Walk Like a Man (S06E17)
Airdate: May 6th 2007
Written by: Terence Winter
Directed by: Terence Winter
Running Time: 55 minutes
As The Sopranos neared its conclusion in the latter half of Season 6, the show’s creative team, led by David Chase, embarked on a narrative purge. Characters were not merely being written out; they were systematically stripped of redeeming qualities, their arcs drained of hope to ease audiences into the impending void of the series’ end. This process, evident in Walk Like a Man, feels almost therapeutic for the writers—a cathartic dismantling of their own attachment to the world they crafted. The episode, while advancing the plot, doubles as a bleak farewell ritual, severing emotional ties to characters who once commanded sympathy. For perceptive viewers, it becomes clear that Chase and his team are not just preparing the audience for the finale, but themselves.
The preceding episodes, Chasing It and Remember When, focused on the older guard—Paulie’s existential pettiness, Junior’s dementia, Hesh’s financial feud with Tony—but Walk Like a Man shifts to the younger generation. Tony’s biological son, A.J., and his surrogate heir, Christopher Moltisanti, are thrust into the spotlight, their struggles framed as a generational collapse. Both characters, once symbols of potential escape from the family’s moral rot, are dragged back into the mire. The writers deny them growth, instead weaponising their flaws to underscore the futility of breaking free from the Soprano legacy. Where previous seasons allowed glimpses of redemption, here the narrative slams the door shut.
A.J.’s trajectory in Walk Like a Man is a masterclass in tragic irony. After tentative steps toward adulthood—a stable relationship with Blanca, an honest job with promotion—his abandonment by Blanca triggers a spiral into depression so severe that even Meadow recognises his suicidal ideation. Tony’s response is a mix of guilt and desperation. In sessions with Dr. Melfi, he grapples with self-blame (“Maybe I gave him bad genes”), yet his paternal “solution” is to force A.J. back into the toxic environment he was bred for. Tony strongarms him into fraternising with Jason Parisi (Michael Drayer) and Jason Gervasi (Joseph Perrino), mob scions running a sports-betting ring at Rutgers University. What follows is a grotesque parody of rehabilitation: A.J. is submerged in Bada Bing’s hedonism, coerced into witnessing torture of a indebted student Victor Mineo (Matt Sauerhoff), and prescribed antidepressants.
The episode’s perverse twist is that this regression works. By the closing scenes, A.J. is revitalised. His participation in Victor Mineo’s torture—a scene shot with chilling detachment—becomes a perverse rite of passage. The message is unambiguous: A.J.’s “recovery” hinges on embracing the violence and moral bankruptcy he inherited. Tony, ever the pragmatist, mistakes this hollow resurgence for progress, oblivious to the cost. The writers, however, leave no room for ambiguity: A.J.’s soul is the price paid for his survival.
Christopher’s arc in Walk Like a Man is a requiem for the possibility of change. Ostensibly thriving—sober, married, and basking in the success of his film Cleaver—he remains haunted by his status as the family’s “black sheep.” His sobriety, once a badge of honour, now isolates him. The feud with Paulie reignites when Paulie’s crew robs the hardware store owned by Chris’s father-in-law, Al Lombardo (Dennis Paladino). Chris’ impulsive reaction—throwing Paulie’s nephew through a window—only deepens the rift. A forced reconciliation at Bada Bing devolves into humiliation when Paulie makes crude joke about Chris’s daughter.
The insult fractures Chris’s tenuous self-control. He relapses and gets drunk before confronting J.T. Dolan, the Law & Order screenwriter he once collaborated with. Dolan’s refusal to indulge Chris’s self-pity—a moment laced with meta-textual disdain for Hollywood’s transactional friendships—triggers a sudden violent outburst. Chris shoots Dolan in a fit of rage, an act so gratuitous it borders on farce. The killing, devoid of strategic value, underscores Chris’s disintegration. By episode’s end, he’s a hollowed-out shell, staggering home to a life he no longer recognises. His sobriety, career, and dignity lie in ruins, casualties of a world that rewards impulsivity and punishes growth.
While A.J. and Chris unravel, Tony solidifies his moral bankruptcy. In a stark departure from his usual aversion to federal cooperation, he approaches FBI Agent Harris with intel on alleged terrorists Ahmad and Muhammad. The exchange—coldly transactional, stripped of the show’s typical irony—marks Tony’s full embrace of pragmatism over loyalty. The scene’s clinical tone reflects the banality of his corruption. This isn’t the charismatic mob boss of earlier seasons; it’s a man reduced to a survivalist, trading principles for leverage.
Written and directed by Terence Winter, Walk Like a Man showcases The Sopranos’ trademark narrative cohesion. The parallel arcs of A.J. and Chris—two sons failing to outrun their father’s shadow—are deftly interwoven, their collapses mirroring Tony’s moral decay. Winter’s dialogue crackles with dark humour, particularly in Paulie’s barbed exchanges and Chris’s delusional rants to Dolan. Yet, the episode’s unrelenting grimness occasionally veers into melodrama. A.J.’s transformation feels abrupt, leaning on shock value over psychological plausibility. Similarly, Chris’s murder of Dolan, while thematically resonant, strains credulity, reducing a complex character to a plot device.
The episode’s subtext extends beyond the narrative. J.T. Dolan’s demise—a minor character’s brutal exit—reads as David Chase’s parting shot at Dick Wolf, creator of Law & Order. By having a Wolf surrogate killed by a Soprano, Chase injects meta-commentary on the clash between his own morally ambiguous drama and Wolf’s formulaic procedurals. It’s a cheeky, if petty, assertion of artistic superiority.
For Christopher, Dolan’s murder is a death knell. His dual life as mobster and filmmaker—already a liability—now draws inevitable scrutiny by authorities. The parallels to Adriana La Cerva’s fate are unmistakable: like her, Chris faces a choice between cooperation and death. His trajectory, however, lacks her pathos. Adriana’s betrayal stemmed from love and fear; Chris’s is born of spite and self-destruction. His exit, when it comes, will be less tragic than inevitable—a casualty of his own irredeemable nature.
Walk Like a Man serves as a eulogy for the possibility of escape. A.J. and Chris, emblematic of a generation raised in the mob’s shadow, are denied redemption, their arcs culminating in surrender to the very forces they sought to evade. The episode’s brutality is not just narrative but existential, reflecting Chase’s nihilistic vision of a world where cycles of violence and corruption are inescapable.
While the melodramatic flourishes weaken its impact, the episode remains a potent exploration of legacy and decay. In its final acts, The Sopranos refuses to offer solace, insisting that some bloodlines are curses, and some doors, once opened, cannot be closed. For Tony, A.J., and Chris, the only way out is down—a descent the audience is forced to witness, unflinching, until the screen cuts to black.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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