"How did I get here?"

Forgive me for stealing this lead-in from the folks at Pitchfork Media—and perhaps to a greater degree, David Byrne—but any assessment of The Sopranos' sixth season (HBO) needs to begin with this question and its logical follow-up, "Where am I going?" Eight episodes into the most recent storyline, the most celebrated television program of the 21st century stands at a crossroads with the end of the line vaguely in sight.

There's no denying that the season began with a bang. After 21 months of stagnation from David Chase and his crew, The Sopranos returned to television without the slightest hint of rust, meshing seamlessly with the end of the fifth season where everything was finally looking up for the show's eponymous family (well, mostly; sorry, Chris). That fate smote Tony at the end of the first episode, "Members Only," was a surprise, but hardly a buzz kill: Part of what makes The Sopranos such an engrossing soap opera is that the sense of impending danger is always looming and tangible, even for the show's protagonist.

The way Chase followed this shocking turn-of-events was equally skillful, splitting storylines between secondary characters like Vito, Paulie, and Silvio, while giving my favorite family member, Carmela, some of her best scenes in years. I'll admit to being nonplussed—like much of the viewing public—by the extended dream sequences at the end of the previous season, but Chase & Co. fearlessly returned to their most controversial storytelling device with aplomb. The notion of Tony's identity has always been at the heart of the show, but his search has never been more literal or affecting than it was earlier this year. While the conclusion to his journey might have been predictable (we're not that close to the end, after all), it was nothing if not insightful. Tony's apprehension over the life he's chosen—and as a result, the persona he's assumed—was suddenly crystal clear.

That the first three episodes were charged with such vitality has made the show's descent into lassitude (or some would say subtlety) frustrating, though far from unbearable. Unlike Fox's 24, which is highly dependant on keeping the tension level at "White Knuckle" to move the plot along, The Sopranos has always followed a conventional, though hardly predictable, ebb and flow: action follows inaction, war follows peace, with the rich texture of life in the New Jersey underworld to fill in the gaps. Though bloodshed occasionally comes from nowhere to provide a season with a shot in the arm (See: Aprile, Richie or Cifaretto, Ralph), it has been largely used as a device to put the concluding stamp on a plotline—the substance of the show.

The problem for The Sopranos has always been striking that balance between texture and substance—what Steven Johnson, in his book on pop-culture, television, and the human brain, Everything Bad is Good for You, cites as the proverbial yin and yang of drama. After all, a constant barrage of bullets and body-dumping (for The Sopranos, often the impetus for substance) can leave the viewer numb. Suddenly, a punch lacks punch. But too much banality—too many idle conversations in front of Satriale's Pork Store, too many hilarious trips to the west coast that end up with Lauren Bacall getting decked in a stupefying cameo (the texture, natch)¬—and the show works itself into corner. Because viewers know that immediate storylines run for roughly a dozen episodes at a time, it becomes easy to tell when the plot is going to kick into high-gear. The smell of blood gathers thickly in the air.

Which brings us to our current exit along the turnpike: year six. As I fleetingly mentioned just a few paragraphs ago, the season's first act was as strong as any group of episodes since the show's peak, 1999-2001, when Tony's mother, Livia, still loomed large. In a way, this should be obvious, because main characters thrust into life-or-death situations almost always make for great viewing. The problem has been coming down from those emotional highs and settling into a lull of indecision.

Part of this has to do with fact that the Dr. Melfi/Tony relationship—what was once the driving force of the show—is no longer front-and-center. It's not uncommon, for instance, for her character to make just one appearance per episode, acting as little more than a segue between plot events. That Chase & Co. showed Dr. Melfi in therapy last week with Peter Bogdonavich, ostensibly dealing with issues related to her "infamous mafia-connected client," felt like a worn-out ruse to make her character relevant again. But that's probably because it was.

Not that this is a failing on the writers, per se. It's a natural progression. You can only dig so deep with a character like Tony until the revelations stop, and the easy one-liners from Dr. Melfi about "taking control" quit neatly applying to his problems at home and with his crew. You'd have to fundamentally change Tony's character—his disposition, his ability to self-criticize, his capacity to see the bigger picture—in order to get more out of him, and that's not likely to happen this late in the lifespan of the show.

And yet, it's not just Tony's inability to grow—his constant rehashing of the same conflicts over and over again—that's made The Sopranos so frustrating at times. The problem has been nothing if not systemic. As Heather Havrilesky sums it up at Salon:

This is the repeating story of The Sopranos: There's a bad little sheep in Tony's flock, and Tony is forced to pull out his shotgun and eliminate the problem. … [We're] being treated to the same scenarios we have been since the very first season. ... A.J. is still chumpy and annoying, Meadow is a somewhat ineffectual do-gooder, Carmela compromises and keeps the peace, [and] Tony's men are all self-interested, short-sighted assholes with no conscience who aren't evolving past a violent, simian state.

Additionally, there's been the problem of Chase & Co. not striking the right balance between substance and texture in the current season. While Tony's stay in the hospital provided a nice change of scenery—an event that worked because it was unforeseen—the show has relied mainly on texture—the Sacramoni's wedding, A.J. going clubbing, Chris rubbing shoulders with Hollywood big-wigs—to pass the time. Where's the "payback" for all of favors Johnny Sack has asked for? Where's the residual guilt and blame for Adriana's death? Where's the power-struggle at the top of the Soprano crew, now that Tony has been physically and mentally weakened? Where's the substance?

I don't mean for my tone to veer from "critical" to "histrionic," but these are BIG issues for a show that has only 12 episodes remaining on the docket. That the characters are chiefly concerned with the whereabouts of a recently-outed colleague and not some of the larger issues looming in the background speaks to either one of two things:

• (A) just how far off course this show has run;

  or, on the opposite end of the spectrum,

• (B) just how well the audience is being set up for an 11th-hour flourish.
  

For all my criticisms of this season, I can still accept the possibility of option (B)—The Sopranos hasn't earned its reputation on accident, after all, and some might interpret the lack of urgency from the sixth season's middle act as a calm before the storm. That said, any meaningful twist to the plot of the show will require some major changes in la casa di Soprano. Will Chase & Co. be willing to break from tradition to pull the rug from under their audience?

Color me hopeful, but ultimately pessimistic. While I doubt that everything will end up just dandy for Tony and his families—mark my words, not only will someone die, but ducks will be referenced!—I just don't think the writing team is willing to create a dark enough scenario to provide the final days with a real punch to the gut. So Paulie takes a bullet in the head for crossing Tony? So Chris gets his comeuppance for being so cocky and falling off the wagon again? Who cares? Neither of these scenarios carries much weight, and there are dozens more just like them. It's just not tragedy if the character is not particularly sympathetic to begin with.

What needs to happen is much darker, and much more closely related to Tony's soul. The arc has to be elliptical: Tragedy needs to strike his nuclear family in a way that has never happened before.

Whether this means that A.J. is struck down in the crossfire of his father's business, or as one writer predicted at the beginning of the season, Meadow is violated, remains to be seen. But the emphasis needs to be on Tony's role as a parent, and his inability to protect his children from the lifestyle that was introduced to him at such a young age. He needs to see the connection between himself, his father, and his own children, who are more and more closely subjected to his work than ever before.

And at last, the ducks need to come home once again. Whether their return is marked by sadness for an innocence lost or happiness spurred by growth and change is a question for one man: David Chase. Let's just hope he knows where he's going.

Ryan Wilkins is a freelance writer living in the San Francisco Bay Area. You can contact him by clicking here.