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From: Alex Kotlowitz
To: Steve James
Subject: Watching The Wire With Kids
Posted Monday, November 20, 2006, at 6:48 PM ET

Steve,

After a stint in prison, Poot's an educated man. Among other things, he's learned about global warming—and about human nature. He observes that the world may be warming up, but people are just getting colder. "The world going one way, people another," he tells Bodie. And that about sums up this episode (and the episode's epigraph). Some chilling stuff—especially for three of the kids. Michael now belongs to Marlo. Marlo's the only person Michael knew to turn to for help, and so he had asked Marlo to take care of Bug's dad, who's moved back home, and who it's clear sexually molested Michael. Well, Marlo obliges Michael. He has Bug's dad killed, and it's one cold-blooded killing—one that powerfully intimates that Chris must have seen some abuse of his own in the past. Marlo's been trying to get Michael under his wing for a while, and now he's there.

Marlo's put the word out on the street that Randy's a snitch, and in this neighborhood this isn't exactly a badge of honor. You can't help but wonder if Randy, who was privy to the murder of Lex, is going to "disappear"—as did Little Kevin, who was privy to that same crime and whose body now rests in one of the vacant homes-turned-mausoleum. Michael and Randy are friends. Is Marlo going to ask Michael to help quiet Randy?

Finally, speaking of loyalty—or misplaced loyalty—there's Namond, whose mom undoes any good that's come her son's way. After getting hauled in for slinging dope on the corner, Namond calls his teacher, Bunny Colvin, for help. His mother is away in New York, and so Colvin is the only adult he can lean on. Colvin takes Namond home for the night, where his good manners impress Colvin's wife. The next day, when Colvin brings Namond home, mom growls at Colvin, "You leave my son the fuck alone," and then berates Namond for being afraid to go to "baby booking." Colvin now knows what he's really up against. I mean, it's one thing to try to pull a kid away from the streets; it's another thing to try to pull him away from his home. Poot's right. People are cold. At least as we see them here. You know things don't look good for these three kids.

Steve, last week you mentioned that we've marveled at the passion of Wire fans. I was at a radio documentary conference last month, and two people came up to introduce themselves. They didn't want to talk radio. They wanted to talk about Omar and Carcetti. But some of the real Wireheads are in the inner city, in the very neighborhoods depicted on the show. Apparently, bootlegged CDs of this season are being hawked on the streets of inner-city New York and Baltimore. The boys—now young men—I wrote about in There Are No Children Here swear by the show. It's their life. And someone on television has finally gotten it right.

Well, this is what gave us the idea to visit with a group of junior-high-school kids from Chicago's West Side and talk with them about the show. They all attend an after-school program at Breakthrough Urban Ministries, an oasis in this hardscrabble community. We had hoped for a mix of kids, but in the end the boys—as boys are apt to do—opted for something presumably more fun, and so we were left with one boy and five girls, one of whom I think was really there because she just wanted to hang out with her friends. She admitted she hadn't seen the show—though that didn't keep her from commenting on it. The kids sat on two sofas. The girls were all dressed in their school uniforms—blue pants and white shirts; the boy wore a T-shirt that read "Dead Man Walking" under a photo of Osama Bin Laden. They were brought together by Deborah Lee, who's helping them make films of their own. We had given Deborah a few of the season's earlier episodes to screen for the kids, but most were already familiar with the show. One, in fact, told us that her dad insists she watch it, as a lesson for what she might face out there. In listening to them, it's clear how much the show mirrors their own lives. They talked of the Bubbleses of their neighborhoods, including one guy named "Hustle Man" who, like Bubbles, pushes a shopping cart and sells junk he's gotten in the alleys—things like silverware, plates, and curtains. And the kids talked about the guys who control their streets. (In Chicago—unlike Baltimore—the drug trade is run by some rather organized street gangs.)

But what clearly got these kids' attention were their counterparts in the show, the middle schoolers. The girls fell for Namond, or, as one of the girls described him, "that boy with the pretty ponytail." And they seemed hopeful that he would walk away from the corner, and that we might offer an introduction. "You gonna let us?" Ashley asked. They worried about the girl who gets her face slashed, as well as the girl who assaulted her. Kiki wanted to know why Michael "don't trust adults." She had watched the early episode where Michael didn't want to get in the car with Cutty; she sensed something was amiss, and, as we now know, she sensed right. "He probably worried he gonna kill him or rape him," Kiki told us. And another knew a kid just like Randy who managed to sneak into every lunch period.

