I am so sick of Sonny Corinthos, you guys.
I was out of town all last week. And in addition to sun, sand, and a number of professional benefits, my trip also meant five whole days free from thinking about this show, and about Sonny, and about how he is the fictional embodiment of just about everything I hate in humanity.
… and then I came back home where there is no sun, no sand, and six straight episodes of nothing but Sony. I swear, if he isn’t in the scene, then it’s someone talking about Sonny, bitching about Sonny, making excuses for Sonny, making plans to destroy Sonny… Sonny, Sonny, Sonny! I never thought I’d get sick of people hating on him, but it’s to the point where I’m as sick of the mere sound of his name as I was of Franco’s not that long ago, which is to say IT IS LIKE NAILS ON A CHALKBOARD TO ME NOW. Ugh.
I’ve been sitting here, staring at this post while Julie and Julia plays in the background (and is it just me, or would an entire movie about just Julia Child have been immensely preferable? Speaking as a blogger, the lives of bloggers are just not that interesting. Seriously) and I’ve realized the problem is that I’m sick of writing about Sonny. But every single episode is all about him, so he’s hard to avoid. He’s also really been turning the douche-meter up to MAXIMUM lately. And I realize that’s kind of like saying “the sky is blue” and “fire burns” at this point. But it’s hard to not comment when every word that comes out of his mouth is more outrageously awful, self-serving, and out of touch with anything resembling either reality or morality than the last.
The worst part is that he’s now contaminating characters I normally enjoy. I mean, both Robin and Alexis have lost their ever-loving minds. Clearly. And as much as I enjoy Alexis bickering with Diane, or Patrick giving Sonny a long-overdue dose of truth-telling… it’s just not worth it if the price is Alexis defending her daughter’s worthless father. Or Robin, the police commissioner’s niece, needing crazy Lisa to explain why shooting an unarmed cop in the chest makes you — by default — NOT A NICE PERSON.
They made me side with Lisa! They made Lisa make more sense than Robin! What is the world coming to?!
Then there’s the things Sonny does to Carly — eww, not that. Get your minds out of the gutter! — namely taking the only thing that makes her character even vaguely palatable (her marriage to Jax) — and ruining it:
SONNY: The only reason you’re breathing is because you’re married to Carly. When you are you going to dump this son of a bitch? Because I’ve waited too long to put an end to this!
JAX: Don’t threaten me. Or interfere with my marriage, okay?
CARLY: No, Jax is right. This is a really bad time for you to say things like that.
Carly’s right, y’all. It is just the height of rudeness for one’s ex-husband to threaten to kill one’s current husband when the two of you are having a bit of a rough patch. Clearly, the proper time for death threats is when you’re getting along. I’m sure I read that in Miss Manners somewhere.
And yes, I realize that spending an entire post talking about how sick I am of talking about Sonny is kind of a contradiction. Sue me.
To the show’s credit, it did take pains last week to draw a parallel between Sonny and Kiefer, the the two abusive, controlling assholes in Kristina’s life:
SONNY (after marching up without so much as a ‘hello’ and ordering Kiefer to leave): I know we’re feeling our way together and that’s fine. But there are some things that are non-negotiable. Your attitude, for one. You can feel the way you feel about me. You can be angry with me. But I am your father, and I will not allow you to disrespect me or challenge me.
KRISTINA (visibly cowed): I’m sorry. Would you like to join us?
That was deliberate, right? They couldn’t possibly have written that scene without realizing how clearly Sonny’s manipulative, overbearing “respect my authoritay!” schtick is the template for Kristina’s entire relationship with the jerk who hits her? Right? … RIGHT?
(No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to ruin the moment.)
Luckily, the few non-Sonny-related scenes in the week weren’t all terrible. Lucky finally had an honest conversation with Elizabeth, she continued to give Nikolas the cold shoulder (and to mock his terrible parenting skills, which–YES. PLEASE MOCK HIM MORE, LIZ). We also learned that Lainey, Liz’s friend and co-worker, has been providing her therapy, because that sure doesn’t sound unprofessional in any way. (Also — group therapy sessions with her cuckolded fiancé and the brother she cheated on him with? Really? That’s supposed to make Liz not want to kill heself?)
In other news, Dante finally — FINALLY — got a hair cut (which I like to think was just for me), and he and Lulu continue to redefine the meaning of ADORABLE while failing to get laid:
BLUE BALLS WERE NEVER THIS CUTE.
Also: Alexis gave a Tolkien shout out. What? I’m a nerdy lesbian with a thing for MILFs, okay? Nancy Lee Grahn referencing The Lord of the Rings is pretty much the definition of my happy place.
(There was also some business with Spinelli’s neverending quest to prove himself a manly man to Maxie, and you know how much I love that tiresome bullshit, so the less said about whatever shenanigans are about to ensue there, the better.)
Finally, yesterday, Bob Guza looked at his calendar and realized it had been several months since he last spit on the legacy of Luke and Laura. So we got this gem:
LUKE: I don’t understand this at all. You and I should have killed each other years ago. There’s something about this union, though. It’s odd. It’s brutal at times. But it works for me better than anything I have ever known.
I don’t get it. I really don’t. Why is that necessary? I have no problem accepting that Luke’s marriage to Tracy works very well for him in the place his life is at right now (… as a bitter, old, barely-functional alcoholic, I mean). I have no problem believing he even loves her in his own way (… even though he treats her like crap more often than not). But I don’t believe this is the happiest, most in love he’s ever been. I just don’t.
Stuff it, Guza.