Hill Street Blues(With a Neon Purple Pimp Surprise)

Et Tu XII is nearly finished, but I'm not going to predict a posting date because the weather here is gearing up for a thunderstorm bonanza for most of the week. That means my writing computer will spend a great deal of time unplugged and dreaming little circuit board dreams of a vacation in Silicone Valley. I will likely have my nose buried in a book while lightning dickwhips the power grid and the wind coaxes the thin pine trees to take headers into utility poles. At least I'll have many books from which to choose, thanks to the book-buying mania I've recently contracted.

I've started watching Hill Street Blues. It's hilariously dated, with hulking typewriters and terrifying mod squad fashion sense, and its depiction of gang culture sometimes borders on the cartoonish, with each gang being a walking ethnic stereotype, but I'll give it credit for not shying away from the fact that police officers can be bigots and racists. It's clear that while Renko is a gregarious, fun-loving guy, he's also a racist who often calls the residents of the predominantly black and Latino ghetto "animals". He's neither a Dudley Do-Right nor a slavering, sieg-heiling, jackbooted villain. He's both, and the dichotomous nature of his personality makes for fascinating television even if the acting is occasionally shrill.

The show also does a good job of acknowledging that officers are affected by what happens on the job. Renko and his partner are shot in the pilot, and both of them suffer from pronounced PTSD. Renko's partner is nearly paralyzed with fear the first time he has to chase an armed suspect after returning to duty, and when Renko, who stubbornly refuses to admit he's afraid, turns on the lights in the basement to look for the suspect, his partner snaps and begins to beat him with his fists, screaming, "You got me killed! You killed me! You killed me!" He even draws his baton on Renko. Later, Renko breaks down in an interrogation room and cries. It's a trifle melodramatic, but it's leagues better than the business-as-usual Teflon psyches of modern TV cops(Yes, I'm looking at you CSI:NY, looking so hard that my eyeballs are in danger of rupturing and oozing down my face like broken yolks).

If you want a laugh, clap your eyes on a young David Caruso as Johnny, the leader of the Shamrocks, an Irish gang. He looks like a gloriously stoned Willy Wonka. And the accent, oh, Lord, the accent. It's hysterical, and I'd bet my wheelchair that David Caruso wishes someone had burned the master prints when the season ended.

It's not as good as I remembered it to be, but modern crime dramas could still learn a few things about psychological realism and continuity from it.

Hill Street Blues(With a Neon Purple Pimp Surprise)

Et Tu XII is nearly finished, but I'm not going to predict a posting date because the weather here is gearing up for a thunderstorm bonanza for most of the week. That means my writing computer will spend a great deal of time unplugged and dreaming little circuit board dreams of a vacation in Silicone Valley. I will likely have my nose buried in a book while lightning dickwhips the power grid and the wind coaxes the thin pine trees to take headers into utility poles. At least I'll have many books from which to choose, thanks to the book-buying mania I've recently contracted.

I've started watching Hill Street Blues. It's hilariously dated, with hulking typewriters and terrifying mod squad fashion sense, and its depiction of gang culture sometimes borders on the cartoonish, with each gang being a walking ethnic stereotype, but I'll give it credit for not shying away from the fact that police officers can be bigots and racists. It's clear that while Renko is a gregarious, fun-loving guy, he's also a racist who often calls the residents of the predominantly black and Latino ghetto "animals". He's neither a Dudley Do-Right nor a slavering, sieg-heiling, jackbooted villain. He's both, and the dichotomous nature of his personality makes for fascinating television even if the acting is occasionally shrill.

The show also does a good job of acknowledging that officers are affected by what happens on the job. Renko and his partner are shot in the pilot, and both of them suffer from pronounced PTSD. Renko's partner is nearly paralyzed with fear the first time he has to chase an armed suspect after returning to duty, and when Renko, who stubbornly refuses to admit he's afraid, turns on the lights in the basement to look for the suspect, his partner snaps and begins to beat him with his fists, screaming, "You got me killed! You killed me! You killed me!" He even draws his baton on Renko. Later, Renko breaks down in an interrogation room and cries. It's a trifle melodramatic, but it's leagues better than the business-as-usual Teflon psyches of modern TV cops(Yes, I'm looking at you CSI:NY, looking so hard that my eyeballs are in danger of rupturing and oozing down my face like broken yolks).

If you want a laugh, clap your eyes on a young David Caruso as Johnny, the leader of the Shamrocks, an Irish gang. He looks like a gloriously stoned Willy Wonka. And the accent, oh, Lord, the accent. It's hysterical, and I'd bet my wheelchair that David Caruso wishes someone had burned the master prints when the season ended.

It's not as good as I remembered it to be, but modern crime dramas could still learn a few things about psychological realism and continuity from it.