Television Review: Homicide: The Movie (2000)
For many devoted fans of Homicide: Life on the Street, the series' abrupt conclusion in May 1999 with Forgive Us Our Trespasses proved profoundly unsatisfactory. This discontent stemmed less from the mere fact of cancellation than from the stark erosion of the show's foundational qualities across its final seasons. What began in 1993 as an innovative, gritty, and uncompromising exploration of the ethical quagmires facing law enforcement on Baltimore's mean streets – directly inspired by David Simon's groundbreaking nonfiction book – had, by its seventh season, visibly succumbed to network pressures for broader appeal . Attempts to boost ratings introduced attractive but unrealistic "hip" elements, questionable casting choices (notably Michael Michele's Detective Sheppard, perceived as mere "eye candy"), and convoluted family melodrama (exemplified by Mike Giardello's awkward integration). Coupled with a perceived exhaustion of the producers' creative vision, Season 7 felt like one season too many for a significant portion of the fanbase, rendering the understated Forgive Us Our Trespasses less a triumphant send-off and more a sign of weary relief that the struggle was finally over.
Yet, alongside this disillusionment existed a cohort of fans who recognised that Forgive Us Our Trespasses failed as a definitive series finale. Its fundamental flaw lay in its ordinariness; it resembled a typical procedural episode rather than a conscious, crafted conclusion to a seven-year narrative journey. Unlike acclaimed finales that deliberately reflect on a show's legacy or offer poignant closure, it provided minimal homage to the series' most resonant moments and iconic characters (like Frank Pembleton, conspicuously absent). This felt particularly jarring given the production team was undoubtedly aware of the looming threat of cancellation – the "writing on the wall" was clear throughout the precarious final season . The finale’s ambiguous, unresolved nature, particularly regarding Tim Bayliss's potential descent into vigilantism, while artistically bold for some, left others yearning for a more conclusive and celebratory farewell to the ensemble and the world they inhabited.
This perceived lack of closure was directly addressed mere months later with NBC's commissioning of Homicide: The Movie, explicitly conceived as the series' true finale and functioning explicitly as a reunion television film. Such productions are a well-established tradition for shows cancelled prematurely or without satisfying resolution, aiming to placate devoted fans and provide a sense of completion. The movie's very premise – the shooting of the beloved, paternal figure of Al Giardello (Yaphet Kotto) – served as the narrative engine to reassemble the sprawling cast, past and present, for one last investigation. While commercially logical and emotionally appealing to fans craving a reunion, this format inherently risked sacrificing the very authenticity that originally defined Homicide, trading grounded realism for nostalgic spectacle.
The plot centres on Captain Al Giardello's ambitious mayoral campaign, predicated controversially on the decriminalisation of drugs. Whilst leading comfortably in the polls, he is gunned down during a rally at Baltimore's Inner Harbor. As doctors battle to save his life, the current Homicide Unit, now under the command of the ill-equipped Lt. Stuart Gharty (Peter Gerety), mobilises to find the shooter. The investigation is immediately complicated by the chaotic circumstances and Giardello's extensive list of enemies accrued over decades – from drug kingpins and white supremacists to Black nationalists opposed to his policies . Critically, the case draws back former detectives from retirement, other units, and disparate careers, including the pivotal return of Frank Pembleton (Andre Braugher), now a college professor, who reluctantly partners once more with Tim Bayliss (Kyle Secor). Their renewed dynamic proves central, ultimately leading them to identify the shooter: a grieving, volatile television cameraman, Eric Thomas James (Eammon Walker), whose son died of a drug overdose, making him violently opposed to Giardello's decriminalisation platform . Their investigative triumph, however, is doubly undercut: firstly by Bayliss's shocking confession to Pembleton that he murdered the acquitted internet killer Luke Ryland; secondly, and ultimately, by Giardello succumbing to his wounds off-screen.