So much of the television they usually watch reflects something far different from their reality, which isn't all bad. After all, the power of film and TV is that it provides a portal onto a seemingly grand landscape. But—and I'm stating the obvious here—it's often a rather narrow portal and the landscape not quite as grand as we think. But here on The Wire they see their streets, they see their homes, they see themselves. Kewan, the lone boy, has declared ownership. "It's one of my TV shows now," he told us. The Wire offers affirmation that they're not alone, and what could be more powerful storytelling than that? In their eyes, Simon and company get it: that the world these kids inhabit is one cold place, and that finding warmth takes a lot of hard work sprinkled with some just plain luck.

As Latara told us toward the end of the conversation: "Other shows, it's hard for us to relate. The Wire's one of the few things I seen where I can relate to them. No preppy kids. They don't have all that money. Everything's not perfect."

Alex




From: Steve James
To: Alex Kotlowitz
Subject: Escaping the Inner City
Posted Monday, November 20, 2006, at 6:48 PM ET

Alex,

It wasn't exactly a representative sample to draw conclusions from, but the middle-school-age girls we talked to certainly gave us some insights into how they view the world of The Wire through the prism of their own neighborhoods. I think these kids enjoyed seeing the show, especially in the context of the after-school program. It was something different to do than the normal activities. At one point, they volunteered the names of some of their favorite shows: SpongeBob SquarePants, Fresh Prince, Moesha, and That's So Raven. Of course, none of these shows have anything approaching the gritty reality and seriousness of The Wire. It's interesting to speculate about whether our small sampling of students would have been as taken with the series if they were channel surfing or had a choice that day in the after-school program. Would they have chosen such serious real-life fare?

It reminds me of when our distributor did a test screening of Hoop Dreams in Harlem before the initial release. They wanted to see if African-American moviegoers would turn out for the film in theaters (as we filmmakers passionately hoped). The distributor recruited an audience at a showing of the film Above the Rim, a gritty fictional drama set in the world of urban basketball. There was a great turnout for the Hoop screening, as many young blacks came, hoping to see another basketball "capital D" Drama. When they realized that Hoop Dreams was a documentary, many of the younger viewers felt ripped off and lied to. (The trailers for the film tried to hoodwink audiences into thinking the film was fiction.) Fully half of the test-screening audience walked out. In their exit interviews many said something like, "Why would I want to see this? I live it." Or they said, "This is too much like my life" or "It's too real." The distributor was flabbergasted at the results and after that, never really tried to get the film into the black community. We filmmakers were heartbroken.

But then the film opened. And word spread in the black community that this was a film worth seeing. It took a while, but African-Americans began showing up in heretofore largely white theaters. And we had an outreach program that helped inner-city sports teams and classes to go see the film at reduced prices or for free. We also had an in-school curriculum that was developed by a wonderful Boston-based organization, the Center for the Study of Sport in Society. The very same kinds of kids who had walked out of the screening in Harlem were now seeing this film in a different context. And the response was overwhelmingly positive. Why did they like it? According to the Center surveys, for precisely the same reasons they didn't in Harlem: Because it was real, and about their lives. Context is indeed, everything.

So much of film and television experience for us all is about escape. Many of us want to escape the drudgery of our daily lives or less-than-exciting jobs. Or just veg out after a long day at work or school. We want to laugh or forget, or try and guess who the murderer is, all safely ensconced within the universal order of the procedural or sitcom. And the order is never subverted. The girl gets her man, and the cops or detectives or CSI always get theirs. And no one we really care about ever dies.

The Wire provides no such predictable comfort. It mimics real life in that way—especially if you are the girls in our little sample group. They live on the rough-and-tumble West Side of Chicago. They know Bubbles as "Hustle Man." They've encountered "Marlo" the gangbanger, not the drug-dealer. They've had the "clueless Caucasian" teacher and seen fellow students brandish guns and shanks and use them, too. And they sit there on the couch at Breakthrough Urban Ministries and tell us these tales as if they were no big deal. Just a day in the life. And when they go home, they can flip on the TV and dream of being Brandy or Raven.

Steve

From: Emily Bazelon
To: Saul Austerlitz
Subject: This Episode Let Me Down
Posted Monday, November 27, 2006, at 3:34 PM ET

Hi Saul,

Good morning and welcome to Breaking Down The Wire. I'm a guest, too, so we can make this up as we go along and hope Alex and Steve won't think we screwed up their gig too badly when they come back.

I am a huge evangelist for this show—I've given the DVD as a Hanukkah present to more than one family member, and this fall, after watching the first three seasons courtesy of Netflix, I persuaded my principled husband to subscribe to HBO for the first time so I could watch the fourth season in real time. I know you're a big fan as well. And there's lots to discuss as the season rumbles into its final quarter. But I have to say, I found this week's episode a bit baffling, as a matter of character development, which the writers usually address with such care. Here's the question that had my husband and me shouting at the screen: Michael, what are you DOING?!?

