Skip to main content

The Sopranos: "Long Term Parking"

 Drea de Matteo won her Emmy Award not just for "Long Term Parking" but also for "Irregular Around the Margins," a terrific and plausible hour of "The Sopranos."


In "Irregular" (a title worthy of praise), Tony is slightly off-kilter, because he believes that he may have cancer. Meanwhile, Adriana has colitis and a deepening addiction to drugs. Because Adriana is attractive and kind, Tony finds himself struggling with boundaries. The two leads head out into the night, in search of heroin--and we can infer how the evening will end. Except that a car crash occurs, and the crash actually spares everyone from a real catastrophe.

Where there's smoke, there's fire. Second-tier figures in Tony's life can't accept that this car ride was "innocent." Rumors spread. Adriana must have been dishing out a blow job. That's why Tony swerved and crashed his car.

The episode is extraordinary in its handling of an "open secret." The Soprano "community" senses that something is wrong. Why does Adriana have colitis? Why is she fleeing a "ladies' movie night" in tears? Even if no one lands on the acronym "FBI," everyone intuits that some kind of tectonic plate is shifting.

Toward the end of the season, Adriana makes a point of checking on Tony's cancer concerns. (As far as I know, she is the only character who does this.) By contrast, Adriana's colitis is an object of mockery. "The doctor says you should rest?" asks Christopher. "How is that a change? You sit on your ass all day."

It's a tribute to Adriana to allow her a final "fight." She doesn't die clueless; she isn't Tony Blundetto. She claws her way out of a vehicle, out of the grasp of a heavyset man. And she runs, for maybe half of a minute. It's a suitable ending for a relatable character; Adriana isn't perfect, but, also, she isn't passive. In a way, I'm relieved that she dies when she dies, because I can't see a bright "post-matrimonial" future.
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

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
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