Initially hesitant to revisit his Golden Age of Television-spawning personal playground, creator David Chase ultimately settled on delivering an expansive follow-up story for the less-traveled film medium. One that presents the ‘60s and ‘70s-set groundwork laid for the quintessential antihero during his formative years, while set against the backdrop of a city literally on fire.
The born-leader in question: New Jersian mafioso Tony Soprano, iconically played by the late James Gandolfini from 1999-2007. This go-around, Gandolfini’s son Michael stars as his teenage counterpart. On the promotional circuit, the 22-year-old up-and-comer spoke of how therapeutic assuming the persona first made famous by his father became. Interviewed by everyone from Vanity Fair to Jimmy Fallon, Michael noted that, during the audition process, he thanked the same crew he considered extended relatives growing up to allow him the chance to “say goodbye… and hello” to his father again.
What little doubt existed that the younger Gandolfini couldn’t follow in his mighty father’s footsteps was utterly erased with his “Many Saints of Newark” performance. His youth especially allowed him to invite audiences to sympathize with the Tony Soprano character once more. As tormented throughout his childhood by an ungrateful mother as the series often alluded to; a tumultuous relationship that won’t slow down anytime soon.
The acting on display by others tasked to play younger versions of original series staples or mythologically important figures was the film’s by-and-large standout.
Alessandro Nivola (“American Hustle,” “Disobedience”) serves as the de facto lead, and first on-screen depiction of Dickie Moltisanti, father of Christopher. Quite possibly the case with Michael Gandolfini as well, though time will tell, “The Many Saints of Newark’’ is guaranteed to be remembered as Nivola’s breakout, star-making vehicle. The longtime character actor brings a dynamism to the not-completely three-dimensional, but certainly more than a one-note wonder; an influential pillar whose presence point-blank explains why Tony would grow to call someone (Christopher), technically his cousin by marriage, his nephew. Because once upon a time, he was considered one too. By a man who’d father a son he’d miss out on raising up due to his succumbing to the nature of the beast that is their trade.
While “The Sopranos” supposes the detective who Tony claims “whacked” Dickie was merely a patsy Tony could use to further manipulate Christopher into remaining directly under his wing, “Many Saints” seemingly confirms who ordered the hit. An instance bound to satisfy devout fans hellbent on earning closure with one mystery since they recognize they’re unlikely to earn resolution with another.
Vera Farmiga (“The Departed,” “The Conjuring”) wows as the mean-spirited depressive Livia Soprano, interestingly drawing dialect comparisons to Carmela Soprano actress/Tony’s wife, Edie Falco. Corey Stoll (“House of Cards,” “This is Where I Leave You,” “Ant-Man”) too tackles the humorously bombastic and exclamatory as he is vindictively petty Uncle Junior with both clearly researched precision, and a high respect for Dominic Chianese’s celebrated portrayal in general.
Right out of the gate, Ray Liotta (“Goodfellas,” “Marriage Story”) tells you where his career’s gone, until subverting what you so feared. The raspiness of his voice while playing the morose, volatile and genuinely unlikable “Hollywood Dick” is swiftly flipped on its head, when, stepping up to the plate is Dick’s identical twin brother Sally – obviously, Liotta in a dual role. The smooth-sounding, cooly monotone-voiced (and incarcerated murderer) is signature Liotta, no longer cast in the shadow of mafia movie giants like DeNiro and Pesci. Better yet, his latter-half wisdom-lender serves as a conscience of sorts to his selectively repentant nephew, Dickie. He’s the film’s apropos, period-accurate Dr. Melfi. When Sally pulls for Dickie to “stay out of his nephew’s life,” we recognize that we – like he, and Melfi in the grander scheme of allegory – are the audience. Compelled enough to make excuses for the wicked while also longing for the acquisition of a redo button that could assign “The Sopranos” universe’s most magnetic forces the ability to rewrite their own sinful mythos, while retaining their best qualities.
As a societal text, “The Many Saints of New York” depicts racial unrest that hasn’t gone away, similarly unrelenting stigmas attached to the topic of mental health, and this aforementioned affinity for providing criminals the benefit of the doubt. If not simply because some, despite their predisposition to improprieties, are capable of bringing entire families and even larger communities together for everything from Sunday night dinner to Beep Baseball for the blind.
Don’t fall into the hype factory trap. It’s not peak-“Sopranos,” but what is? At worst case, it’s a crime genre entry that surpasses most other recent attempts, namely Steven Soderbergh’s “No Sudden Move” – because it has the built-in appeal of featuring characters audiences already know, and well. Thereby, the prequel film also treats its viewers as more intelligent than they’d give themselves credit for in most cases.
Remember what the meta prism formula ascertains: If Tony was the show, and Melfi was the audience, then Christopher was the writer (David Chase) himself – insertion by way of grappling with the guilt of remaining undyingly allegiant to familial ties at the risk of one’s personal well-being.
In “The Many Saints of Newark,” an empirical round of musical chairs ensues. Here, Dickie is the show, Sally the audience, and Tony now the writer. One could read 100 negative reviews torching the very thought, but such intrigue ought to empower them to check it out first before writing the film off as what the mob mentality dictates is a legacy-tarnishing cash grab, which it most certainly is not.
Just because a massive undertaking doesn’t amount to the best thing since sliced bread, doesn’t mean it’s worse than having no more bread to chew on at all. If anyone deserved to revive the beautiful monster they first charged life into way back when, it was David Chase and director Alan Taylor. The pair, with no evidence to the contrary (except maybe a poor wig design for the otherwise crushed iteration of young Silvio Dante), operate as creatives fidel to the Kings of the old neighborhood. Street royalty ironically revered for their inability to uphold the principle of fidelity themselves.
