Dave Wood

Back in the Dark Ages I was still poring over comic books and Sunday newspaper cartoons like Dick Tracy and Tess Truehart, Mark Trail, and Terry and the Pirates featuring beautiful portraits of the coed Poteet, by cartoonist Milt Caniff.

Those portraits are still etched in my aged brain as if they had been fashioned by Lucas Cranach after he had finished his memorable portrait of Martin Luther.

One unique characteristic of these cartoon masterpieces is that the heroes never changed their demeanor, never grew up no matter how long they lasted in the rotogravure sections. Chester Gould’s Tracy always looked as if he were created out of a big box of right angles and couldn’t crack a smile to save his life.

I began reading about everyone’s favorite game warden Mark Trail who hit the news in 1945 when I was nine. If you’ve noticed, Mark is still arresting poachers. Mark and I grew up together, but these days I’m bald and Mark’s hair is still dark, including his sideburns. 

As I approached some semblance of adulthood, I dipped into more realistic offerings in the comic section.

I speak of course of the beautifully drawn adventure strip, “Prince Valiant: In the Days of King Arthur.” You may recall that Val (I always got chummy and called him “Val”) and his beauteous princess, Aleta, had a baby whom they named Arn (they were Scandies). Arn was a cute little rascal, but over the course of the series, he began to grow, until he finally became a crown prince!

When that transpired, I became a teen and figured it was time to switch my attention to movies, inspired by the fact in that long-running series, like Tarzan, that the heroes also actually grew. 

Remember that Johnnie Weissmuller aged and got so fat, he had to cover up his flab with a shirt and got renamed “Jungle Jim?” And his son “Boy” shed his loin cloth, donned some pants and became “Bomba, Jungle Boy.” Talk about realism!

TV series that last a long time also get a shot at showing the risks of growing up, and not only to the benefit of its stars. This is true of my favorite crime drama, “The Sopranos.” How we complained when it was cancelled! What else was the poor producer to do? Its success was based on the genius of featuring bit players who GREW in their parts.

“Uncle Junior” aroused sympathy when the boss made fun of him for desiring a raunchy relationship with his beautician mistress; “Paulie Walnuts” made a fool of himself on a trip to Italy in Naples when he asked for lots of gravy on his pasta and also suffered through a prostate scare. Frank Vincent cruelly and graphically had his snow-white crewcut squished under the tire of James Gandolfini’s SUV, to which the director added excruciated sound effects.

 Even the ladies took their shots as the series grew older. Remember Dr. Melfi, played by the beauteous Lorraine Bracco? She took on at least 20 pounds during filming, and noticeably crossed her shapely legs less frequently as the series drew to a close. And need I mention the sylph-like Meadow who turned into a Columbia University snot and her little brother A.J. who cheated at the video tape store?

What I’m trying to say folks is this: “The Sopranos” finally left the air because its screen writers killed the goose that laid their golden egg—guys like Uncle Junior, Paulie Walnuts, Bobby Bacala, Big Pussy and a cast you’ll probably never see again except in a cheesy advertisement for a parm encrusted diner in New Jersey called Gigantico Meatball Ristorante.

Next week, more TV programs guaranteed to grow on you …