The movie's most significant flaw is inherently conceptual: the fan-demanded reunion necessitates sacrifices that eviscerate the gritty realism central to the original series' identity. The Homicide Unit's investigation into Giardello's shooting stretches credulity beyond breaking point, incorporating not only former detectives but also non-law enforcement personnel like the unit's ex-videographer Brodie (Max Perlich) and former medical examiner Dr. Juliana Cox (Michelle Forbes) . This endeavour to include ?every* significant character from the show's seven-year run results in a narrative flooded with glorified cameos, many utterly redundant to the core plot. Beloved figures like John Munch (Richard Belzer) appear primarily for nostalgic recognition, requiring implausible explanations for their presence (Munch seemingly abandons his NYPD SVU duties in New York). Even deceased characters – Steve Crosetti (Jon Polito) and Beau Felton (Daniel Baldwin) – are awkwardly incorporated via mawkish afterlife sequences, a device that feels tonally alien to Homicide's previously grounded, often bleakly existential sensibility . Giardello's eventual death serves this nostalgic impulse, enabling his inclusion in the final, deeply sentimental card game scene in a poorly realised "heaven," a moment widely criticised as incongruous and undermining the show's legacy.
Further concessions to melodrama and fan expectation undermine character integrity and narrative logic. Giardello's transition from pragmatic, sometimes conservative police commander to a mayoral candidate running solely on an ultra-liberal platform of drug decriminalisation feels politically simplistic and geographically anachronistic – more suited to late 2010s San Francisco than early 2000s Baltimore, and fundamentally impractical given drug policy is largely a state and federal, not municipal, issue. Similarly, the characterisation of Mike Giardello (Giancarlo Esposito) defies credibility. A former FBI agent, his resignation from the Bureau and subsequent decision to join the Baltimore Police as a uniformed patrol officer, rather than entering at a detective rank commensurate with his experience and qualifications, exists solely to heighten his emotional vulnerability and facilitate scenes of him rousting suspects – a sacrifice of realism for manufactured dramatic effect that only highlights the character's problematic introduction in Season 7 .
Screenwriters Tom Fontana, Eric Overmyer, and James Yoshimura demonstrate one crucial piece of wisdom: recognising that the complex, fraught partnership between Frank Pembleton and Tim Bayliss represented the dramatic and emotional core of the series at its zenith. Their decision to reunite them and grant them the lion's share of meaningful screen time, particularly the investigation's critical interrogation and breakthrough, provides the film's undisputed highlights. Andre Braugher and Kyle Secor seize this opportunity, delivering performances of remarkable depth and intensity, particularly in their climactic scenes. Braugher effortlessly regains Pembleton's formidable, cerebral presence, while Secor portrays Bayliss's profound guilt and unraveling with raw vulnerability . Pembleton's final reflection on death – "No. It’s not like you can escape it. Death is every day. Death goes on and on and on" – delivered by Braugher with devastating gravitas, stands as one of the series' most resonant moments.
However, the writers compromise this strength by utilising the Pembleton-Bayliss reunion primarily as a vehicle to resolve one of Season 7's most criticised narrative threads: the fate of internet killer Luke Ryland. Introduced in much-derided episode Homicide.com, Ryland escaped justice via unconvincing procedural errors, triggering Bayliss's violent assault on ASA Danvers and culminating ambiguously with Ryland's murdered body discovered in the series finale. The potent ambiguity of Bayliss's potential culpability – a fittingly dark, unresolved note for his tormented character arc – is shattered in The Movie by his melodramatic rooftop confession to Pembleton. This resolution feels contrived, serving fan demand for closure rather than artistic necessity, and its consequences – Bayliss effectively ending his freedom or life, coupled with Giardello's death – result in the elimination of two of the unit's most iconic figures, leaving a hollowed-out shell in the final frames.
Ultimately, whilst the logistical achievement of reassembling such a vast ensemble cast is commendable and offers undeniable nostalgic pleasure for devoted fans, Homicide: The Movie functions primarily as a bloated, often clumsy exercise in fan service. As a standalone crime film, it is narratively incoherent and tonally inconsistent, failing to capture the taut, realistic tension of the series' best episodes. As the final chapter of one of the 1990s' most critically revered and innovative crime dramas, it is a significant disappointment. It prioritises nostalgic reunion and forced closure over the uncompromising realism, complex character studies, and morally ambiguous storytelling that defined Homicide: Life on the Street at its groundbreaking best. The film inadvertently underscores the wisdom of the original series finale's ambiguity; Forgive Us Our Trespasses, for all its flaws, retained a vestige of the show's challenging spirit, whilst The Movie, despite moments of potency thanks to Braugher and Secor, ultimately succumbed to the very conventionality and narrative compromise the early seasons so brilliantly defied. It remains a bittersweet, often frustrating coda – a well-intentioned gesture to the fans that, in striving to please everyone, honoured the series' true essence far less effectively than its quiet, uncertain, and far more authentic farewell just months before.
RATING: 4/10 (+)
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