The Wire (Episode 17, Season 2)

I reference the particular episode because it’s highly probable that I will discuss the “the greatest television series ever made” many more times.

The quotation above is important because The Wire is made for television, not for the screen. Therefore, considerations such as serialization, screen size and aspect ratio, and time, are effective constraints for the show’s “makers”—and there are many, as the show features several different directors, as well as guest writers like novelists Richard Price and Dennis Lehane. Further, The Wire doesn’t always work against the traditional constraints of television, but in fact, embraces some of them.

Being the amorous fan that I am, I’ve long wanted to write about The Wire and a particular formal structure I find in television sitcoms, but have not quite had the lexical inventiveness to do so. I find enabling language in (my professor) Marc Scroggin’s biographical study of Louis Zukofsky, who may be contrary to widely-held opinion “the last modernist” (The Poem of a Life: A Biography of Louis Zukofsky, 2007).

Scroggins examines the early sections of Zukofksky’s long poem “A”:

"In a musical fugue, a short melody, the subject or theme, is stated in a single instrument voice, then taken up or imitated by other voices, New motifs—countersubjects—may be introduced in counterpoints to the subject and reappear throughout the fugue much like the subject. Strictly speaking, the fugue is not a form but a formal principle, a method for generating music through the contrapuntal juxtaposition of melodic motifs. Instead of melodic motifs, Zukofsky counterpoints poetic “themes” or ideas."

So, what does this look like in The Wire? In Episode 17, we see several “contrapuntal juxtapositions.” For one, Keema, an officer recently recovered from a gunshot wound now working in the office (as her girlfriend desires) has the opportunity to get back on the beat as her former boss, Cedric Daniels, who also is in the office, and effectively out of line to rise through the ranks of the “brass,” consenting, like Keema, to the desires of his politically ambitious wife, will head a new detail. Both choose the streets against the wishes of their partners. The theme of choosing between career and home is repeated. Indeed, McNulty, arguably the show’s protagonist, is separated from his wife because of his megalomaniacal dedication to his job (Infamously, in Season 1, McNulty has his pre-adolescent sons follow a known drug dealer through the fish market). As the series progresses, Keema (in law school) and Daniels (with a law degree in hand) handle their situations differently, often commiserating on their predicaments.

Season 2, I tell JMill all the time, is a bit of an aberration in that it focuses on East Baltimore and “the docks,” that is the industry of the Port of Baltimore. Here we find a countersubject to the corner boys in the low and high rises of West Baltimore. Nico, the nephew of union leader Frank Sabotka, is frustrated by not getting enough work on the docks. His cousin, Zig, Sobatka’s son, suggests they sling blow, to which Nico retorts, “I ain’t slanging dope on the corner like some project nigga.” Eventually, Zig and Nico do turn to disseminating narcotics. We find two groups of people, those living in the projects in West Baltimore and those used to relying on the harbor in East Baltimore, who think (as do we, the viewers) they are extremely different from those on the other side of town, resorting to the same alternative. Thus, this strategy of “contrapuntal juxtaposition” sheds light on desperate and seemingly disparate situations. From Nico, desperation is dramatized in terms of a (more or less contemporary) traditional family unit (he needs money to get a place for his girlfriend and their daughter), and therefore avoids the assumption of ruthless criminality that often accompanies the inner-city drug trade. From the “Barksdale crew,” the narcotics conduit of West Baltimore, we learn the ingenuity necessary to successfully thwart Baltimore law enforcement. From both, we can easily identify systemic politics perpetuating poverty and violence.

Why am I so sure this technique is characteristic of television? Think about the Seinfeld episode where Jerry and George decide to both get married. Jerry never proposes, George does. The theme of engagement in dramatized in two different situations. Or, the recent South Park episode where everyone wants facebook friends—Stan is the exception, not wanting to “get sucked into facebook.” I think “time” is the culprit in the sitcom. In less than a half-hour, the episode must dramatize as many variations of the same predicament as possible. Notice, there is usually an opposition—George does, Jerry doesn’t; Stan doesn’t, others do.

Here, The Wire deviates from the sitcom. Recall that Keema and Daniels share the same predicament, as do Nico and the average corner boy, but both handle the situation similarly. Keema and Daniels are back on the beat. Nico, as most up and comers do, hits the street lured by the money. Quite simply, The Wire has more time to make a refined use of contrapuntal juxtapositions. There are differences between Keema (homosexual, unmarried, and caring for a child) and Daniels (heterosexual, married and childless). Sitcoms cover as much as possible in a short amount of time. The Wire carries its narrative across episodes and seasons (Keema and Daniels wrestle with their predicaments to different ends all the way to the series finale). This more refined and subtle handling is why The Wire is so admired.

So, what is the lineage of the fugal mode from modernist poetry to television sitcom? I have no idea, and I’m sure there is a book about it, and I’m sure that lineage includes novels and films somewhere in between. Also, what is the value of the fugal mode at this point, considering its old age, cooption by popular culture, and formulaic properties? My answer is that at this point contrapuntal juxtapositions are essentially “narrative grammar” (Roland Barthe’s term). And, it’s important to remember, its generative capability. Therefore, when the fiction is cornered, a contrapuntal juxtaposition may provide mobility and escape