I have always found it difficult to love things partially. When I dive into something books, films, even people it is rarely from the shore. I swim until I no longer see land. But The Sopranos challenged that instinct in me. It forced me to reckon with something uncomfortable: that love, especially in cinema, can be complicated, conditional, and sometimes contradictory.
I have to thank Srijan for this one. He told me to watch it, and like most things he recommends, I ended up deeply engaged. But not without conflict.
I adore James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano. His performance is nothing short of astonishing. His presence carries a weight that anchors the entire show. And yet there is something repelling about the man he plays. Just when you begin to feel for Tony, to rationalize his violence, to see the wounded child in the mafia boss he does something irredeemable. And then you recoil. That’s what makes the show such a rare, unsettling masterpiece.
There are no heroes in The Sopranos. There are only people, carved out of contradictions.
Carmela Soprano, though, feels like someone I would sit with. I would make her tea. I would listen to her talk about her regrets and her guilt and her dreams that went unspoken. She is strong in a way that does not shout. She is graceful and conflicted. She tries to be devout and moral while being tangled in blood money and control. But she’s not a coward. That makes her beautiful to me.
And then there’s Dr. Melfi, Tony’s therapist. The scenes between her and Tony are some of the best in television history. Every word is a dance around power and truth. Every pause carries weight. She’s intelligent, restrained, and wounded in her own way. The show gives her dignity but also vulnerability. That complexity is rare in female characters written for television.
There is a scene one I still find hard to talk about. A rape. And it shook me. The way it was shot, the silence afterward, the horror that didn’t lean on music or drama. It wasn’t just about the act. It was about powerlessness. About justice that never comes. About how strength sometimes looks like walking away, even when the audience screams for revenge. That episode didn’t just disturb me. It altered something in me.
I continue to watch The Sopranos, not because it makes me feel good, but because it tells the truth in the most unflinching way. It shows how power corrupts, how love distorts, how family can destroy as much as it protects. And yet, I keep coming back to it. Maybe because I see parts of myself in its contradictions.
So, thank you Srijan for not just suggesting a show, but gifting me a mirror.
