Television Review: Late Editions (The Wire, S5X09, 2008)

Late Editions (S05E09)

Airdate: March 2nd 2008

Written by: George Pelecanos
Directed by: Joe Chapelle

Running Time: 60 minutes

The Wire, in its profound exploration of institutional decay, established a near-sacred narrative rhythm: the penultimate episode of each season, written by the formidable crime novelist George Pelecanos, served as the season’s devastating, no-holds-barred climax. Episodes like Middle Ground (Season 3) or Final Grades (Season 4) delivered uncompromisingly dark, consequential turning points that shattered characters and reshaped the narrative landscape, leaving the finale to grapple with the fallout. Late Editions, the ninth episode of the truncated fifth and final season, consciously steps into this tradition, bearing Pelecanos’s unmistakable signature of moral complexity and systemic critique. Yet, it operates under unique constraints – the season’s reduced episode count and the series’ impending conclusion – which temper its impact. While it possesses the structural hallmarks of a Pelecanos penultimate masterpiece, it functions more as a tense, intricate prelude, deliberately withholding the full, earth-shattering force for the true finale, –30–. It is a victory that tastes of ashes, a culmination that feels provisional, and a testament to the show’s enduring, unflinching gaze at a broken city.

The episode audaciously opens not with despair, but with what die-hard fans had craved for seasons: the meticulously orchestrated downfall of Marlo Stanfield’s seemingly impregnable empire. The cold open crackles with the cold efficiency of police work finally functioning as intended, a direct, albeit deeply ironic, consequence of Jimmy McNulty’s preposterous serial killer hoax. Lester Freamon’s genius in exploiting the coded communication system – intercepting the image alerting Stanfield’s crew to a major resupply in a derelict industrial warehouse – culminates in a raid executed with textbook precision. The Baltimore Police Department, for once, achieves exactly what it was designed to do: catch the apex predators red-handed. The scale is staggering – $16 million worth of narcotics seized, the core Stanfield hierarchy (Chris Partlow, Monk) arrested, and Marlo himself, for the first time visibly rattled, slammed into a cell. Bunk’s grim satisfaction at adding another murder charge to Partlow’s ledger and Carcetti’s immediate, cynical political capitalisation at a triumphant press conference underscore the moment’s surface-level significance. Yet, Marlo’s fury, fixated not on his incarceration but on Chris and Snoop’s failure to inform him of Omar’s final, fatal street challenge, instantly reframes this victory. It is a triumph built on sand, its foundations fatally compromised by the very fraud that enabled it, and Marlo’s immediate shift to damage control reveals the enduring, adaptive resilience of the streets.

McNulty, the architect of this apparent triumph, embodies its hollowness. Far from elation, he is consumed by a profound, almost existential depression. The charade has served its immediate purpose – bringing down Marlo – but the terrifying realisation dawns that the lie must be sustained, potentially indefinitely, even as it actively poisons genuine police work and risks catastrophic consequences. His descent into despair is starkly contrasted by Kima Greggs’s crystalline moral clarity. Utterly disgusted by McNulty’s reckless endangerment of the entire department and the integrity of their work, she takes decisive action. First, she confronts Carver, probing whether his newfound integrity (forged with Colicchio) extends to this crisis. Finding his resolve wanting, she escalates, informing Commissioner Daniels. The scene in the evidence room, where Daniels and Rhonda Pearlman discover the damning truth – the crucial phone evidence against Marlo is irrevocably tainted, originating from McNulty’s fictional serial killer – is a masterclass in understated horror. The sheer weight of the realisation, the potential collapse of the entire Marlo case, hangs thick in the air.

This legal fragility becomes the episode’s central, gnawing tension. Maurice Levy, Stanfield’s corrupt but brilliant lawyer, immediately grasps the vulnerability, discussing the matter with the bumbling Herc. Unbeknownst to Levy, his own role as the indispensable lubricant of Baltimore’s corrupt ecosystem is being dissected elsewhere. Lester Freamon’s conversation with State Senator Clay Davis lays bare the terrifying truth: lawyers like Levy are not mere defenders but the primary conduits between street violence, political power, and ostensibly legitimate business, facilitating money laundering and ensuring the system’s rotten core remains intact. Simultaneously, Marlo, operating on instinct, seeks traditional street solutions. Convinced an informant tipped off the police, he fixates on Michael Lee’s recent questioning of his methods. Snoop is dispatched to eliminate Michael under the guise of an assassination mission. However, Michael, hardened and perceptive, sees the trap. The reversal – Michael executing Snoop – is brutal, necessary, and utterly tragic. His subsequent, heart-wrenching farewell to his vulnerable younger brother Bug (left with his aunt) and the increasingly desperate Dukie (now living with the Arabers) is the episode’s emotional core. Dukie’s plaintive question about remembering happier times and Michael’s flat negative answer is a devastating epitaph for lost childhood and a future irrevocably poisoned by the streets.

