Movie Loner

“I’ll do what I can to help y’all. But, the game’s out there, and it’s play or get played. That simple.”

- Omar

I normally write about movies here, but this is a special occasion. The best television show I’ve ever seen has ended its five season run. That show was The Wire. Never heard of it? Or maybe you have, but just never got around to checking it out. Perhaps you’re a loyal fan like me. If not, you missed out because this seminal series depicted life in America better than any ho-hum sitcom or recycled drama ever could. On the surface it appeared to be about cops and drug dealers. This was a clever guise. The Wire was really about urban decay, failing education, corrupt politics, declining morals, fading family structure, and so much more. Oh yeah, it was about cops and drug dealers too.

America is in trouble. Watch a few episodes and you can’t help but reach this conclusion. Life, not just life on the street, is presented as a game. Like Omar so eloquently reveals in the above quote, “it’s play or get played.” If you don’t know the rules, you’re finished. Whether slingin’ on the corner or climbing the political ladder at city hall, forget the game, you’ll end up a casualty.

The Wire offered a multifaceted view of said game through the eyes of its disparate characters: McNulty, the smart, driven detective who drowned his disgust with police hierarchy in a bottle of J&B; Bubbs, the homeless street hustler who hocked copper and bootleg DVDs to feed his drug addiction; Stringer Bell, the drug syndicate VP who attended business school and broke bread with senators to rise above the level of street hood; Omar, the savvy shotgun-wielding Robin Hood who robbed the dealers to earn a living. These are just a few of the memorable inhabitants of The Wire. That’s not to ignore the forgotten corner kid, the angry, underpaid beat cop, the smarmy grandeur-seeking politician, or the vindictive, power-mad drug lord. They were all in the game, they knew the rules, but rules change. The ability to adapt to change was the key to their survival.

The series tested it characters by throwing up moral barriers. Was it acceptable to commit a wrong in order to make a right? Was it heroic to disregard one’s conscience to make a difference? Should a detective fabricate a serial killer to attain the necessary resources to topple a drug kingpin? Should a mayor financially suffocate a police department and school system to win a governor’s seat? Should a police commissioner turn a blind eye to corruption to save himself from public humiliation? Should a state senator accept dirty drug money to finance a reelection campaign? Should a street thug who only kills pushers get a free pass? The Wire didn’t provide simple answers to complex questions. As in life, there are no easy answers.

The Homicide cops used the term “real police,” in reference to dedicated detectives; the guys who worked the crime scene, followed the evidence, and closed the case; not the guys shrouded in apathy who sat on their asses until their pension kicked in. Creator David Simon fashioned The Wire into real television. Well written, powerfully acted, it handled edgy subject matter with passion and intelligence. It told the story of Baltimore, not Philly, Miami or L.A., but Baltimore. Could the series have been set in those other cities? Yes, but it wouldn’t have been the same. The Wire belonged to Baltimore and its fraternities: the police, the bureaucrats, and the gangsters. Together, these groups formed one enormous dysfunctional family. A family battered by lies and hypocrisy, but a family nonetheless. A family that lived in Baltimore, lived in America, and lived in the imperfect world of The Wire.

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