By Victor Greto
I don’t watch “The Sopranos.”
I never did.
Although I won’t say I never will, I will say that, right now, I just can’t, and it’s not because I recently got rid of HBO.
I’ve heard the show is really good.
That it’s not just another take on Italian-Americans as inevitably crude-mouthed gangsters.
That it’s not really about Italian-Americans who are at heart petty criminals, overly superstitious and relentlessly brutal.
That it’s not really about Italian-Americans being loud and in-your-face sensual, filled with an urban-Americanized peasant form of working class resentment.
I’ve been told “The Sopranos” is about real people and real families in complex situations.
Sure.
But here’s the thing: I don’t give a damn.
Way back in 1990, I hit a wall with stereotypical portrayals of Italian-Americans on TV and in the movies when I saw Martin Scorsese’s “Goodfellas.”
I remember watching the arbitrary horror of Al Pesci’s character — a guy who does look like the typical Italian-American uncle — and the relentless cynicism of the characters and situations.
And I said, Enough.
I’m not knocking Scorsese. He’s a great director whom I respect.
“Mean Streets” is right on. “Raging Bull” is art.
Nor am I knocking Francis Ford Coppola, whose first two Godfather films are as close to perfect art as is possible for movies to be.
I just can’t do it anymore.
Hell, even the profoundly negative (and admittedly funny) parents on the now-defunct “Everyone Loves Raymond” show started to get to me after a while.
Because, no matter how right-on and even impressionistically true the attitudes and style and even incidents are, it’s a lie.
No, I’m not saying that I grew up around petty criminals, or had been awash in working class resentments and negativity, or even that I mind in-your-face sensuality.
Those were certainly all distinct parts of the fabric of my childhood and life.
But like every other stereotype about every other ethnic group, it’s an unfair, socially encompassing vision of a group of people seen only through a glass, darkly.
It’s as if this characterization is the only legitimate, artistic angle of vision — no matter how complex — allowable for Italian-Americans that is relatable to the general public.
And that’s crap.
If something offered for general public consumption has to do with Italian-Americans, well, they’re going to talk like they’re all from the Bronx or South Philly, use their hands a lot, and eat greasy, fatty foods. The guys are going to be misogynists. The women are going to be mousy but cute, until they’re married, when they get fat and wear black and have kids like rabbits.
It’s a whine in my ear.
A persistent drip-drip-drip on my psyche.
It’s embarrassing.
It’s maddening.
I mean, it makes me want to act like the stereotype, if you know what I mean.
It fills with me the same sort of resentment that those characters on TV and in the movies express through the barrels of guns or through the use of their fists.
No, I don’t mean I want to become violent.
With me, it’s manifested through head-shaking sadness, or, during the worst times, through a sullen bitterness.
Now, all of this is just one guy’s opinion.
But that doesn’t let you off the hook.
I’ll let you worry about whether what I’ve written has everything or nothing to do with those of you who watch the show, and love “Goodfellas,” and who just can’t get enough of watching those dagoes act like dagoes.
I know: You do it for the story.
Just like we teenagers used to buy “Playboy” for the articles.
You do what you want.
I’ll take a walk. I’ll read a book. I’ll change the channel.
Just don’t ask me if I liked last night’s episode.