monsoonmartin

The Wire episode 60 – Series Finale Notes and Analysis

“-30-”

Tagline: “…the life of kings.” – H.L. Mencken

[Note: Unlike in many of my other posts about “The Wire” episodes, I’ve made no effort to be a completist here in my recap. I’m going to comment below on interesting scenes, quote memorable lines, and say farewell to some of the most complex, authentic characters ever brought to screen.]

First, to discuss the meaning of the episode’s title: “-30-” is used to indicate the end of an article. Its origin is murky, but among other guesses, it has been suggested that it stems from the “XXX” Roman numeral once used to indicate the end of handwritten copy (X marked the end of a sentence, XX the end of a paragraph, XXX the end of the article); a reference to supposed article quota for Associated Press reporters; or the use of telegrapher’s shorthand “30” to end the first articles, which were transmitted by telegraph.

I should have known from the opening scene in which Carcetti stammers in bewildered rage and Norman gets the giggles that the show would be a celebration of institutional absurdity—and that nothing would, or ever could, really change. As he notices Norman laughing, Carcetti booms, “Hey Norman, this is my ass here.” Norman barely contains his snickers as he plays the contrite aide: “That’s true, boss … but it does have a certain charm to it. They manufactured an issue to get paid; we manufactured an issue to get you elected governor. Everybody’s gettin’ what they need behind some make-believe.” After some more backroom wrangling and the departure of a stunned and steaming Daniels and Pearlman, Norman can’t resist punctuating the moment: “I wish I was still at the newspaper so I could write on this mess. It’s too fuckin’ good.”

It’s been made clear by Steintorf and Carcetti that the fabrication will be buried at least until the November elections, and Daniels is indignant. Few actors I’ve ever seen can pull off such an accomplished, seething slow burn better than Lance Reddick. “McNulty, Freamon, Sydnor—anyone who has the smell of this on ‘em should be gone by the end of business today.” But after a chat with Pearlman, Daniels realizes that her career will be ruined if he reveals what’s been going on. He will play along—for now.

In the next scene, Fletcher is seen hawking the paper he writes for while Bubs sits reading his article. It’s very much against the guidelines of good journalism to show a subject the piece beforehand—the danger being that the subject might exert influence to control what will be published, tarnishing the profession. But Fletcher clearly has such respect for Reginald that he wants to ensure that his subject is completely comfortable with its contents before the article runs. Bubs has reservations, though: “What good is a story like that … what good do any of that do to put in the newspaper?” Fletcher’s response is straight out of J-school, and sounds like it might have been uttered by David Simon himself when he was a cub reporter for The Sun: “People will read it, think about it. Maybe see things different.” It’s a million miles from the striving, bottom-line ethics of Whiting and Klebanow, who are after prizes and profits rather than journalism that matters. Later in the newsroom, Gus tells Fletcher that he loved the piece, and Fletcher cautions Gus that he has yet to receive final go-ahead from the subject on publication. Fletcher says he wants to feel “clean” about the article. Gus mutters, “I remember clean,” as he casts a steely glare in the direction of Scott’s desk. At the end, Bubs sees his article, which has garnered a “Sunday front” and is titled “The road home,” and he’s at peace with its publication. In the closing montage, we see Bubs at long last joining his sister and her child upstairs for dinner. Trust and love, it seems, can be rebuilt from the ruins.

Never before in the history of the series can I recall shady political deals being brokered with such wantonness and nakedness. First, Steintorf and Carcetti pressure the police brass to sit on the McNulty fabrication. Then Steintorf tells Rawls to hold back his leverage and he will be rewarded with the position of State Police Superintendent when Carcetti is governor (and by the end, sure enough, Governor Carcetti is anointing Rawls thus). And despite Grand Jury Prosecutor Gary DiPasquale’s admission that he is dirty, Levy somehow continues to have all the power. It was nice seeing him sweat as Pearlman played the recording of him talking to DiPasquale, if even for a moment. In the end, Pearlman forces Levy accept life without parole for Chris Partlow, who will plead to all the murders, and 20 years for Monk. Marlo, for his part, walks scot-free—but he must leave “the game” because his case, which will be consigned to the Stet Docket (inactive case register), can be reactivated after the elections.

