that way. The only things they are ever expected to remember are good restaurants for lunch. Rarely are TV shows tied up that neatly. We're not talking the Star Wars trilogy here.

There was plenty of closure for me. Meadow's got a career. Silvio's got a lifetime appointment for daily bed turns from the nursing staff. AJ's got a career in Hollywood, which makes him just one more thug out here. Paulie's got himself mob security and a cat. There were some postings that depicted the cat as a reincarnation of Adrianna. Frankly, if she needed to come back as an animal, she should have chosen to do it before she wound up spending two seasons on "Joey." Someone in Central Casting dug up Donna Pescow from "Saturday Night Fever." She was obviously buried in a rather large grave. And Frank Vincent, who played the pancaked Phil Leotardo, will continue his career of being killed in every role he takes. I'm betting he doesn't even survive the family home movies from Thanksgiving Day. Sunday's finale was certainly not a great commercial for SUVs either. I learned not to park mine on top of either leaves or somebody's grandfather.

So, the overeaction in disappointment will dissipate over the next few days and we'll all go about to concentrating on more important things like the Presidential primaries or Lindsay Lohan's next auto accident. And there are no alternate endings coming on a DVD boxed set. It's over, folks. Porky Pig has waved goodbye. Revel in what you had with "The Sopranos." I'll miss it in about 18 months when the next season would be normally starting.

Dinner last night: CPK Pepperoni Pizza at Dodger Stadium.