OK, so Officer Walker, the black cop who crushed the fingers of little Donut (the tiny neighborhood car thief), is an asshole, as Jimmy McNulty says. But why is Michael so keen to take revenge and so reckless in his pursuit of it? It was nice to see him leading his friends down the street—but depressing that their common purpose was a pointless vigilante act that can only end badly for them. They went sooo too far! Michael, Randy, Duquan, and Namond found Walker off-duty outside a nightclub; scratched his car to bait him into chasing them into a blind alley; pulled a gun on him; took a big, shiny ring off his finger; and threw yellow paint on his leather jacket. Then, as he turned around to look at them, Michael pulled off the bandanna masking his face, and I'm pretty sure Walker got a good look at him. Michael's expression in that moment was almost as disturbing as his actions. He was jeering the flailing cop, which was to be expected, but he looked thrilled and wild and hardened, too.

What are we to make of this? Were we set up for this turn of behavior, which worries even Namond? (You know you're in trouble when Namond is your conscience.) I don't think so. For me, Michael's walk on the wild side came pretty much out of nowhere. Maybe the writers will make it right in the final two episodes, but for the moment, the scene and the plot twist feel like an odd glitch in the careful presentation of the kids who are the heart of the show this season. Are we supposed to think that Michael is acting out his guilt for asking Marlo to erase his mother's sinister boyfriend? Or that the boyfriend's disappearance has left him careening out of control? Or—and I think this is what's really bothering me—is the point that we don't actually know this kid and what he's capable of? Maybe, I am forced to conclude, all the loving scenes between him and his little brother don't mean that Michael will grow up to be a man of good judgment: in other words, the hero that we want him to be.

The power of The Wire is that the urban conflicts it depicts can't be sliced into neat moral categories. But does that have to extend to the kids we've come to love? Part of the genius of the season has been to show us that these eighth graders are kids, goofing off in math class and slinging their backpacks. Now I'm forced to think of Michael as a potential budding thug. Please, no!

In other action, Carcetti starts taking over the city by shaking up various departments and promising the police department that he's not going to put up with "juking the stats"—trumped-up arrest numbers. He also promises the long-suffering Daniels carte blanche in setting up a new major-crimes division. And Daniels goes for it—too naively. In recruiting Lester Freaman from homicide, Daniels tells him that "it's a new morning in Baltimore." This can only come crashing down around them, and the setup is uncharacteristically heavy-handed.

The saving grace of the episode for me was Omar. The man is a genius and I don't care how avowedly gay he is: I'm in love. Now, with a bit of sleuthing, he is doing what Freaman and Kima and the gang would presumably be doing if their bosses hadn't scattered them to the winds: learning of Prop Joe and Marlo's drug co-op (Omar explained the word to his Spanish-speaking sidekick in one of the evening's best moments) and preparing to bring Marlo down. Meanwhile, Lester and Bunk have figured out that the missing dead bodies they've been searching for are entombed in the vacant houses where Chris and Snoop stashed them. It's about time—but also worrisome, because if the cops come after Marlo's people, couldn't that spell real doom for Randy and, inevitably, for Michael as well? Looking forward to your thoughts.

Emily

From: Saul Austerlitz
To: Emily Bazelon
Subject: A New Day in Baltimore?
Posted Monday, November 27, 2006, at 5:51 PM ET

Hi Emily:

Great to hear your thoughts on this week's episode, and to get a chance to hash out the details of my current favorite show on television. I was surprised to hear you characterize this episode as "a bit baffling," as I found it to be one of the most spellbinding in an already white-hot season. I do agree with you that Michael's behavior has been shocking, and deeply unsettling; I believe, though, that The Wire is a show that constantly seeks to undermine our assumptions. Michael's fall from grace is merely one more domino in a long chain.

For most of us, a lifetime of up-by-your-bootstraps conservative mythmaking and reformist political advertisements have convinced us of the absolute truth of two beliefs: that success in life is a matter of personal responsibility, and that political change is simply a matter of will and moral force. The Wire, a didactic show in the best possible sense, has dedicated its fourth season to proving the absolute falsehood of both those statements. Operating in its traditional point/counterpoint format, this episode toggles between the light and the dark, between restrained optimism and systemic pessimism. The show trades in metaphors of light and dark, but we know (at least those of us more familiar with David Simon's moral universe) that, this being wintertime, the light is exceedingly short-lived.