And finally, on the subject of deals, Daniels stands up again as a man who is unwilling to bend further to political will. Daniels tells Steintorf that “the stats are clean, and they’re going to stay clean.” Steintorf goes to Nerese (who, as Mayor Campbell, is seen in the closing montage naming Valcheck police chief). Nerese has the file containing Daniels’ dirt; she goes to Marla, who then goes to see her ex-husband to try and talk some sense into him. She insists that he can bend without breaking, but he insists, “if you bend too far, you’ve already broken.”

Duquan’s fate was sealed last week, I suppose, when Michael dropped him off; still, it was difficult to see him lie to Prez, who still clearly has such affection for him. (A nice moment, though: when Prez firmly scolds one of his students, Duquan says, “Looks like you got the hang of it!”) When Duquan returns to the junk man with $200 from his former teacher, the junk man remarks, “Damn! Teacher must love your black ass!” In the closing montage, Duquan is injecting himself with heroin, it appears, and we can anticipate his emergence as another Bubs. It’s disheartening, and serves to temper the optimism with which we’ve watching Bubs’ transformation into Reginald this season.

After McNulty asks an exasperated Landsman to reduce manpower on the homeless case, Bunk observes wryly: “Shit is like a war, isn’t it? Easy to get in, hell to get out.” The parallels to Bush’s war in Iraq are obvious, but I don’t know that we’re meant to extend the metaphor beyond this. The scene made me smile because it almost seemed as though David Simon was saying to critics of this season, “Oh yeah? You don’t like the homeless serial killer subplot because you don’t think it’s ‘realistic’ enough? How about a lie that’s resulted in tens of thousands of civilian deaths, three thousand-plus US servicemember deaths, and untold billions of American money?”

The scene in which McNulty slinks into the elevator next to Daniels is a classic because of what can be said with little or no dialogue: we know these characters so intimately that what isn’t said is almost more powerful than what could have been spoken in that moment. Daniels’ chilling parting words—“To be continued…”—would have made me befoul my drawers were I in McNulty’s position, without question.

Soon thereafter, when another “serial killer” murder is found, McNulty is summoned in to the “box” with Rawls and Daniels. While Rawls rants, Daniels glowers. “You’re not killin’ ‘em yourself, McNulty; at least assure me of that,” he demands. McNulty, who looks as if is paralyzed, manages to shake his head. At the end of the scene, Rawls sums up the relationship between him and McNulty wonderfully: “If you’re half the detective you think you are, you’ll put this one down fast and take us all off the hook.” Fortunately, he solves it quickly and further damage is averted.

In the newsroom, as always it’s the details that make this storyline so authentic, and I say that in defiance of all the critics who have blasted it as ham-fisted and too broad. An editor is saying plaintively, “Just because it happened doesn’t mean it’s news. There’s always a salmonella outbreak somewhere. Why do we have to write about this one?” Regional Affairs Desk Editor Rebecca Corbett (Sara Quick) points out to Gus that Scott has written a front-page article in which the paper is crediting its own coverage of the serial killer story with changing the governor’s mind. “I’m already to the jump and there’s not a quote from anyone crediting us with anything of the sort,” she says. In other words, she has reached the jumpline—the point at which a front-page article is continued to a page deeper in the section—and has no quotes, no attribution. It is complete self-congratulation, a story where none exists, which should be anathema to good and serious journalism. Rebecca says that Whiting “can smell” a Public Service Pulitzer; sure enough, Scott is seen in the closing montage accepting his Pulitzer at Columbia University, Whiting and Klebanow by his side, all three wearing the shit-eatingest grins I’ve ever seen.

“The Wire” universe is one of juxtapositions, of obsessive attention to detail. One such moment that stood out to my wife (but I missed) was when McNulty was pretending to attack Beadie’s kids with a “crab claw” (his hand). In the very next scene, Bubs is eating a crab claw while Walon advises him on whether the article should run. It’s the little things that give the most pleasure…

In that scene, Walon shares a Franz Kafka quote with Bubs (who calls him “Fonzie Kafka”) and while neither man has read the Czech author, they seem to derive profound meaning from his statement: “ You can hold back from the suffering of the world; you have free permission to do so and it is in accordance with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could have avoided.” It is an interesting paradox to consider in terms of the themes of the show.

