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Violence We Can’t Refuse
I am an Italian-American. As such, I take pride in the way fellow paisanos like Tony Soprano have exerted their hairy-knuckled chokehold on the American imagination. Like it or not, American pop culture is dominated by the shady, overweight image of the mobster, bloated by family obligations, fine wine and a big, fat bowl of cavatelli.
Agita and middle-age anxiety are familiar experiences, capable of provoking our empathy as well as our interest. But are they disarming enough to explain America’s longstanding ability to swallow the mob’s extreme violence? Portrayals of Mafia violence in film and television have always been both excessive and vivid, involving severed fingers, broken bones and point-blank shootings. Yet we, the viewing audience, can never seem to get enough of the savagery. Folks who protest violence in the light of day huddle around the TV at night, sympathizing with a gangster who uses his own hands — and a bit of wire — to strangle an old foe. The next day at work, the very same people worry about the fate of Chandra Levy and fret over schoolyard bullying. Such a trend suggests that the American public may draw a distinction between two styles of violence: violence that is terrifying and unfair vs. violence that is ritualized and moralistic. This cultural ambivalence is clear in the types of shows that ’scare” us. Film audiences amused by Tarantino-style, tongue-in-cheek bloodfests often still shield their eyes from the cartoonish gore of a standard horror film. But torture is torture. Death is death. What possible difference could there be between Tony Soprano’s pistol and Jason Voorhees’ hatchet? Chance. Most standard horror films deal in random vindictiveness — a seemingly non-discriminating hatred that allows an inhuman (or inhumane) killer to take satisfaction in nearly any death — man, woman or child. One never knows when a Freddie or Michael Myers will come her way, pissed off and swinging. Innocent campers or trick-or-treaters are targeted for arbitrary acts of savagery. But gangsters are anything but random in their violence. On the contrary, they are men of integrity (at least in their own thinking), their hits normally prescribed for those who have breached the moral codes within which they operate. We know how to stay safe: We stay away from their business dealings, their families and their high-stakes poker games. If we follow these very simple rules, chances are we won’t be singled out for torture or execution. This security allows us the comfort of objectification: The Mafia is outside us; it is not of us. It will never hurt us. And this comfort level transfers directly to our viewing experience. Everything we see on the screen — the blood and the breaking of bones — belongs to a world that we, as honest and hard-working people, know we will never inhabit. Sorry, Jason. Not many of us can claim we’ll never go camping or trick-or-treating at some point in our lives. Horror movie violence may be campy and unrealistic, but it is also inherently tied up in freak occurrences and urban legends, just real enough so that we talk ourselves into believing these things could happen to us at any time (witness the women murdered while camping in Yosemite a few years ago). In the first episode of The Sopranos,
It’s easy to understand why the American public can tolerate the idea of Mafia violence, but there is a world of difference between tolerating and embracing. The overwhelming critical and popular success of The Sopranos stands testament to the American public’s ongoing enchantment with — and admiration of — gangsters. In a nation where free enterprise and financial independence represent the apex of existence, the gangster is more than a mere success. He’s a legend. The thrill we get from watching an organized crime lord work in his domain preys upon our belief in the American dream: life, liberty and the pursuit of cash in great, obscene quantities. The gangster works at the highest level of entrepreneurial power. He oversees a complete social system that operates within our culture without depending upon it. Indeed, the Mob is like a mini-nation. It has a moral code based on specific ideology, an armed agency to protect and enforce its ideals, and an executive head to oversee everything. Not to mention the fact that the Mafia often functions completely outside the normal consumer culture, buying and selling goods within its own covert sub-economy. In a country where strong central government has always been suspicious, and capitalism and taxes are embraced with equal parts love and scorn, the ability to function outside of society is envied. And let’s not underestimate the romantic pull of the old-fashioned family business. The rise and fall of the dot-com economy has undermined our faith in a volatile, technology- driven business climate. While twentysomething techno-geeks made and lost virtual billions, the gangster stood guard at the edge of the bull market with his arms crossed, a constant, bulky reminder that the old ways are, indeed, the best. His obstinate refusal to embrace change is, in its own way, strangely comforting. Americans also admire the gangster’s glamour. We eagerly consume the glitz mobsters embody; the designer suits, gold watches and extremely large guns. Wives and molls are almost always sexy. Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction epitomizes the idle rich; her greatest physical exertions are doing cocaine and the twist. In our overworked culture, free time is romanticized. But the average gangster works only periodically. Effort is minimal and the spoils are incredible: large homes, luxury vacations, stretch limos. We take a vicarious pleasure watching the Vincent Mancinis and Michael Corleones operate in a world of privilege. Even the inherent danger is appealing to a nation of people living mundanely, day-to-day. When it comes to work and wealth, Americans are, however, oddly ambivalent; we equally lionize both the idle and the applied. This is a contradiction easily embodied by the Mafia. Gangsters like Tony Soprano or the half-fictionalized Henry Hill of Goodfellas are company guys — hard-working family men who consider themselves blue-collar, even when they aren’t. Their loyalty and commitment, coupled with a desire to ‘move up” within the ranks, parallels an old-fashioned work ethic. In the midst of brutal violence and betrayal, Tony and Henry are chiefly concerned with keeping together their families and their sanity. American audiences find comfort in the mob’s ethnic alignments: Miller’s Crossing (Irish), The Godfather (the standard Italian), Once Upon a Time in America (Jewish), Little Odessa (Russian). The plots often appeal to an atavistic desire to return to the days of ethnic separation, while also exploiting pride in one’s ethnicity (in a postmodern twist, characters in The Sopranos imitate characters from The Godfather). Viewers ally themselves with a powerful immigrant heritage; with a group of foreign-born people who carved for themselves thriving social and economic niches. Speaking of economics — entertainment is a business that deals in supply and demand. And gangster films and TV shows are, obviously, highly salable, which justifies their continued production. But directors also might be motivated by a case of self-identification. Much like mobsters, directors strut their way through L.A. and New York in search of a foothold and a few million dollars. Only the lucky few become major players, but those who do are legends. A filmmaker in control of his own project operates like a don; he works entirely outside studio restrictions and expectations. His vision cannot be compromised or tainted by the influence of producers, actors or even the audience. In filmmaking, style and specialization become sources of pride and identity. Oliver Stone can confidently state that he is the king of conspiracy, just as John Hughes can call himself the champion of adolescence. And Martin Scorsese, of course, is considered the godfather of Italian-Americans. Each clearly presides over his particular field. Similarly, Mafia families have their own distinct area of expertise (diamonds, import-export, garbage). And individual members may have a signature style of killing that is easily recognized by other mobs. In Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead (1995), one gangster’s method has a certain masochistic and homoerotic flair. His murders have a consistent theme and a strange, sick sort of poetic beauty; every killing sends a coded, symbolic message to an audience of police and media. In this manner, the gangster, like a director, is an auteur. The only difference is the medium. Directors and writers are as mesmerized by the mob as are the audiences willing to pay to see each new release — from the serious (Donnie Brasco) to the comical (Analyze This). This mob appeal has resulted in an impressive spread of Mafia-related entertainment; humanized, agita-free meals for our minds. It’s easy enough for us to digest fictionalized violence in this day and age. It’s even easier when it comes with a cannoli on the side. Kristen Havens is an aspiring sitcom writer living in Los Angeles. Related Sites
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