Mayor Carcetti, having swept into office with an enormous mandate (Democratic voters do outnumber their GOP counterparts in Baltimore by a 9-1 ratio, after all), is intent on implementing his reforms as quickly as possible. Marching into heretofore underachieving city agencies, Carcetti informs them of problems he has discovered in his citywide sweep—leaky fire hydrants, abandoned cars, and the like—without providing addresses or any other identifying information. And so we have a very un-Wire-like montage of the city at work, and working hard, making the small efforts that contribute to a cleaner, healthier city.

That reformist pragmatism extends to Carcetti's attitude toward the police force. Having promised a safer city during the campaign, the mayor appears intent on fulfilling his oath. That means no more arrest quotas, and no more policing by numbers. "It's a new day in Baltimore," the ascendant Col. Daniels tells Lester, and the harried cops, having been prevented from adequately doing their jobs by bureaucratic rigmarole and the political expediency of their bosses, are heartened to discover a new attitude taking root. We still don't quite know what to make of Carcetti; every time we think we have him pinned down—principled dreamer or machine hack?—he surprises us, acting contrary to our expectations. But even taking into account his early successes, the compromise of Carcetti's political ideals looms large in his future; a decision must be reached about the fate of Herc, who made the mistake of roughing up a minister he pulled over, and something must be done about a budget crisis left to Carcetti by the outgoing mayor as a surprise gift.

A similar series of surprisingly counterintuitive events has been set in motion with our younger protagonists, who disconcertingly slip out of reach just when their schools and their teachers seem to be gripping them the tightest. Namond, Dukie, Michael, and Randy have each gone their separate ways this season—Dukie the most studious, Namond the most rebellious, and Michael and Randy falling somewhere in between—but Michael's summoning of Marlo to dispatch his mother's boyfriend has seemingly put an end to youthful pursuits for him and tipped the foursome over toward a life on the margins. As you pointed out, this episode's most surprising development was Michael pulling a gun on the vicious Officer Walker. The Wire is a show that rarely traffics in visual embellishment but does so here, ending the sequence with a shot of the four boys, their backs turned to the camera, moving steadfastly away from the light and into the rapidly enveloping darkness. The light of a new day may have dawned on Baltimore's famously benighted bureaucracy, but that light has seemingly arrived too late for our young heroes—Michael in particular. David Simon revels in the cutting irony of ignorance, having Bunny playfully roughhousing with Namond in the school hallway, commending him for his rapid academic progress the night after he has assaulted a Baltimore police officer. Simon has stated that "this season is to take argument with those who feel that if you're born without privilege, but make the right set of choices, that you will be spared. To do away with that bit of national mythology." Simon has fulfilled his promise; no child, regardless of family life, personality traits, or scholastic diligence, is spared here.

Another ironic blind spot is uncovered in this episode. A few weeks back, Herc had pulled over Chris and Snoop, ransacking their SUV for clues while missing the most important one: the jumbo-size nail gun sitting in a crate in the trunk. This week, the details of Herc's police stop become known to Lester, and the puzzling lack of West Baltimore bodies is finally solved. "Get a crowbar," Lester tells a flustered Bunk, as they stand in front of a boarded-up row house. "This is a tomb—Lex is in there." The camera zooms in on Bunk (another out-of-character visual frill on this famously no-frills show), approaching his face before cutting to a wide-angle shot that frames him against the looming backdrop of the abandoned homes where months of drug-war casualties have been interred. Bunk groans and mutters "fuck me" to himself as the show's exit music rises. We have a feeling that Bunk won't be the only character to pace in circles and mutter to himself in what remains of this season.

Saul




From: Emily Bazelon
To: Saul Austerlitz
Subject: One Ring To Ruin Them All
Posted Monday, November 27, 2006, at 6:24 PM ET

Hi again,

Thanks for pointing me to that David Simon quote. You are right: He is not going to spare us by sparing the kids. Gulp.

Thanks to the keen viewing of Slate editor June Thomas, I wanted to point out another visual metaphor, one whose significance I missed the first time around. (That's why this is a great show for repeat viewing!) The ring Michael took from Officer Walker has been stolen twice before. Walker took it from Omar, and Omar in turn took it off Marlo's finger during the heist that helped set the season in motion. As June points out, the ring ties these characters together by encircling them in despair and violence and greed. Maybe Simon will let one of the boys, at least, escape its clutches. As a mother and a citizen, I've got to hope so.

