I have never understood people who yammer on about wanting “closure”; they can’t wait to have the mysteries of their relationships explained, their strings tied neatly into bows. To me, not knowing is the pulp of life — the thing that keeps us getting out of bed, keeps us moving forward toward the conclusion. Getting there — reaching the end, finis, kaput — in life or in fantasy: to me, that is the deepest affront; it is an end to imagination, a limit on possibility; it is final. It is death.
I know exactly how she feels:
Last Sunday night HBO aired the first of the nine episodes that will finish off “The Sopranos,” a show that has beguiled and terrified us with its violence, passion and unnervingly good humor for eight years. The final installment is scheduled to air on June 10. Six weeks later, J.K. Rowling will publish “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” the seventh and final book in her gripping bildungsroman saga about growing up Gryffindor.
It would be disingenuous to suggest that I am anything other than achingly, pantingly, pathetically anxious for these next and final chapters. Sunday was a holiday for me, and not because of the risen Christ; by the time the synth drum started beating over Tony’s ninth-to-final ride away from Manhattan I was, quite literally, wiggling with pleasure. But 52 minutes later it was over, one hour of my final nine spent, the lonely chill of impending finality taking hold.
A shadow hung over the show from the opening scene, in which menacing knocking drives Tony and Carmela from bed, and Carm expresses her first half-conscious thought: “Is this it?” I’m sorry to say that it is. And knowing that this is it, it was hard not to read the tea leaves: Tony’s Fredo-rific rowboat talks with Bobby, that creepy story about a kid drowning in a swimming pool, so like the swimming pool from which the Soprano family saga first took flight.