When approaching the finale, I think I was most interested in the fate of Gus Haynes, whom I was almost sure would end up quitting or in a different job by the end. After Scott fabricates yet another aspect of the case—a man in a gray van has supposedly tried to abduct a homeless man right in front of The Sun building—Gus explodes in Klebanow’s office: “Our job is to report the news, not to manufacture it,” which gets a hearty “Fuck you, Gus,” from a storming-out Scott, and that in turn elicits a “Nice” from a fed-up Gus. He ends his meeting with Klebanow by saying, “Maybe you win a Pulitzer with his stuff … and maybe you gotta give it back.” As Gus leaves at Klebanow’s request (“This has gotten really personal between you two”), Templeton shouts, “It’s in my notes!” Once Scott again storms away, Alma looks at Scott’s reporter’s notebook and discovers it empty. She reports this to Gus later, but he does nothing with it; she takes it to Whiting herself, and an unwanted and punitive transfer to the Carroll County Bureau—where she’ll be miserable, and wasted—is all the thanks she gets.

When he later bids farewell to Alma, Gus sums up the newspaper storyline neatly: “Look around. The pond is shrinking, the fish are nervous. Get some profile, win a prize. Maybe find a bigger pond somewhere.” Scott will get his Pulitzer, Gus correctly predicts. “Me? I’m too fuckin’ simple-minded for all that. I just wanted to see something new every day and write a story with it.” It could have been spoken by David Simon himself, fifteen years ago. Behind Gus on the wall of The Sun’s lobby appears a quote by H.L. Mencken that provides the final episode’s tagline:): “As I look back over a misspent life, I find myself more and more convinced that I had more fun doing news reporting than in any other enterprise. It is really the life of kings.” The quotation is surely meant ironically and with shades of sarcasm that only Simon himself truly comprehends. Check out my previous post about episode 53 for more on Mencken and his connection with Charm City:

http://monsoonmartin.squarespace.com/journal/2008/1/15/the-wire-episode-53-notes-observations-contains-spoilers.html

In the closing montage, Gus has been demoted to the copy desk, while Fletcher has been promoted to the city desk. As Fletcher calls out to Zorzi for copy ahead of the rapidly-approaching e-dot deadline, Gus looks up from his copy sourly, then a small smile breaks across his face; as pissed off as he is with the turn of events, he’s proud of his young protégé. (I have to admit to being a little disappointed here in the way this storyline was wrapped up; I would have liked to see more coverage of what exactly transpired when Gus brought the evidence of Scott’s fabrications to Whiting and Klebanow, for example.)

Soon after Scott’s hissy fit, McNulty and Bunk are seen in the “box” with a homeless man who is apparently confessing to the two most recent murders, but although the man will likely agree to whatever number they wish, McNulty will not compound his offense by trying to get him to cop to all six supposed murders. Outside the box, Rawls states very clearly that he wants McNulty and Bunk to get the mentally unstable man to admit to all six murders; “if he’s NCR [not criminally responsible], either way they’ll tie his arms and feed him green Jell-O.” McNulty refuses again, though: “I know what I did. … and I’m not doing this.” Rawls’ final line in “The Wire” is a beaut, and set me on a roar: “Motherfucker. You are a cunt hair away from indictment and you see fit to argue with me?” I’m reminded of Rawls’ two-fingered salute to McNulty in one of the series’ earliest episodes, and some of the best, most unbridled vulgarity throughout the show’s run.

McNulty’s scene with Scott in one of the Homicide offices is brilliant, and it alone should qualify Dominic West for Emmy consideration—but we all know not to hold our collective breath on that one. In the scene, he shows utter contempt for Templeton, and also seems to be “working through” (in psychological parlance) his own self-loathing over what he’s done. “There’s no gray van, and he didn’t call you on the phone either, did he?” McNulty challenges. He goes on to admit that he called Scott, and sent the photos—but curiously fudges the details of the abducted man, claiming he was McNulty’s cousin sent up to Atlantic City for a few weeks. “You know why I can tell you all this?” he goes on, really steaming now. “Because, you lying motherfucker, you’re as full of shit as I am. And you’ve gotta live with it and play it out for as long as it goes, right? Trapped in the same lie”—the only difference being why each man did it. “You’re not serious…” asks a stunned Scott. “No, I’m a fuckin’ joke. And so are you,” McNulty replies. “Now get the fuck outta here.” (Later, back in the newsroom, Scott is clearly still reeling from this encounter. “My stomach…” he moans to Klebanow and scoots out to regroup.)