Emily




From: Steve James
To: Alex Kotlowitz
Subject: The Best Wire Yet?
Posted Sunday, December 3, 2006, at 6:16 AM ET

Alex,

It's good to be back. I want to express my thanks to Emily and Saul for filling in for us so ably over Thanksgiving week. Their entries stimulated quite a bit of traffic in the Fray, including a spirited discussion of how the series plots out character arcs and what The Wire's underlying intent is in those portrayals. Specifically, what does Michael have to say to us about the world he lives in and the way we perceive the Michaels of the world? I find it fascinating to read the passion with which all of us, Fraysters and columnists, speak about the characters in this series. Because of their complexity, because of the series' now nearly four-season history, we talk about them as if they were real people, not characters. We assign them motivations and speculate about their histories or where they are headed, much as we would speak about real people close to us. In some ways, it's the highest compliment we can pay the series. But for all the verisimilitude and nuance, The Wire is still, of course, a delicious fiction—crafted and conjured from the maw of research and experience that its team of writers possesses. This comes through in a fascinating Nov. 22 Fresh Air interview with writer and producer Ed Burns—more on that below.

And there was perhaps no more fictional moment in the series than this week's episode opening teaser: Michael apparently on the run from Chris and Snoop, which turned out to be a paramilitary-style training exercise. I admit it, they had me. And I was impressed, upon reflection, with how flawlessly they set me up going all the way back to the beginning of the season. But there was also a part of me that thought the fake-out was what other lesser series or movies would do, and therefore out of character for The Wire. (Like the Omar/Brother Mouzone High Noon standoff from last season, though I admit, I loved watching that, too.)

But if that was a false moment, everything that followed in this week's episode was powerfully, compellingly real. It may be the most potent episode ever, in my view. The fortunes of our four boys were at the heart of the action. Dukie frets over his "eviction" from middle school and promotion to high school, then comes home to find out he's been evicted from his row house again. Randy spends most of the episode in his row house, "protected" by the police. But then his place is firebombed, landing his foster mom in the hospital in critical condition. When Carver offers more help to an enraged Randy in the waiting room, the result is the most devastating end to any episode I can remember: As Carver walks away, Randy bitterly calls after him, "You gonna look out for me? You got my back, huh?" Namond gets punked by his pint-sized runner, reamed by his mother, and punched by Michael—he's finally exposed for the sensitive, scared kid he really is. And Michael descends further into using his fists to solve problems. He's almost Namond's mirror. Both boys are desperate, yet express it in opposite ways. In an inescapable irony, it's Cutty's boxing gym—ostensibly an alternative to the allure of the streets—that has equipped Michael so ably now. When Cutty tries again to reach out to him, he gets shot. And flashing across Michael's face for the first time is a realization that Cutty genuinely cares about him. It is our only thin thread of hope that Michael is not beyond saving. But the pull of thug life is now probably way too strong.

"I looked at teaching as a boxing match," says Ed Burns in the Fresh Air interview. "You have to keep punching or [the kids] will counterpunch. … They will respect you as an individual, but not the institution." Burns' view of his time teaching in an inner-city Baltimore school could stand as the lesson of the series itself. Time and time again, characters keep punching against the walls of race and class—or internal and external politics, misplaced priorities, and greed. "We all operate from certitudes of life," says Burns. "You can't be jumped. You have to be tough. It works on the corner, but doesn't translate to the other world." By that he means, a middle-class world where vulnerability, self-deprecation, and cooperation are sometimes considered virtues. But I suspect Burns' "other world" doesn't include many of our institutions. In the police department, city hall, or the schools, the cost of failure may not be as severe as losing your life on the corner, but the game often seems to be the same.

What distinguishes this season from the others is, of course, the focus on kids. "Each of these kids has a street persona, shards of individuality. … We want to show you where the Bodies and Stringers come from. … When you see the same mindset in kids [as the adults], you're looking down the future, where they're gonna go."

With one episode to go, we worry about the fate of Dukie, Randy, Namond, and Michael. How many of them will even make it to 15, much less adulthood? To make it out requires an ability to step outside oneself, says Burns. In his former career as a cop and a teacher, Burns says he met only three or four people from the streets of Baltimore who had managed to do that. Interestingly enough, one of them is Felicia Pearson, who plays Snoop. They found Snoop—or rather Snoop found them—when she boldly approached Michael K. Williams (Omar) in a Baltimore club and delivered some of her raps. She'd lived the hard life portrayed in The Wire, yet she possessed the ability to look at herself and her life from a distance, even with humor. Simon and his team wrote her into the series as Chris' murderous sidekick. She missed the first shoot because she got stuck in Philly in a stolen-car arrest. Wrong place, wrong time. She begged for a second chance and has been a total professional, not to mention a mesmerizing screen presence. The Wire gave Felicia a chance. Or as Lester says in another context in this episode: "Sometimes life just gives you a moment." Think how many other Felicias are out there, still waiting for theirs.

Steve