In Baltimore, a homicide unit under the command of Al “Gee” Giardello (Yaphet Kotto) works to close cases and get justice for victims while fending off political pressure from police brass. The detectives include the mercurial Frank Pembleton (Andre Braugher), idealistic newcomer Tim Bayliss (Kyle Secor), wisecracking Meldrick Lewis (Clark Johnson), former student radical turned cynic John Munch (Richard Belzer), and others.
Given that
I hold The Wire in such high regard, it may seem puzzling that I took so
long to watch the show that was in many ways its forebearer. After all, Wire
co-creator David Simon supplied the source material (a nonfiction book of the
same name), and several future Wire cast members did Homicide
first (plus, showrunner Tom Fontana of later Oz fame is no slouch in the
creative department himself). So why the wait? Part of this was stubbornness: Homicide
was not available to stream, and I kept waiting for that to change (Ironically,
within a month of me caving and buying the DVD set, it finally did stream
albeit on a service I don’t subscribe to without the original music intact). A
bigger part, however, was fear of disappointment. For all the strength of its
pedigree, Homicide was still 90s network television. Would I be able to
appreciate it for what it was even if what it was pales in comparison to the prestige
TV that followed?
The short
answer is yes. The writing (courtesy of Simon, Fontana, Paul Attanasio, and
James Yoshimura) is often very strong. Whereas its contemporary Law &
Order (which shared a few crossover episodes with Homicide) gave its
characters a few quirks, it was in many ways a textbook police procedural.
Homicide, on the other hand, used that genre to tackle everything from racial
politics to crises of faith and more. Its characters are fully formed, subject
to bad decisions, and deeply affected by what they do. Rather than treating
continuity as an afterthought, Bayliss, for instance, is still haunted by his
first case at the series’ end. This isn’t to say that there aren’t missteps, however.
Established characters are sometimes diminished to make room for new ones, and
one modeled on Simon himself (videographer J.H. Brodie, played by Max Perlich)
is unnecessary comic relief. NBC’s lack of confidence in the show early on also
led to the first two seasons being short and made wonky pacing all but inevitable.
While
their talents weren’t always utilized to the fullest extent, Homicide also
boasted a hell of a cast. It was Braugher’s breakout series, and its easy to
see why. Pembleton is a master interrogator and a dedicated detective, but he’s
also contemptuous of just about everyone. Braugher can go from bored and
indifferent to scarily intense in the blink of an eye. As his most frequent
partner, Secor’s Bayliss doesn’t impress early on – he seemed like he was
overacting – but that’s more a reflection of the character’s eager new guy
status. He does a commendable job of adapting as Bayliss takes on more layers
in later seasons. While they aren’t given nearly enough to do at times, Kotto
and future Oscar winner Melissa Leo (as unflappable Sgt. Kay Howard) definitely
have their moments as do less-loved latter season additions John Seda (Paul
Falzone) and Giancarlo Esposito (FBI agent Mike Giardello, Gee’s son).
If nothing
else, Homicide made excellent use of its guest stars. It boasted a
poignant dramatic turn from Robin Williams (before he was known for such
things) as a grieving widower and a tense father-son showdown between James
Earl Jones and Jeffrey Wright. Some parts – such as Vincent D’Onofrio as an
abrasive dying man and Moses Gunn (in his last role) as an accused child
murderer – dared you to love and hate the characters all at once. On a more
amusing note, Homicide also (SPOILER ALERT) had a penchant for former casting
actors like Elijah Wood, Neal Patrick Harris, Jena Malone, and Steve from Blues
Clues as manipulators and murderers.
Last but
not least, the production values were, for network television, surprisingly
good. The show made use of an eclectic assortment of 90s music to set the mood.
The cinematography often favored documentary-like realism with occasional
departures for better (the claustrophobic, stage play presentation inside the
interrogation room during Gunn’s episode) or worse (the “stutter effect”
repetition of the same shot in quick succession).
All told, Homicide
is a victim of time and circumstance. When it aired in the 1990s, the very
things that made it unique (racially diverse cast, character-driven approach, idiosyncratic
choices, etc.) made it hard-pressed to get ratings. Were it to start anew today
at an HBO or a Hulu, it would likely be better understood by the viewers it was
trying to reach, but it would be far less revolutionary.
