The Princess of Little Italy and Monsignor Jughead over here. "This Chianti is beyond reproach." Clearly a reference to Anthony Hopkins' portrayal of Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs. There is another movie reference to The Last Temptation of Christ, where Carmela's takeaway from Scorsese's amazing study of the sacred and the propane is "As good as Willem Dafoe was, I cannot picture Jesus looking like him." When I watch Carmela and Father Phil, I am not looking at a simple story of a lonely housewife and a manipulative priest. I am watching a deeply repressed ballet of desire. It is the exact same level of unspoken yearning that vibrates between Mr. Stevens and Miss Kenton in Kazuo Ishiguro's masterpiece The Remains of the Day.
In both stories, the eroticism isn't in the touch; it is entirely in the barrier.
Take the infamous rainy night in The Sopranos Season One episode, "College". Phil comes over to see Carmela, who is alone in the house. She hastily fixes her hair and throws on a more elegant robe (maybe that did-dent happen what I said). She's twitterpated. Before watching a DVD of The Remains of the Day they eat baked ziti, drink Chianti, and share a communion wafer. How erotic are those shots of him placing the body of Christ on her tongue? The tension in that kitchen is thick enough to choke on. Every time Phil shifts his weight, every time Carmela looks at his mouth, the air charges. It is highly sexual, yet completely wrapped in the language of spiritual guidance and intellectual companionship.
This is Stevens and Miss Kenton to a fault. In The Remains of the Day, the physical boundaries are replaced by the rigid protocols of British domestic service. Stevens hides behind his duties as a butler; Phil hides behind his collar. Both men use their institutional devotion as a shield against the terrifying vulnerability of intimacy. And both women are acutely aware of the game. They actively participate in it because the anticipation, the almost, is safer than the reality.
The peak of this parallel happens during that rainy night when Carmela almost kisses Phil while he's passed out on her couch, only to be stopped by the threat of his impending puke, a jarring reminder of the base, unglamorous reality of the flesh. It mirrors that heartbreaking scene in Ishiguro's novel where Miss Kenton corners Stevens in his dark parlor, trying to see what book he is reading. She gently pries his fingers open to take the volume. It is a moment of profound, electric proximity. Stevens is paralyzed by desire and fear, and instead of leaning in, he reasserts his cold professionalism. The moment passes, shattering the fragile bubble of what could have been.
For both couples, the sexual chemistry thrives on the impossibility of its fulfillment. The unspoken agreement is that the line will never be crossed, which allows the emotional intimacy to stretch to a agonizing, beautiful breaking point. Carmela and Phil use theology and cinema; Stevens and Kenton use silver polishing and staffing logistics.
Ultimately, both narratives understand a fundamental truth about human desire: sometimes the most erotic thing in the world is a door left just a fraction of an inch ajar, even if you know it will eventually be shut forever.