I’m sorry, really I am, but I don’t love The Wire as much as I know I should.
I’m sorry, really I am, but I don’t love The Wire as much as I know I should.
It’s not that I can’t see that it has huge amounts going for it. I love McNulty’s cheeky chimp face and that the actor playing him went to Eton; I like the lesbian; I like the way one quickly becomes so well informed on the nuances of drug-dealing in the Baltimore projects that one could easily set up shop there oneself; I sort of like the fact that only about 50 per cent of the dialogue is comprehensible, which must mean it’s edgy and echt and cool.
But here’s my problem: it makes me fall asleep. I sit there, eyelids held open with sharpened matches, saying to myself, ‘Watch, you stupid bastard! This is good! It’s art! You’ll love it! You’re going to become addicted like everyone says you will.’
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