Everybody Hurts (S04E06)
Airdate: October 20th 2002
Written by: Michael Imperioli
Directed by: Steve Buscemi
Running Time: 55 minutes
Long-running television series invariably face the challenge of sustaining originality. Over time, even the most groundbreaking shows risk lapsing into narrative or thematic repetition, their creative codes decoded by loyal audiences. The Sopranos, despite its reputation for reinvention, is not immune to this pitfall. Everybody Hurts, written by Michael Imperioli and directed by Steve Buscemi, exemplifies this tension. While competently executed, the episode leans heavily on established motifs—Tony’s guilt, the cyclical futility of redemption—without advancing the overarching plot. For seasoned viewers, it feels like a mosaic of familiar beats: therapy sessions, mob moralising, and the show’s trademark blend of dark humour and existential despair . Though not without merit, the episode risks being perceived as a “placeholder”, prioritising character introspection over narrative momentum—a hallmark of mid-season filler in prestige dramas.
Labelling Everybody Hurts as mere “filler” would undersell its ambition, yet the charge is not entirely unfounded. The episode sidesteps major plot developments (e.g., the FBI’s investigation, tensions with New York) to dwell on quieter, character-driven moments. Artie Bucco’s financial misadventures and A.J.’s awkward foray into adolescence lack the visceral stakes of, say, a mob hit or a power struggle. However, this structural choice allows the writers to probe themes often sidelined in the show’s high-octane arcs: the banality of self-delusion, the fragility of middle-class aspirations, and the corrosive weight of guilt. In this sense, the episode functions as a narrative interlude, deepening our understanding of Tony’s moral rot and the peripheral lives orbiting his empire .
Michael Imperioli, who portrays Christopher Moltisanti, infuses the script with meta-textual irony. The episode opens with Christopher in a heroin-induced stupor, his face gaunt and movements sluggish—a far cry from the ambitious protégé of earlier seasons. When Tony summons him to discuss a “master plan” to insulate himself from law enforcement by operating through Christopher, the scene crackles with tragicomic dissonance. Christopher, barely coherent, misattributes his disarray to a hangover, while Tony—oblivious to his nephew’s addiction—hails him as the family’s future. This disconnect underscores the show’s central tragedy: those closest to Tony are both empowered and destroyed by his trust . Imperioli’s writing deftly juxtaposes Christopher’s personal unraveling with his professional anointing, a duality that mirrors Tony’s own fractured psyche.
The episode’s emotional core lies in Artie Bucco’s humiliating downward spiral. His marital strife with Charmaine, exacerbated by his infatuation with the French hostess Elodie Colbert (played by Murielle Arden), culminates in a disastrous loan scheme with her brother, Jean-Philippe (played by Jean-Hugues Anglade). Artie’s desperation to escape his middling existence—symbolised by the struggling Nuovo Vesuvio—leads him to seek funding from Ralph and later Tony. Ralph’s refusal (“I can’t hurt you if you don’t pay”) highlights the toxic symbiosis between the mob and its civilian associates, while Tony’s “generous” 1.5% interest rate masks a predatory calculus .
Artie’s botched confrontation with Jean-Philippe—a cringe-inducing sequence where he pratfalls through attempted intimidation—culminates in a suicide attempt. His hospital-bed accusation that Tony orchestrated the debacle (“You knew he wouldn’t pay!”) cuts to the heart of their relationship: Tony’s “help” is always transactional, a veneer of camaraderie overlaid on exploitation. The resolution—Tony forgiving the debt in exchange for erasing his restaurant tab—reinforces the show’s bleak worldview: even mercy serves self-interest .
.J.’s subplot, while tonally jarring, offers a biting satire of adolescent privilege. His relationship with Devin Pilsbury (played by Jessica Dunphy)—a girl from obscene wealth—forces him to confront his family’s relative mediocrity. A planned tryst in Meadow’s dorm room devolves into a farcical odyssey to the South Bronx, where A.J. confronts poverty’s stark reality. Yet this “awakening” rings hollow; his epiphany (“We’re lucky!”) feels performative, a half-hearted nod to guilt that evaporates upon entering Devin’s palatial home. The juxtaposition of the Sopranos’ McMansion with Devin’s chateau underscores the show’s recurring theme: in the hierarchy of American capitalism, even mobsters are small fry .
The episode’s weakest link is its lack of narrative surprise. From Jean-Philippe’s introduction, savvy viewers anticipate the scam. Artie’s mirror-rehearsed threats and subsequent humiliation play out with clockwork inevitability, diluting the dramatic tension. This predictability mirrors Artie’s accusation that Tony “sees 20 steps ahead”—a meta-commentary on the audience’s own jaded foresight. While this structural fatalism aligns with The Sopranos’ nihilistic ethos, it risks reducing Artie’s arc to a didactic parable about gullibility .
Gloria Trillo’s offscreen suicide—a narrative device to reignite Tony’s guilt—feels contrived. Her death, revealed via expository dialogue, serves primarily to parallel Artie’s crisis and justify Tony’s fleeting altruism (e.g., signing Carmela’s trust fund). While James Gandolfini delivers a masterclass in repressed anguish, Gloria’s reduction to a plot device undermines the emotional complexity of their prior relationship. Her ghostly apparition in Tony’s dream—a Freudian spectre with a noose-like scarf—adds gothic flair but little depth .
Imperioli’s script strains to critique class divides through A.J.’s storyline. The South Bronx detour, meant to highlight urban deprivation, instead feels didactic, its poverty porn aesthetics clashing with the episode’s subtler moments. Similarly, Devin’s wealth—symbolised by Picassos and a Rubber Soul vinyl—is cartoonishly opulent, diluting the satire. While the intent—to juxtapose mob affluence with true elite wealth—is clear, the execution lacks the nuance of earlier seasons’ class critiques (e.g., Carmela’s materialistic ennui) .
Despite its flaws, Everybody Hurts benefits from stellar performances. John Ventimiglia imbues Artie with tragic pathos, his bumbling vulnerability a foil to Tony’s calculated machismo. Similarly, Annabella Sciorra’s spectral cameo as Gloria haunts the episode’s margins, her absence as potent as her presence. Steve Buscemi’s direction—restrained yet atmospheric—elevates mundane moments (e.g., Artie’s mirror monologue) into darkly comic vignettes. The clinical framing of the marathon restaurant scenes mirrors the characters’ entrapment, while the dissonant use of upbeat period music underscores the pervasive irony .
Everybody Hurts encapsulates The Sopranos’ duality: its brilliance in character study and its occasional reliance on formula. While the episode’s predictability and contrivances prevent it from ranking among the series’ zenith, its exploration of guilt, class, and self-deception reaffirms the show’s thematic richness. For all its missteps, the episode remains a testament to the series’ ability to find profundity in the mundane—a quality that secures its legacy, even in its lesser moments.
RATING: 6/10 (++)
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