Skip to main content

Edie Falco: "Amour Fou"

 At times, I detect little errors in "The Sopranos." For example, when Gloria Trillo drives Carmela in a car, Gloria blatantly mocks Carmela: "So great that your daughter is getting a Columbia degree. Looks like *she* won't have to rely on a man for support. Some people aren't in the same boat."


Carmela--who generally seems shrewd to me--misses this insult. Is that plausible?

Also, the writers want us to believe that Meadow spends a full summer reading Mary Higgins Clark novels. As far as I can recall, we in the audience never see Meadow reading a book for pleasure. What does she think of Mary Higgins Clark? Does she discuss the Clark novels with friends? To me, the Clark reference feels lazy, undercooked.

All that said, I love the Meadow stories. In season four, the feisty undergrad decides to take a year off, to mourn the loss of Jackie Jr. Her mother fights this in a helpless way, but the battles go nowhere. Tony throws up his hands and says, "Fine. Go. Good luck to you." It's only when Tony cedes ground, when the thought of planning a year abroad becomes "real," that Meadow decides she *will* return to Columbia (after all). This reminds me of various power struggles with my daughter; often, if I say, "Have it your way," Susie will lose interest in the fight.

It's also a treat to observe Meadow with Carmela. Meadow cruelly taunts her own mother with evidence of "book learning"; when Carmela is stunned by a particular portrait, Meadow snidely says, "It's just some rich lady who offered cash to Rembrandt. She achieved nothing, and she died." Carmela doesn't have Columbia credits on her transcript, but she does have street smarts that her daughter lacks. The two women inspect an allegorical painting: A young woman has "married" the infant Christ. Meadow is horrified: "So this lady married a fetus?" And, with a smirk, Carmela says, "That's what we *all* do." Mom has lessons for her little Ivy League kid.

What a pleasure to watch Jamie-Lynn Sigler--who wasn't a kind of "Lauren Ambrose" phenomenon. Maybe Sigler deserves more credit than she received.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more