To wrap up the newspaper storyline: David Simon’s Hitchcockian cameo was brilliant. There he sat, pen in mouth, typing away furiously, with a “Save Our Sun” sign on top of his cubicle wall. Lest we forget the mastermind behind this massive ensemble of writing, directing, and acting talent, it was nice to get a glimpse of the man in the last episode of the finest work he’ll ever create. (He may find this to be a depressing thought, the suggestion that he’ll never top “The Wire,” but I really don’t see how it can be surpassed.)

“The Wake” (as it will likely be known forever in the lore of this series) is one of the best in a long line of memorable scenes in “The Wire.” Held at Kavanagh’s, where I believe Bob Colesberry’s wake was also held in season three, it encapsulates the camaraderie, the loyalty, and the profanity that made the show so outstanding. I’ll quote liberally from Landsman’s tremendous speech with McNulty laid out “on the felt” (on the pool table). “What do you say about this piece of work? Fuck if I don’t feel myself without the right words. … He was the black sheep, a permanent pariah; he asked no quarter of the bosses, and none was given. He learned no lessons, he acknowledged no mistakes; he was as stubborn a Mick who ever stumbled out of the Northeast parishes to take a patrolman’s shield. … He brooked no authority, he did what he wanted to do, and he said what he wanted to say. And in the end, he gave the clearances. He was natural po-lice.”

As the camera pans to McNulty’s face, Landsman cries, “But Christ, what an asshole!” and the “deceased’s” eyes fling open in a guffaw. “I’m not talking about the ordinary, gaping orifice that all of us possess,” Landsman goes on. “I mean an all-encompassing, all-consuming, out-of-proportion-to-every-other-facet-of-his-humanity chasm, from whose bourn, to quote Shakespeare, no traveler has ever returned.” It’s a fascinating allusion, since it’s from Hamlet’s famed “To be or not to be” soliloquy; in it, Hamlet considers death at some length and wonders at its inscrutable mysteries: “The undiscover’d country from whose bourn / No traveler returns, puzzles the will / And makes us rather bear those ills we have / Than fly to others we know not of.” What mysterious country is being explored by the likes of Omar, Wallace, D’Angelo, Snoop, Stringer, and all the rest—if any? And for that matter, what uncertainties await McNulty in his new life as he flees the ills he has, perhaps for those he knows not of?

Lester comes in with Shardene, and it’s nice to see them still together (and making each other deliriously happy, based on what the closing montage suggests); soon Landsman is wrapping it up by getting rather somber in observing that McNulty gave thirteen good years, was “a true murder police,” and that when he was good, there was no one better. Amen.

The “street” plots are given relatively little attention in this 93-minute finale, but the previous several episodes has made up for that. The arrogant Cheese (played very well by Method Man) pulls a gun in a petty dispute with a fellow “co-op” member as they discuss raising the funds to purchase the “connect” as offered by Marlo at a cool $10 million. “Ain’t no nostalgia to this shit here,” he says, but Slim Charles drops him with the shot to the head as Cheese is in the middle of a sentence. “That was for Joe,” he says. “This sentimental motherfucker just cost us money,” another man laments.

It occurs to me watching Marlo—out of prison with no charges, but having to avoid the “game”—that he is living out Stringer Bell’s fantasy. Stringer always aspired to shun the drug trade and become a legitimate businessman (or as legitimate a businessman as one could be associating with the likes of Maury Levy), but could never break out of the “game.” Marlo finds himself at a swanky party being introduced to major real-estate players, and he bolts back to streets, where he seems almost pleased to get into a violent confrontation with two corner boys. He’s stuck between worlds, now, and though it seems he’s borne no responsibility, he is truly in a hell of his own creation.

