Television Review: Made in America (The Sopranos, S6X21, 2007)
Made in America (S06E21)
Airdate: June 10th 2007
Written by: David Chase
Directed by: David Chase
Running Time: 60 minutes
When a television series scales the peaks of artistic achievement, as The Sopranos did over its eight-year run, the audience’s expectations become a double-edged sword. The series’ capacity for psychological depth, moral ambiguity, and incisive cultural critique had set an impossibly high bar, rendering even a competent conclusion feel like a catastrophic letdown. Made in America, the series finale written and directed by creator David Chase, epitomises this paradox. Praised by critics as a masterclass in ambiguity and closure, it has also become one of the most divisive, controversial, and frustrating finales in television history. For devoted fans, the episode’s refusal to resolve central tensions or provide definitive answers—coupled with its abrupt tonal shifts and unresolved character arcs—left many feeling betrayed by a show they once revered. The finale’s polarising legacy underscores a bitter truth: even a genius like Chase could not defy the gravitational pull of audience expectation, nor escape the weight of the series’ own mythos. The episode’s polarising reception, amplified by its status as HBO’s crowning achievement, cemented its place in television lore—not as a triumphant climax, but as a cautionary tale about the peril of artistic hubris.
The episode opens with Tony Soprano at his lowest ebb: hunted, isolated, and stripped of his power after the brutal fallout with the DiMeo regime. Yet Chase orchestrates a sudden reversal of fortune, leveraging the FBI’s preoccupation with the Global War on Terror to turn the tide in Tony’s favour. Agent Harris, nursing a grudge against Phil Leotardo, leaks intelligence that exposes Phil’s hideouts, enabling Tony’s return. This plot twist—rooted in the post-9/11 era’s paranoia and institutional overreach—highlights Chase’s sharp critique of how national security rhetoric can weaponise corruption. Meanwhile, Phil’s hubris—specifically his tyrannical treatment of capo Butch DeConcini (played by Gregory Antonacci)—becomes his undoing. Butch, once a loyal enforcer, seizes the opportunity to broker peace between the Lupertazzi and DiMeo factions, paving the way for Phil’s assassination at a gas station. The irony is thick: the very man who advocated a “hard line” against the DiMeos now facilitates Tony’s resurgence. Phil’s death scene—a cold-blooded execution in front of his family—underscores the merciless nature of mob politics. Yet this denouement feels less like earned resolution and more like a contrived plot device, prioritising narrative convenience over thematic coherence.
Tony’s resurgence is anything but triumphant. Returning to his suburban mansion, he confronts a fractured empire: Paulie is the sole surviving member of his original crew, while Uncle Junior—a once-feared mobster—now sits in a mental institution, reduced to a hollow shell. Tony’s visit to Junior is a masterclass in pathos: the two men’s once-ferocious dynamic now hinges on a broken man’s inability to recall his own past. Yet Tony’s own position is paradoxically restored: he regains his seat at Bada Bing, rebuilds his crew, and even secures a degree of familial stability. This duality—Tony’s personal resilience amid systemic decay—sets the stage for the finale’s central conflict: is his survival a victory or a tragic farce? The episode’s focus on Tony’s return to power feels tonally out of sync with the show’s earlier nihilism, particularly after the eighth season’s relentless dismantling of his moral and professional foundations. The choice to prioritise spectacle over introspection undermines the series’ signature exploration of existential dread.
While Tony’s empire crumbles and rebuilds, his family’s trajectories offer a mix of hope and disappointment. The Soprano household, now handled by a new therapist, Dr. Doherty (played by Jenna Stern), attempts to replace the irreplaceable Dr. Melfi—a choice that underscores the family’s quest for stability. Meadow, now on path of becoming a white-collar crime attorney, is to marry Patrick Parisi, a character whose success mirrors her own, suggesting a future of bourgeois stability. AJ, however, remains adrift: his military fantasies dissolve into a career in film production, an ironic twist given his earlier moral grandstanding. The irony is sharp: the “useless” son finds stability through a venture tied to his nephew Chris’ project, while Meadow—once an idealist—secures her future through pragmatic business and family liasion. These outcomes feel tonally inconsistent with the show’s earlier focus on moral ambiguity and failure. The inclusion of Dr. Doherty, a superficial replacement for Melfi, highlights the family’s refusal to confront their unresolved trauma, a choice that rings hollow after years of character development. Meanwhile, AJ’s filmmaking pivot feels like a narrative cop-out, absolving the show of grappling with his moral evolution.
The episode’s most notorious moment arrives with its final scene: Tony and the family gather in a diner as Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin” plays. Meadow struggles to park the car, a mundane detail that contrasts with the tension of the FBI’s impending indictment. Tony glances up as the screen cuts to black, his fate left deliberately ambiguous. Critics hailed this as a stroke of genius, a refusal to “cheapen” the series with a tidy ending. Yet for many viewers, the ambiguity felt like a cop-out. Is Tony dead? Captured? Or simply observing a mundane moment? The lack of closure has spawned decades of fan theories, but rather than enhancing the show’s mystique, it underscores Chase’s inability to resolve the central question: does Tony’s survival matter? The scene’s power lies not in its ambiguity, but in its reminder that the Sopranos’ story was never about answers—it was about the unresolved tension between Tony’s humanity and his capacity for evil. The music choice, meanwhile, feels jarringly upbeat, undermining the gravity of the moment.
