Time After Time (S03E01)
Airdate: September 19th 2004
Written by: David Simon Directed by: Ed Bianchi
Running Time: 58 minutes
David Simon’s persistent denial of Marxist affiliation has long been noted, yet it rings somewhat hollow against the profound resonance The Wire holds within Marxist critical circles. This admiration extends far beyond the show’s overtly left-leaning portrayal of institutional decay and working-class struggle in Baltimore. Crucially, it stems from the series’ very narrative structure, which, whether by conscious design or intuitive grasp of historical materialism, functions as a compelling dramatisation of the Marxist base-superstructure model. Season Two’s unflinching autopsy of the dying port and its attendant labour aristocracy laid bare the crumbling economic base of the city. Season Three, commencing with the potent premiere Time After Time, decisively pivots to dissect the political superstructure – the intricate, often corrupt, machinery of governance, policing, and electoral politics that arises from, and serves to perpetuate, that faltering base. This structural logic promised, as subsequent seasons delivered, an exploration of the cultural superstructure through education (Season Four) and media (Season Five). Time After Time is thus not merely an episode; it is the essential keystone establishing this season’s critical interrogation of power, revealing how the political realm, far from offering solutions, frequently constitutes the core of Baltimore’s systemic malaise.
This season’s return to the mean streets is not a regression but a necessary recalibration. While Season Two ventured into the docks, Season Three re-immerses us in the visceral reality of the drug trade and its attendant violence, but crucially refracts this through the distorting lens of the political establishment. The episode immediately establishes that the true obstacle to meaningful change lies not solely with the corner boys, but with the symbiotic, self-serving relationship between city hall and the police command. This is crystallised in the opening scenes introducing Mayor Clarence Royce (Glynn Turman), a figure embodying hollow political theatre. His grand gesture – the demolition of the tower projects, touted as a step towards "affordable and safer housing" – is exposed as pure spectacle, a cynical ploy for re-election that utterly fails to impress the street-level operators like Bodie. Life, and the drug trade, continues unabated under the uneasy truce between Stringer Bell and Proposition Joe. Bell’s articulation of a new business model – prioritising product quality over territorial control – signals a chilling evolution in the drug economy, one operating with a cold, almost corporate logic that the political class is ill-equipped, or unwilling, to comprehend or counter.
The Major Crime Unit, tasked with tackling this evolved threat, operates within the same compromised superstructure. Bolstered by the return of Sydnor and Prez (whose fallout with Valchek is conveniently, if implausibly, brushed aside) and the addition of Officer Caroline Massey (Joilet F. Harris), a seasoned Narcotics veteran whose fluency in street slang proves vital, the unit finds itself stymied. Their frustration is palpable; Joe’s organisation, acutely aware of surveillance, avoids incriminating phone conversations. A clumsy attempt to manipulate Joe into promoting the reckless nephew Drac backfires spectacularly, as Joe opts for the more reliable Cheese
Simultaneously, the abandonment of the Major Crime Unit by Herc and Carver, now relegated to the Western District’s Narcotics unit, underscores the systemic rot. Their futile raids and resort to arresting dealers for mere loitering highlight the absurdity and inefficacy of the drug war on the ground. This very futility begins to crystallise in Major Colvin, planting the seeds for his radical, season-defining experiment – a stark realisation that the political mandate for enforcement is fundamentally disconnected from reality and human consequence.
The political stakes escalate rapidly. Royce’s hollow gestures and the police department’s inability to demonstrably reduce crime become potent ammunition for the ambitious City Councilman Tommy Carcetti (Aidan Gillen). Carcetti, a young white politician in a majority-Black city, leverages the mounting homicide rate – Burrell’s order to stay below 270 becomes a desperate, numbers-driven farce – to savage Royce’s administration. Royce and Burrell, shielded by the politically astute Rawls (now Deputy Commissioner), dismiss Carcetti as a racial outlier with little chance of success. Yet Royce’s insecurity manifests in petty retaliation against perceived threats, notably halting Cedric Daniels’ promotion and starving the Major Crime Unit of resources after Marla Daniels announces her council run against Royce’s ally, Eunetta Perkins. The sheer, grinding weight of the crisis is viscerally felt by the Homicide unit, as Bunk and his colleagues reel from the immediate, human cost: five murders in a single night. The episode masterfully interweaves these threads, demonstrating how political ambition, police bureaucracy, and street-level violence are inextricably linked within the superstructure.
