WAY DOWN IN THE HOLE

Over the past 30 years, I believe The Wire, The Shield, and Breaking Bad to be the three benchmark American shows that stand out for their longevity as works of art in that medium—with the caveat that none of these would make my personal all-time favourites list of American shows, which is reserved for Seinfeld, The Larry Sanders Show, Twin Peaks, and Northern Exposure.

Of course, The Sopranos and Mad Men (both sharing the Matthew Weiner connection) are important in their own ways, but there’s something too stylistically comfortable about both that, for me, prevents them from truly delivering at the highest level. I say all this as a huge Mad Men fan, an occasional Sopranos fan, and someone who was never particularly enamoured with Breaking Bad.

However, the qualities that define the lasting appeal of the big three benchmark shows are a combination of consistent conviction in their characters and storytelling and ability to maintain a tone across each season, strong visual style, and high-level acting and dialogue.

Having attempted to write two pilots myself (Breathe Deep and Cal-Neva), I increasingly appreciate the singular ability of creators like David Simon (The Wire), Shawn Ryan (The Shield), and Vince Gilligan (Breaking Bad) to maintain the integrity of their vision from birth to death—or, if we're being a little less street about it, from conception to completion.

Down In The Hole

I recently re-watched David Simon's The Wire with someone who had never seen it before and so was given the chance to enjoy it with fresh eyes once more. I had concerns about whether certain aspects of the show would hold up all these years later, but most of those were unfounded; its overall excellence still shines like a diamond chain polished from the rough.

It's interesting how much I remembered from my first viewing of the groundbreaking show back in the early 2000s. My steadfast belief that the show peaked emotionally and narratively in Season 4 has remained, but I felt more kindly toward the problematic Season 5 this time around—a season that, despite some narrative contrivances, delivers some of the most powerful scenes in the entire series. These include the shocking death of one of its most beloved characters, an unbelievably moving farewell scene between three brothers, and a heartbreaking redemption monologue delivered at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting held in a church by the long-suffering addict Bubbles (Andre Royo).

Simon and his story/co-writing team often introduced social experiments into the show—most famously in Season 3 ("Hamsterdam") and Season 4 (the isolated delinquent school support program). Perhaps it makes sense, then, that their final narrative gamble with social experimentation is more indicative of the futility of achieving meaningful change in a world saturated with bureaucracy. Detective McNulty (Dominic West) embarks on a risky, unorthodox method to both feed his addiction to cracking cases and challenge a system that refuses to fund genuine, effective police work. While his madcap plan in this instance may seem implausible, it remains consistent with his compulsion to shake up the world around him. Some might call it a white saviour complex; others might see it simply as a desperate need to win at any cost. Either way, his storyline in Season 5 sails dangerously close to the wind—but ultimately, if viewed as part of a grand novel, it works.

Of course, there are too many performances in The Wire to single out for greatness, but I was especially struck this time around by Tristan Wilds’ portrayal of young Michael Lee—a boy who is truly his brothers’ keeper, yet is simultaneously being groomed under the cold mentorship of Marlo Stanfield (Jamie Hector) but whom ultimately ends up as the spiritual heir to folk hero Omar Little (Michael K.Williams), a Robin Hood-like figure who robs the Baltimore dealers and keeps them in a constant state of paranoia.

Wilds' ability to be both vulnerable and assertive, emotional and calculated, is formidable—especially considering the sheer acting quality of the veteran cast surrounding him. In many ways, he becomes the tragic heart of the show, torn between doing what’s right and being coerced by forces far more powerful than him into doing what’s wrong. He embodies both the potential and the lost opportunity of a human life in equal measure, and in carrying that narrative dichotomy—often through a single look, a shrug, or a violent act—he proves himself an actor worth his weight in gold.

One of the most poignant feelings I had while rewatching The Wire was appreciating how many of the actors involved shone so brightly in the show—and how many of them, including Michael K. Williams (Omar Little), Lance Reddick (Lieutenant Cedric Daniels), Robert F. Chew (Proposition Joe), and Charley Scalies (Thomas "Horseface" Pakusa), have since passed away.

They all (the dead and the living) leave behind defining work in a series that sought to move the needle in the discourse around America’s war on drugs and its deeply entrenched social and cultural issues.