Parallel to this central tragedy, the Baltimore Sun storyline reaches its own critical juncture. Gus Haynes, the weary city editor, persists in his lonely crusade against the mendacious Scott Templeton, the paper’s golden boy poised for Pulitzer glory. Haynes’s visit to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where a disabled Iraq War veteran corroborates his comrade’s account and exposes Templeton’s embellished, fabricated story, is a vital, if structurally awkward, moment. It represents the last gasp of journalistic integrity against the encroaching forces of corporate mediocrity and careerist fabrication – David Simon’s deeply personal battle cry against the erosion of his former profession. While technically well-executed, directed with characteristic restraint by series veteran Joe Chappelle, Late Editions lacks the visceral, soul-crushing emotional impact of Pelecanos’s earlier penultimate episodes. The power resides less in sudden, shocking violence and more in the pervasive sense of inevitable, systemic failure closing in. The farewell between Michael and Dukie comes closest to that Pelecanos-esque devastation, a quiet moment of profound loss that resonates long after the credits.

Crucially, the episode consciously defers the ultimate gut-punch. Daniels’s statement to reporter Alma Gutierrez – "Today was a good day for the good guys" – hangs in the air, dripping with dramatic irony for any seasoned Wire viewer. We know such victories are fleeting, their foundations rotten. The episode meticulously sets the stage for the finale’s true darkness: the near-certainty that Levy will exploit the tainted evidence to cripple the Marlo case, potentially freeing the kingpin or, more damagingly, shielding the corrupt politicians and businessmen entangled with him. Simultaneously, the looming reckoning for McNulty and his accomplices promises severe professional and personal consequences. Yet, the most insidiously devastating moment arrives earlier: Carcetti’s advisor Steintorf suggesting Rawls and Daniels to "get creative" with crime statistics to meet political targets – the very statistical manipulation Carcetti railed against to win his election. The cycle of institutional corruption and self-preservation is complete, the reformer becoming indistinguishable from the machine he sought to replace. The "good day" is already over, replaced by the familiar, suffocating machinery of the game.

Nevertheless, Late Editions is not devoid of fragile hope, offering poignant, hard-won respites for a select few. Bubbles, celebrating his anniversary of sobriety at Narcotics Anonymous, finally confronts the horrific truth of Sherrod’s death, a moment of agonising accountability that signifies genuine, painful progress towards redemption. Namond Brice, transformed from corner boy to confident student at the elite private school, delivers a triumphant public speech in his immaculate uniform. This moment, a source of immense pride for his foster father Howard "Bunny" Colvin, is a rare, unambiguous victory – proof that escape is possible, albeit for the fortunate few who find the right intervention.

Ultimately, Late Editions is a very good, intricately plotted, superbly acted episode, yet it falls short of the transcendent perfection of its Pelecanos-penned predecessors. Its primary structural weakness lies in the Baltimore Sun storyline, which, despite its thematic relevance to Simon’s core concerns, often feels like a self-indulgent distraction for viewers outside journalistic circles. The intricate details of Templeton’s fabrications and the paper’s internal politics lack the visceral, universal resonance of the police, political, or street narratives. Furthermore, the episode leans heavily on viewers possessing specific contemporary knowledge – the real-life Walter Reed Army Medical Center scandal of 2007, or the cultural ubiquity of Dexter’s early seasons, which Dukie references with enthusiasm. These references, while authentic to the time, risk feeling dated or obscure to newer audiences, slightly marring the episode’s timeless quality.

Late Editions is a masterful exercise in controlled tension and thematic reinforcement. It delivers the structural beats of a Pelecanos penultimate episode – the major takedown, the revelation of catastrophic flaws, the quiet moments of profound loss – but consciously holds back the final, shattering blow. It is a victory that immediately curdles, a triumph built on lies destined to collapse, and a stark reminder that in Baltimore, as in The Wire’s universe, there are no permanent wins, only temporary respites before the next, inevitable turn of the corrupt wheel.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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