Observing
James Gandolfini bring Tony Soprano to life is analogous to becoming the
prophet Jeremiah, sacrificing the droll life of whatever a Bedouin does, say,
shaving his pubic hair with carving knife, in order to chastise Israel into
whatever the rewards an aesthete lifestyle was supposed to bring to the first
nation to recognize the divine as other dimensional and without limit. My Roman
blood sang the song of going home, the very DNA I fled for Nigger City USA, an
impulse of heart for which I’ve never forgiven myself: David Chase kept me sane
just a little while longer, while perhaps some of you can imagine how much I
regret not being able to stay concurrent with it due to an antiseptic barrenness
of my own. That Jimmy faded to black in Italy in parallel circumstances
to his title character creates the same dissonance in me that Eugene Robinson
felt about Cosby. Can I offer perspectives about the series which established critics
cannot? Perhaps in micro fragments, but not this evening, bone weary as
granite, as cool and unforgiving as marble to our rubbery fingertips, but I do
have to write about it, rerun it for the rest of the miserable ferocity of my
life.
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