Time After Time excels as a remarkably economical and confident piece of storytelling. Simon, as writer, dispenses entirely with superfluous "where are they now" exposition, trusting the audience’s deep familiarity with the established world. This is an episode crafted unapologetically for the dedicated viewer, yet its power lies precisely in this refusal to pander. It delivers a narrative that feels simultaneously fresh and deeply rooted in the show’s established reality – a convincing continuation that acknowledges the passage of time without succumbing to nostalgia or retread. The episode’s strength is its dense, organic integration of new elements into the existing fabric, avoiding the pitfalls of forced introduction.
This confidence extends to its masterful deployment of black humour, rooted in the tragicomic gap between self-perception and reality. Stringer Bell’s earnest attempt to impose bourgeois civility upon his drug empire – employing Robert’s Rules of Order during a crew meeting – inevitably collapses into the same street-level thuggery and trash talk it sought to transcend, revealing the hollowness of his aspirations to legitimacy within a corrupt system. Similarly, Herc and Carver’s delusional self-image as urban heroes, conjured through references to Isaac Hayes’ Shaft theme, is brutally punctured by the contemptuous dismissal of actual corner boys, highlighting the profound disconnect between police fantasy and street reality.
The episode’s true significance, however, lies in its role as a narrative catalyst, introducing pivotal characters who irrevocably reshape the season’s trajectory and thematic depth. Tommy Carcetti is the most immediately politically significant. His ambition, crossing of established power brokers, and seeming disregard for the racial barriers in Baltimore politics present a complex figure. While later seasons complicate any simplistic "Obama precursor" reading, Aidan Gillen’s portrayal captures a potent mix of charisma, intelligence, and ruthless calculation. It’s easy to see how this nuanced, ambitious politician role paved the way for his iconic, similarly Machiavellian turn as Littlefinger in Game of Thrones.
More ingeniously introduced is Dennis "Cutty" Wise (Chad L. Coleman). Returning after fourteen years in prison for murder, Cutty is a profound outsider, a former Barksdale soldier utterly alienated from the world he left behind. His bewilderment and struggle to find a place provides a uniquely perceptive lens. Precisely because he is not inured to the sad realities of West Baltimore, his perspective cuts through the fatalism that paralyses those immersed in the daily grind. He embodies the possibility, however fragile, of alternatives outside the drug game’s logic.
Finally, the chilling introduction of Marlo Stanfield (Jamie Hector) is achieved with masterful subtlety. We don’t see Marlo commit violence; we witness its cold, calculated aftermath through his underlings. The vicious public humiliation of Bubbles and Johnny Weeks over a trivial car collision, and Fruit’s calculated cheating of the vulnerable Cutty out of drug money, establish Marlo’s crew as a new, terrifyingly efficient, and utterly remorseless force. Hector’s minimal screen time radiates an unnerving, silent menace, signalling the arrival of a villain whose pure, amoral pursuit of power will dominate the series' latter half.
Time After Time is far more than a season premiere. It is the indispensable foundation stone for Season Three’s exploration of the political superstructure. It reasserts the show’s core thesis: that Baltimore’s crises are not the result of individual moral failings, but of deeply embedded, interlocking systems of power – economic, political, and eventually cultural – that perpetuate inequality and violence. By introducing Carcetti, Cutty, and Marlo with such precision, and by weaving the frustrations of the police, the cynicism of city hall, and the brutal logic of the streets into a single, coherent tapestry, the episode reaffirms The Wire’s status not just as great television, but as a profound, structurally sophisticated Marxist critique of the American urban condition.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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