Editorial: Gangsters of love

MTV's surreality show Jersey Shore is already one of the nastiest things a bunch of New Yorkers has done in New Jersey since Aaron Burr killed Alexander Hamilton in Weehawken.

It's grotesque, depressing, and, frankly, hard to stop watching. But is it a crime?

That's now officially a matter of debate. Last week saw the filing of the third lawsuit alleging that the show amounts to a criminal enterprise under the state's Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations law (RICO). In other words, it's being accused of a sort of organized crime against culture.

For an enterprise closely linked with the Garden State, systematic violence, and prejudice against Italian Americans, this is a fitting and poignant possibility: punishment under a law designed for prosecuting the mob.

The legal theory is that Jersey Shore's producers have engaged in a pattern of profiting from crimes - namely, the violent assaults carried out by its cast of overly tanned, under-occupied young adults, most of whom were plucked from New York's outer boroughs for placement in a summer rental in Seaside Heights.

One of the recent lawsuits counts at least five Jersey Shore assaults, often in or near bars, gleefully filmed and promoted by the producers and MTV. In fact, some of the show's episodes - "Boardwalk Blowups" and "One Shot," for example - are effectively named after the attacks that serve as the peak (or trough) of their dramatic arcs.

Last month, a state Superior Court judge found some merit in the claims, allowing one lawsuit to go forward on the racketeering and assault allegations (while dismissing other counts). New Jersey's RICO law, which is modeled on the federal law of the same name, grants extraordinary damages to plaintiffs harmed by a criminal enterprise.

Granted, MTV is not the mafia. But then, New Jersey officials don't seem to be sure who is anymore. Even as the RICO allegations against Jersey Shore were piling up, the state was clearing the name of a mob capo's son.

Joseph N. Merlino - who is also the cousin of a jailed mob boss - has been banned from Atlantic City's gambling industry for 20 years because of alleged organized-crime associations. Last week, though, the Casino Control Commission rejected state investigators' accusations against Merlino as thin and outdated, allowing his construction company to take on casino projects at long last.

"Mother of mercy, is this the end of Rico?" cries Edward G. Robinson's dying gangster at the end of Little Caesar. But maybe this is a new beginning for RICO. As the old mobster threat wanes, this legal weapon is being repurposed for a new one: Criminally bad television.