Chase’s Emmy win for writing Made in America underscored the critical acclaim it received, with many calling it a “masterpiece” and one of television’s greatest finales. Yet fan reactions were visceral and enduring. For many, the finale’s refusal to address unresolved plotlines—such as Tony’s legal troubles or Carmela’s marital dissatisfaction—felt like a betrayal. The backlash mirrored the outrage later seen with Game of Thrones’ finale, another grand HBO production that turned devoted fans against itself. This comparison is telling: both shows were praised for their ambition but damned for their execution, highlighting a broader cultural shift where viewers increasingly demand narrative accountability. Critics like James Poniewozik of Time praised the episode’s “boldness,” while fans on forums like Reddit and IMDb forums decried it as “unwatchable.” The divide persists to this day.
While ambiguity worked in earlier episodes like Pine Barrens, here it feels indulgent. The tension built through hints of impending doom—Carlo’s betrayal, the FBI’s indictment—never materialises onscreen. Instead, Chase leaves Tony’s fate to speculation, a choice that alienates rather than intrigues. Over time, the unresolved ending has aged poorly. Modern audiences, accustomed to shows like Breaking Bad or The Wire, which delivered satisfying closures, view Made in America as a missed opportunity. The ambiguity that once seemed avant-garde now feels like a narrative crutch, avoiding the difficult task of confronting the series’ central themes head-on. Even fan theories—such as the widely accepted “Tony dies” interpretation—fail to satisfy because they rely on speculation rather than earned storytelling. The finale’s ambiguity, in this light, becomes a symptom of Chase’s overreach, prioritising style over substance.
The finale’s greatest failing is its tonal whiplash. For much of the eighth season, Chase relentlessly stripped the Sopranos of hope, eroding their moral and financial foundations. Characters like AJ and Christopher faced irreversible consequences, while Tony’s grip on power seemed to disintegrate. Yet Made in America reverses this trajectory: Tony’s empire is rebuilt, his family stabilised, and his legal troubles postponed. This sudden uplift feels tonally inconsistent with the show’s earlier nihilism. The episode’s decision to resolve conflicts through contrivance—such as Butch’s sudden betrayal of Phil—feels rushed and unearned, undermining the series’ meticulous character development. The finale’s ambiguous ending—Tony’s final glance—serves less as a philosophical coda and more as a distraction from the fact that the series’ central conflict (Tony’s survival) was resolved through plot convenience. The episode’s brilliance lies in its refusal to provide answers, but its failure to acknowledge the series’ thematic throughlines leaves it feeling hollow.
Made in America gains unintended resonance in hindsight. AJ’s fleeting flirtation with Donald Trump—then nothing than flamboyant tycoon—now seems eerily prescient. Yet it is the FBI’s collaboration with mobsters under the guise of counterterrorism that feels most chilling. In an era of government overreach, partisan manipulation, and the weaponisation of national security rhetoric, Chase’s critique of institutional corruption feels eerily contemporary. The episode’s exploration of moral ambiguity—where even the “good guys” (the FBI) are complicit in corruption—foreshadows real-world scandals. This layer of political commentary elevates the finale beyond mere soap opera, yet its message is often overshadowed by the audience’s fixation on Tony’s fate.
The episode’s cultural resonance took an unexpected turn when Hillary Clinton’s 2008 campaign recreated its diner scene. The ad, featuring actor Vincent Curatola (playing Johnny Sack in the series) alongside Bill Clinton, aimed to project an image of “hipness” but backfired spectacularly. By linking The Sopranos—a show dissecting power, corruption, and moral decay—to a political campaign that epitomised establishmentarianism, the ad inadvertently tied Chase’s work to a symbol of political malaise. The connection underscores a broader irony: a finale meant to defy audience expectations became a vessel for a campaign that epitomised the very kind of empty symbolism the show had spent eight seasons critiquing. The ad’s failure—Clinton lost to Barack Obama—only deepened the irony, cementing the episode’s legacy as both a cultural touchstone and a cautionary tale about art’s entanglement with politics.
Made in America is a polarising work because it embodies The Sopranos’ greatest strength and flaw: its refusal to pander. Chase’s insistence on ambiguity and unresolved tension demands audience engagement, yet this same defiance alienates those seeking closure. While its themes of power, mortality, and the illusion of control resonate, the finale’s tonal whiplash and unresolved plotlines leave it feeling incomplete. For all its brilliance, Made in America is less an ending and more a mirror, reflecting the viewer’s own capacity to confront the unresolved. In that sense, it remains a testament to Chase’s audacity—but also a reminder that even genius cannot always satisfy. The episode’s enduring controversy, however, ensures its place in television history: not as a flawless conclusion, but as a flawed monument to the risks and rewards of artistic ambition.
RATING: 5/10 (++)
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