As many Bizarrechats readers know, I despise that which drives home a tap-your-feminine side adage and not because I'm closed minded. I mean, live and let live, and I'll say that until the cows come home. I just object to those dictatorial know-it-alls who decree the feminine drop the only sensible path to take, and if one should object, then one is bigoted, shallow, old fashioned, et al. Talk about the multifacets of reverse discrimination, eh?
So, why am I rehashing my view? It's because there are too many products now in circulation promoting the aforementioned angle, but Paramount+'s brassy Tulsa King acts as an inadvertent weapon against such sappy advocation. As such, I feel compelled to spotlight it. Tulsa King is two-fisted, unapologetic, amusing, pulp-ish, cowboy-ish, Godfather-ish and because of all of the above, an oasis of testosterone mythology.
Tulsa King stars Sylvester Stallone as Dwight Manfredi, aka The General, who after spending twenty-five years in the clink for a murder he didn't commit (but took it on the noble chin for the "family") is dispatched to Tulsa, Oklahoma after release. The ungrateful mobsters would like him to perish out there, but old man Manfredi is too resourceful, too proud, to stay idle. Little by little, he begins to reap the monetary rewards of his new terrain, thanks to his superior brawn and brains.
The saga is a matter of Manfredi moving from one dangerous family to form another, as he nurtures his bloodline clan and fights a motorcycle gang that's a family in its own to-a-fault way. With family values at the series' hub, Tulsa King makes utmost use of loyalty, purpose, identity, comeuppance and might-makes-right on an epic scale, demonstrating the necessity of squashing any wrong aimed against "kin".
The cast is perfect for establishing the conceptualization. In addition to the sensational Stallone, who conveys a rugged sophistication akin to Burt Lancaster's Prince Don Fabrizio Salina of Luchino Visconti's The Leopard, we're introduced to Andrea Savage as attractive ATF agent, Stacy Beale (Manfredi's occasional lady friend); Dana Delany as equally attractive rancher, Margaret Deveraux (Beale's indirect competition); Scarlet Rose Stallone as Spencer, a by-chance "horse whisperer"; Titiana Lia Zappardino as Manfredi's estranged but forgiving daughter, Tina; Jay Will as the appreciative and ambitious valet, Tyson Mitchell; Michael Beach as Mark Mitchell, Tyson's conscientious father; Martin Starr as meek but advantageous, pot peddler, Bodhi Geigerman; McKenna Quigley Harrington as jittery and punkish but later steely and strong, Grace; Garrett Hedland as friendly bartender/ex-con/rodeo star Mitch Keller; Max Cella as the anguished but redemption-seeking Manny Truisi; Alan C. Peterson as seasoned, mob kingpin, Pete Invernizzi; Domenick Lombardozzi as Invernizzi's dangerous, ready-to-reign son, Chickie; Vince Piazza as Chickie's top gun, Vince Antonacci; and Richie Coster as the ruthless, motorcycle-gang/money-grubbing captain, Coalan Waltrip. (These principals intermingle even when they don't intermingle, with one bold character, one bold action, impacting the other to forge interlocking events that bang with slow-burn excellence.)
As should (perhaps) come as no surprise, the series is helmed by Terence Winter, executive producer of The Sopranos and Boardwalk Empire. Tulsa King captures their irreverent, semi-sardonic flavor, with the proceedings often turning Shakespearean in their emotional and vengeful scopes.
In case I haven't made myself clear, this nine-episode extravaganza fires with true grit, but if one's spineless and weak (part of the mainstream's nauseating need to shrug and retreat), then re-watch The Little Mermaid and call it a ball-less day. But for those who dangle a weighty pair, this one's gonna please, and the door is wide open for a second season (reputedly green lit). I sure as hell hope it happens. Manfredi's refreshing story is one that guys like me (and believe me, we're legion) damn well deserve.
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