And finally, Michael seems to have developed into a vigilante of sorts, and though he’s quite naturally an outcast, I don’t know if having him slip into the “Omar” role is entirely realistic. He does deliver one of the funniest lines of the episode, though, as he robs Vinson. When he bursts in with a shotgun and a sidekick, Marlo’s former money man protests, “But you’re just a boy!” Michael blasts him in the patella and, as Vinson collapses in pain on the floor, says calmly, “That’s just a knee.”

McNulty goes to pick up Larry, the poor schmuck who he stashed in Richmond, and bring him back to Baltimore. Suddenly he stops on the bridge and gets out of the car, looking wistfully across the Potomac, and the closing montage begins. Many of its details have been mentioned earlier, but I have to say that the Blind Boys’ “original” rendition of “Way Down in the Hole” was a perfect fit here. His final words—and the last in the series—are, “Larry, let’s go home.”

Daniels was always, for me, another of the moral centers or main characters of this show, and I was happy to see him resign rather than bend to Steintorf’s demands, even in light of Daniels’ shady past. The scene in the courtroom during the montage was interesting for its contrasts: Pearlman was given a judgeship riding on the influence of Carcetti, given that Steintorf promised her she would benefit if she made the dirty case on Marlo go away; Daniels is a practicing attorney after refusing to play the game. (Incidentally, it seems to me that he’s a defense attorney, since he’s standing to the right and he’s right next to the accused; this is somewhat surprising to me, as I thought he’d be more interested in prosecution.)

Recurring themes: repetition for effect has always been one of the touchstones of “The Wire,” and this episode was no different. The line “keep my name out of it” is spoken both by Ruby when presenting the evidence of Scott’s dirty reporting and Sydnor near the end when asking Judge Phelan to authorize further investigation of the wiretap case.

Finally: I literally cheered during the closing montage when Kennard was seen being led away in bracelets, presumably for the murder of Omar. That little shit, I thought. Serves him right.

Before I wrap up my favorite moments in the show, I do have to air some grievances about scenes or moments in the finale that didn’t ring true, or loose ends that I feel should have been more completely wrapped up:

• There was never any reconciliation or apology between Bunk and Jimmy, though Bunk was an enthusiastic participant in Jimmy’s “wake.” Given all that they’d been through, I was disappointed to see them keep their distance straight through to the end.
• On a related note, I’m not sure it was entirely realistic that Jimmy would have forgiven Kima when she reveals her role in their downfall outside the bar. Though he’s clearly relieved to have this whole nightmare concluded, his statement to her seemed too flip, too easy: “Detective, if you think it needed doin’, I guess it did.”
• Around the hour mark, there were some shots that seemed gratuitous: daytime shots of the neighborhoods, a nighttime shot of the harbor; dusk in the business district, etc.—it seemed disjointed and unnecessary.
• What kind of work will McNulty do? Will he stay in Baltimore? It would seem that he and Beadie will be OK now, and the tender little scene in which she leans on his shoulder conveys that. But what kind of job will be fulfilling to an iconoclastic genius who is obsessive about finding meaning in his work and must utilize his analytical skills? Private detective? (SPINOFF!!) I’m at a loss here.
• The closing scene when McNulty stops on the bridge seems contrived. Why did he stop there? Is he leaving Baltimore? Was he going to drop Larry off there, but changed his mind?
• And just what in the hell ever happened to Brother Mouzone?

But these are mere nitpicks in a finale that was very satisfying, intense, and engrossing. We’re left to ponder the big questions (Did everyone get what they deserved? Did anyone?) and small (Will Fletcher face the same frustrations as Gus in the position of city editor?); the philosophical (Who is the most virtuous character here? Does anyone emerge unsullied?) and the mundane (What happened to Valchek’s van?). It was a television series that allowed no easy answers, and asked questions many people were not ready to address. It was exquisite, and its equal will not likely be seen anytime soon.

In 40 years, dreck like “According to Jim” and “Two and a Half Men” will be utterly forgotten; shows like “Desperate Housewives” and “CSI” will be recalled only as kitsch pieces by nostalgia buffs. The disposable contrivances of “reality” TV will doubtlessly fade into pop culture oblivion. But “The Wire” is among the very few television shows that will endure on its own merits as an artistic achievement—it will be studied, deconstructed, celebrated, and perhaps even emulated. And most of all, especially to us Wireheads, it will be missed.

Goodbye.

END OF EPISODE 60 NOTES