Homicide was first introduced to the viewing public immediately following the 1993 Super Bowl-a strategy designed to announce the series as a significant television event. NBC's initial promotion of the series emphasized its cinematic pedigree: namely, the presence of Academy Award winning director (and Baltimore native) Barry Levinson as one of the executive producers, and director of the pilot episode. In addition, screenwriter Paul Attanasio ( Quiz Show, Donnie Brasco), was commissioned to write the pilot episode and was credited as the series creator. The correlation between Hollywood and Homicide continued to be fruitful over the years, as an impressive number of feature film directors and actors appeared both behind and in front of the cameras. The series also boasted impressive television credentials, particularly in the person of Tom Fontana. Fontana, already a veteran writer and producer whose previous experience included NBC's critically acclaimed drama St. Elsewhere, was brought in to oversee the daily operations of production, and emerged as the major creative force behind the series as a whole.

     Though the exigencies of network television precluded the series from attacking its subject matter with the same kind of daunting grit and detail found in David Simon's lengthy account, the series always strove to chart the same territory as that of the book: the cynical squad room digressions; the morbid corpse-side manner adopted as a defense mechanism, and the small personal and interpersonal battles waged by the detectives as they faced the brutal realities of life and death in the inner city. The series was shot entirely on location in Baltimore, and the city itself also played a crucial role in the narrative, lending it a richness and flavor not often found in studio back lots.

     No real formula ever emerged over the course of the series. Like Hill Street Blues, each episode was a mixture of episodic plotlines and cumulative narratives. Individual cases provided the basic contours of each episode, but were always set against a range of ongoing personal and professional conflicts being faced by the detectives and their partners. The increasingly close partnership between detectives Tim Bayliss (Kyle Secor) and Frank Pembleton (Andre Braugher) quickly became the centerpiece of the series-described by Tom Fontana, with some hyperbole, as the "greatest love story in the history of television." Bayliss's arrival on the squad marked the beginning of the series, and his growth, both professional and personal, comprised the primary arc of the serial narrative. Pembleton was perhaps the brightest and most enigmatic detective on the squad, known for the artistry of his interrogation technique, his philosophical approach to policing, and his strained Catholicism. Other pairs from the first season included Bolander and Munch (Ned Beatty and Richard Belzer), Felton and Howard (Daniel Baldwin and Melissa Leo), and Lewis and Crosetti (Clarke Johnson and Jon Polito). The squad was overseen by Lieutenant Al Giardello (Yaphet Kotto), described by Tod Hoffman as "sometimes moved to rage, often frustrated, but frequently just bemused." In this sense, Giardello's character was emblematic of the series as a whole.

     But unlike most police series, Homicide was a show as much about its victims as its heroes. Quite often, the victims whose names hung in red and black on "the board" in the squad room were the dealers, thieves, and pushers that have bedeviled the genre from the beginning. But rather than revel in their untimely demise, the series worked to place their lives and deaths in the larger context of a society at odds. The process of investigation typically provided more questions than answers, and arrests rarely served as resolutions to the bigger problems at hand, especially when it came to issues of race. As Christopher Campbell has suggested, Homicide was frequently at its best when it placed race on the center stage and then refused to give easy an­swers, "leaving audiences to grapple with the subtleties and impact of contemporary racism."

     Audiences were also left to grapple with the style of Homicide, which took a complicated approach to the realistic aesthetic so important to the police genre. The look of Homicide was a complex blend of stylistic and cultural references working together both to set the series apart in the crowded market of prime-time drama, and to sharpen its critical edge. As if springing forth from the unlikely union of Frederick Wiseman and MTV, the series used elements of montage (jump-cuts and rapid repeat cuts) along with a swooning hand­ held camera to both heighten the documentary feel of the series and to self-reflexively call attention to the highly constructed quality of all media images, especially those found on the evening news or on "reality" shows such as COPS.

     Alongside its camerawork and editing, Homicide was also known for its use of popular music as a central narrative and stylistic tool. Like Miami Vice in the1980s, Homicide frequently used popular music to supply a certain amount of stylistic energy. And in both series the music also underscored important points in the story, often complicating the narrative by offering a second level of commentary on the action. But the music in Homicide often acted as a critical reversal of the documentary aesthetic as well: an ironic counterpoint to the claims to realism presented by the verite style.

     Perhaps because of its flamboyant style, the series never achieved widespread popular appeal, never appearing in the top 20 shows during its seven seasons. But it did enjoy nearly universal praise from media critics. Most impressively, perhaps, the series received an unprecedented three Peabody Awards (1993, 1995, and 1997). making it the most decorated dramatic program in the history of that award. Despite the Peabody accolades, however, the industry itself was slightly less generous. Though the series, along with its cast and crew, were regularly nominated for Emmys, Homicide actually won only three Emmy Awards in any category over the course of its seven seasons.

     While its daring stylistic and narrative approach may have puzzled viewers, the lack of high ratings for the series may also be attributed to network programming strategies. When Homicide first appeared, NBC was mired in third place behind CBS and ABC and approached the series in a somewhat guarded fashion. As a testament to NBC's ongoing indecision and apprehension regarding the series, Homicide's first two seasons consisted of a mere 13 episodes combined (nine in the first and four in the second). Additionally, the show was moved from Sunday to Wednesday and then to Thursday in this short span, and was simply difficult to locate or anticipate on the schedule until it finally settled on Fridays for its third season. The third season consisted of 20 episodes, but after it proved a ratings disappointment, the cast and crew were forced to wait until May to find out whether or not they would be back for a fourth the following fall.

     Once the network's fortunes began to tumble in the mid- l990s, the under-performing Homicide was placed under much less pressure to generate revenue. