"Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio, a nation turns its lonely eyes to you."

In a chance encounter on the set of a talk show sometime in the late 60s Mickey Mantle cornered fellow guest Paul Simon and asked him why he hadn't elected to use his name for that line. Simon replied that it was because of the syllables. They wouldn't fit, he lied. Mantle acquiesced, having probably confirmed his vanity's suspicion that such was the case. The line, of course, comes from the Simon & Garfunkel song Mrs. Robinson scored for the 1967 filmThe Graduate. But that infamous lament has transcended both the film and the song itself and forged its own more singularly powerful theme. One need only have known the time DiMaggio played in to agree with Simon that it could not have been any other ball player. DiMaggio was the perfect figure to represent the false innocence we always ascribe to a past we selectively recall and reinvent. When the era changed, and did so with rapidly changing values, DiMaggio's celebrated excellence and reserve stood out all the more. The line has resonance in American culture because it is a true American lament.

The chestnut about DiMaggio is that he carried himself and played with an exceptional 'grace'. 'Grace' is a term not easily replaceable for its over-consumption. But DiMaggio had it. Grace in the batter's box, in center field, and most perfectly in running the bases. DiMaggio could float around first and glide into 2nd on what everyone thought was just a long single and would (seemingly) effortlessly turn doubles into triples the same way. He also had it in the way he led his life but, unlike his talents on the field, this did not come naturally to him. Joe DiMaggio was a notorious worrier and self-conscious to a consuming degree. He smoked heavily, had his stiff drinks every evening and drank coffee between innings to hold down his nerve. He had enormous pressures on him, not all of which were on the field. He may have felt those pressures more than others would. He was a guarded and introverted man and was never comfortable with his public role. But he played that role in American more than admirably.

DiMaggio was a deftly honorable man, wise and loyal to his friends and fans. He served his country in war and gave up some of the best years of his playing days. He married (although soon divorced) America's sweetheart, the tragic godess Marilyn Monroe, and remained a revered elder statesman of the institution that is American baseball. He also understood well the role he served as a celebrated Italian-American and never did anything to feed the stereotypes which were still very prevalent then, although DiMaggio was embarrassed, though not ashamed, of his Calabrese peasant parents and a mother who could not speak English. He carried an angst with him through to the end of his life. A fear of being stripped of his honor; that most Italian of all anxieties. There were moments in his life where he faced such perils. Monroe humiliated him before a midnight crowd while on the set of Billy Wilder's The Seven-Year Itch with that now iconic shot of her standing over the subway grate as the draft unfurls her skirt. But he sent flowers to her grave every day until he died. He did TV spots as a spokesman for Mr. Coffee, obviously for the money, but he was always careful to measure his public appearances and keep them as rare (special) and appropriate as possible. DiMaggio had an Italian's sensitivities towards maintaining his prestige and combined with the rarest of human sensibilities he was able to achieve it. He was the kind of unique Italian who managed his accomplishments with a great measure of character. He never pandered to the crowd, never lowered himself an inch for anything. In the summer of 1941 Joe DiMaggio hit successfully in 56 consecutive games, a feat proven by the laws of chance to be near impossible to make. It is one baseball record that will never be broken. This required a superlative talent, a genius if you will. It may be arguable that he belongs in league with those figures who have contributed to the Italian reputation for excellence; the likes of Michelangelo, Columbus, DaVinci, Bonaparte, Garibaldi. But to this writer DiMaggio does belong there.

The Sopranos: David Chase puts on a Show

A few years ago there was a band around called Dread Zeppelin whose gimmick was the juxtaposition of an Elvis impersonator lead singer doing Led Zeppelin tunes Reggae style. When I first saw the HBO series the Sopranos, produced by David Chase, it reminded me of them (Chase is Italian-American but the family name DiCesare was somehow changed along the way, probably by immigration officials at Ellis Island). They both engage in the same kind of pseudo-novelty invention, combining overdone conventions into a mix that appears fresh and cool. On the surface, what the Sopranos essentially is is a clever merging of two distinctly American genres. The Italian-American gangster saga coupled with the suburban satire. Both laden with recognizable stereotypes and the same tired old themes. The author Camille Paglia, who in her writings has contributed some wonderful accounts of Italian-American life, struck a similar line when blasting the show. "What ham acting! What crude stereotypes! The critics deliriously praising this factitious tripe are presumably the same urban elitists who thought the crappy, condescending 1999 film American Beauty told the bold truth about suburban American culture" she wrote in Salon magazine. Paglia, as an Italian-American, also took offense to the perpetuation of the stereotype of Italian-Americans as gangster brutes attached to tacky molls and has added her objections to those of the National Italian-American Foundation where she is an active member.

By the time this show came to air in January of 1999, the conventions of the Italian-American gangster genre had become so familiar, with audiences hip to the lingo and the 'code' of the Mafia, that they were already part of the Hollywood parody repertoire. Several comedies in this vain emerged, most notably the 1998 comedy Analyze This! which sports an identical premise to that of the Sopranos; gangster sees shrink after experiencing panic attacks. But such contemporary comedies go as far back as My Blue Heaven (1990) with Steve Martin, Jonathan Demme's Married to the Mob (1988) and Wise Guys (1987). Audiences, having learned the ways of the Cosa Nostra (as portrayed in the cinematic myths, at least) through the likes of the Godfather series and Goodfellas could find a great deal to laugh at in those comedies. And then came the Sopranos, seemingly under the guise of that dreaded paradigm of 90s TV; ironic camp. A stylistic variation on the snide, inside joke.

Ironic camp is a prism through which to project old clichés and stereotypes, a self-referential form of pop culture indulgence where the audience is made to feel 'hip' and in on the humor. It also appears to be a forum for self-congratulating writers/producers to vaunt their skills at construing jokes both within and with the story. The Sopranos come to us with all the ingredients. The gangster saga married to the suburban satire, with the same old conventions: the philandering gangster/husband as protagonist, the tacky, pissed-off yet devoted suburban/mob wife, the wise-cracking, side-kick wise guys fresh off a Scorcese set. Tony Soprano's place of business is the Bada-Bing Club, typical 90s reference-kitsch (Sonny Corleone's expression in the Godfather). Then, there's the mocking self-reference. For instance, in one of the early episodes the characters are discussing the Godfather films when Silvio (Steve Van Zant) puts on a crass Pacino impression, yet all the while the very character of Silvio is placed into the show as a frightful, Pacinoist joke.

In the opening episode of the 3rd season, as Tony is being shadowed by the FBI, the soundtrack conducts a mix of Peter Gunn with the Police's Every Breath You Take. (Do directors today have a secret wish to be celebrated as cool DJs?). It's inventive, but all too typical of the ironic moment reaching outside the realm of the story through what is really just a redundant commentary provided by the soundtrack as to what is taking place onscreen. There are many such moments in the series although it is funniest are when it plays for straight jokes or humorous pathos.

But when looking beyond the superficial construct of the show, we find that Chase is not really working in this vain. He only seems to use ironic camp as a veneer for the story he really wants to tell. There is an unnerving realism to the Sopranos that contrasts heavily (and poorly) with the cover of camp. Because of this there is sometimes a very contrived feel to the show. For example, Tony and his gangsters engage in snappy dialogue and funny one-liners with a wit and knowledge that no real gangster would possess. Yet then, when the plot-line or the joke requires it, James Gandolfini (Tony Soprano) conveniently puts on that brilliant dumbfounded look when something is going over Tony's head. If Tony were simply a relatively observant, though not entirely educated Italian-American man confronted with the death of his heritage, the necessary contrivances that keep a murderous gangster protagonist sympathetic to the audience would not have to tar an often interesting narrative. Chase conveniently omits showing us Tony dealing with certain issues. Sparing us the scene where Tony must explain the disappearance of his best friend, whom he killed, to Pussy's family. All in order to maintain a moral grounding to the character so that he does not lose the audience. But this all gets in the way of the theme at the heart of Chase's creative exercise here, the death of Italian-American culture and the end of the Italian in the Italian-Americans.

Some insights into this theme can be read into the very title of the series. Tony is a Soprano, hinting at the show's operatic design, as well as to his emasculation as a suburban dad (Here is yet another convention of American suburban satire derived from 50s sit-coms where dads never knew what was going in the world outside of their work). The Hamlet-like plot of the first season, where Uncle Junior and his mother conspire to have Tony killed, demonstrates Chase's intentions to make of the show more than a display of histrionic Italian personages. His ambition is to create a classical narrative. The allusions to Tolstoy and the existentialism of Russian literature in the episode where Christopher Moltisanti and Pauli Walnuts are lost in a white forest reveals the college literature indulgences of the show's writers. But it being a forest in New Jersey, a state that is essentially one huge suburb, with these very urbanized ethnic hoods lost among the trees, creates again that veneer of sophisticated ironic camp. Here is where the Sopranos gets much of its over wrought praise from it's elite audience. Much of the same audience as HBO's other hit series Sex and the City. An audience that is urban, educated and enjoys having its elitism conveyed back to them approvingly. This is what makes the broadcast networks so jealous of HBO's critical success. Because of their restrictions on violence, language and sexual content, and their need to satisfy a much broader audience base, they are left with the much less 'hip' older and rural viewers. People who, according to the marketers, don't shop as much as advertisers would like and who according to the elites, don't do much thinking either. Of course, how the Sopranos is received is not very relevant to an analysis of its content. But it should not be an entirely separate discussion, as its commercial and critical success is due to the deliberate manipulation of existing conventions that have proved similarly successful. Without the use of the gangster genre in Chase's clever mix, the show would probably not be a success, although perhaps just as praiseworthy, if not more so. But Chase's very employment of the convention, and it's exploitation by the actors for a conveniently fat paycheck, is something that cannot simply be ignored.

Orson Welles once said that Italy is a country of 50 million actors. He was correct. There is something about the Italian character that makes them natural ones. One need only watch bad Italian TV to discover the actors are never terrible, unlike bad American television. This goes beyond the cliché of Italians as highly animated people who like to talk with their hands. Luigi Barzini in his seminal book The Italians conducts a more than competent and insightful accounting of Italian culture, its divide between the north and south (called il mezzogiorno, or midday) and the mentality which forms the mafia, that everyday Italian sort of intrigue and corruption, as well as the Mafia, the criminal organization. His theory goes roughly like this: Having for centuries lived under foreign domination in often the most humiliating of circumstances, the Italians, in that crucial period of their formation that took place from the 16th to the 19th Century, learned to resent all authority as illegitimately imposed, and through guile and treachery conducted themselves in such a way as to appease their masters while running things as best in line with their true allegiance underground. Their true allegiance being to the family and the larger clan. Understanding the exceptionally creativity of its people (the renaissance occurring just before and in the early part of this period) they could not entirely fathom domination and fiercely resented the cultural inferiority of their foreign masters. This idea can explain much about Italian notions of duty, honor and justice (much of it to yourself and your family, little debt is owed to your country) and their poor martial showing in WWII. They simply could never buy into nationalism of any kind, particularly the fascist brand. But they feigned it rather well, like the new construction Mussolini had built on the road from the airport into Rome just to impress upon Hitler the new Rome he was building. It was all a great show.

The straight comedy in the Sopranos, such as having Tony's panic attacks precipitated by his encounters with women (his mother) and meat, has a charmingly Italian scent to it. Poking fun at both Tony himself and at the therapy culture and profession as well. The character of Tony's mother Livia is of this Italian vain of high comedy and complexity. She is not the stereotypical, happily-churning-the-pasta, Italian Mamma. Chase and his actors know their stuff here. It is obvious that they have been playing these roles not only throughout their acting careers, but throughout their lives. Gandolfini has been playing either a hood or an Italian-American, or both, throughout the 90s from roles in True Romance to Angie. He's been playing Tony for a long time. This is why, in a sense, these actors do not deserve the credit they get for playing such colorful roles so well. An Italian would know, there is nothing easier than what they do.

As the show continues to develop its storyline, it is sad to see how it has become a ghetto for second-rate Italian-American actors. It was only a matter of time until Joe Pantoliano showed up and a good bet is that Anthony LaPaglia makes his appearance before this thing is through. Many of the actors who play the roles of Tony's 'crew' were plucked right from Goodfellas (Michael Imperioli played Spider). Some cast members have made paid public appearances at casinos so that high rollers could have their pictures taken with them. This is what is difficult to separate from the show, because you can see how obviously this is just an actor trying to make a living. But as well an Italian sticking to a solid paycheck in that very conservative way that Italian immigrants are known for.

In the second episode, when Tony is in one of his early therapy sessions with Dr. Melfi, he says he feels like he always has to play the part of the sad clown. This is very telling and even beyond what Chase meant with it (Chase is know to exercise immense control over this series and it is safe to refer to much of it as his own work). But it is also Gandolfini who is playing the part of the clown. Barzini tells us of the history of Italians playing the role of jester for their patrons in order to extract their daily bread. There is an Italian proverb that goes Non sono fesso, ma faccendo il fesso, ti faccio fesso. This translates: I am not a fool, but in playing the fool, I make you the fool. Italians believe in those hard, tangible goods like money. That they have to do certain things to get to it, even play the clown. The theme of 'selling out' is not a common one in Italian culture. But Gandolfini is also an American and it is known that he is uncomfortable with his role. He is averse to interviews, camera shy outside of work and has claimed that he will no longer play such characters in the future. Hard to see how he can escape that typecasting now. The cast of the Sopranos are already typecast actors. This will solidify them more than Kirk did Shatner.

In the opera Pagliacci (The Clowns) by Ruggiero Leoncavallo a small theatrical road company come to a small village in Calabria around the time of 1870. Canio is the head of the troupe and jealously guards his young wife Nedda who is also a player. Nedda actually has a lover, Silvio, and is loved unrequitedly by the hunchback Tonio who betrays their trist to Canio out of spite. One evening Canio catches Nedda and her lover together though Silvio escapes unrecognized as Canio is restrained by Beppe, another player. Canio sings his lament about how he must play the clown as his heart is breaking. The players then put on their play, Pagliaccio e Colombina, with Canio and Nedda in the main roles. In the play, Colombina is Pagliaccio's wife but is serenaded by her lover Arlecchino (Beppe) who is dismissive of her servant Taddeo (Tonio). They dine together and plot to poison Pagliaccio who soon arrives and Arlecchino slips out the window. Taddeo tries to assure Pagliaccio of his wife's innocence but the play is all too close to reality for Canio and his jealousy explodes. Canio departs from the script and demands that Nedda reveal her lover's name to him. The audience is enthralled by the intensity of the performance as the other players try to stay with the script. In his rage, Canio stabs Nedda and then Silvio who has come forward from the audience. Canio then declares the comedy over.

David Chase's The Sopranos is a story about the death of Italian-American culture. A gangster trying to hold on to the old ways, a father trying to cope with Y generation kids. In the final of the 3rd season Chase has Dominic Chianese (Uncle Junior) sing an old Neopolitan folk song, a lover's lament, with a sadness that makes his theme obvious. Tony's daughter Meadow laughs at it along with some other kids. She calls it bullshit and then runs out with Tony chasing her. What Chase doesn't not seem to fully realize is that his players are much like the characters in Pagliacci, playing out their roles in this final comedy about Italian-Americans while also telling the sad story of their own lives as Italian-American actors, putting on one final show for an audience eager to see the gangster saga have one last go. They are like clowns, mocking their own culture just like Meadow mocks her great uncle. On this point there are many Italians from DaVinci to Garibaldi to Ms. Paglia who would object to this. Joe DiMaggio would certainly object to it. Indeed where have you gone, Joe.