My friend William Speruzzi, a Brooklyn-based screenwriter and editor, wrote this piece upon the passing of James Gandolfini. You can read it in its original home at his personal blog. — MZS
When The Sopranos finished its final episode, thoughts of mortality
were swirling in the air. What happened to Tony? Did they do the
unthinkable/inevitable? This wasn’t a finale, it was an event that would be
debated and talked about over blogs and on Facebook for months to come.
David Chase’s departure from steering the ship of undoubtedly on of the most talked about, loved and important shows of the 21st century
left a gaping hole that very few shows have filled. Then our minds
wandered back into our day-to-day routines. The minutia. Life went on, as it
were.
Except it didn’t. Actors need to act. The one thing that happens 90% of the
time (don’t quote me on the percentage, its just a guess) is when an actor
successfully embodies a role so fully
and completely on television there’s no turning back. They’re in our homes,
every week. They are that role, to the public at least. James Gandolfini was
Tony Soprano. Actors graciously thank their adoring fans, but they need to
move forward. They need to work, and Gandolfini did. He never stopped
working. The consummate pro deeply committed to his craft worked
constantly, including a reunion of sorts with David Chase in his feature
directorial debut Not Fade Away, which is a bittersweet hat-tip to the spirit
of youth.
That said, we could never forget Tony. Gandolfini’s portrayal of Tony
Soprano will live with us because we knew him. He was our cousin, our
uncle, maybe even our father. He was that embodiment (there’s that word
again) of manhood from a different era with a different set of rules, maybe
rules cloaked in a sociopathic mobbed-up code that in some way or
another we wish still existed. As twisted and disturbing as Tony’s take on
the world could be, Gandolfini’s big heart made you see things his way,
without judgment.
Think about that for a minute.
Never afraid to be unflattering in the role, Gandolfini always brought it,
raising what most acknowledged as a pop culture phenomenon to high art.
He could be a sweet teddy bear, almost childlike in his tenderness, only to
take a turn and put his shoe up your ass if you gave him any lip. He was a
husband, a father and a boss. Gandolfini weaved in and out of the
demanding emotional landscape of The Sopranos with great aplomb. You
never got the impression that there was any dumbing down, ever. Tony
knew who he was, just a “fat fucking crook from Jersey.” So did Gandolfini.
It didn’t stop him from giving Tony his humanity and that’s what we all
responded to.
I just recently did a full on sprint through all six seasons on HBO GO so the
show is pretty fresh in my mind. It’s probably the fourth or fifth time I’ve
watched it in its entirety, if that gives you any idea of my allegiance to the
show. The one episode that haunts me especially now in wake of this loss
and I’m sure I’m not the only one is “Join The Club.” SPOILER ALERT: In
the episode Tony goes on an existential, The Passenger-like journey as a result
of being in a coma. In a dream state, he becomes another man, Kevin
Finnerty to be exact, by way of a mistakenly swapped wallet. In the midst
of a kind of comedy of errors, considering who Tony is, this Finnerty is just
a regular shmo salesman sans the heavy Jersey accent, from Arizona on a
business trip. The character sees a radiant light outside his hotel window
coming from the airport as he tries to track down the person who has his
misplaced wallet. Tony was in limbo. It was some sort of afterlife. It’s one of
my favorite episodes that works on a weird meta level, and Gandolfini is
sublime as he downshifts Tony into the guy that, to quote the end of Goodfellas, has to eat egg noodles
and ketchup.
On a personal note, when I lived in Lower Manhattan I saw James
Gandolfini from time to time. I was going out one night with my girlfriend.
We were invited by her Brooklyn childhood friend to the then hot French
bistro Pastis on 9th Avenue in the West Village. Her friend was a chef and
he was preparing a spread for us like no other. When we walked in who was
at the bar? It was like some rigged extra treat to see an actor I greatly
admired. He wasn’t alone. Accompanying him were fellow Sopranos actors
Steve Schirripa and John Ventimiglia. What really caught our eye was how
he was surrounded. He was like the sun, the center of this universe. All
patrons and friends drawn to his magnetism, about fifteen deep. Sure he
was the star of a hot show but I got the impression he would be holding
court like this anywhere, anytime, as Tony. Reality is, from what I
understand, James Gandolfini was a very private person.
That wasn’t the first time I saw him though. The first time was when he
emerged, larger than life from his then residential building on Greenwich
Street. I looked over at my girlfriend, starstruck, and said, “Look. It’s the
big guy.”
So this is just one more goodbye from an admirer of his boundless,
generous talent that made a lasting impression on all of us. In this time of
mourning it’s difficult to see past the loss but in time we’ll be able to see the
deep body of work he left behind. His acting brought me great joy, made me
laugh, made me nostalgic and shook me to my core. My thoughts go out to
him and his family.
Rest in peace, Big Guy.
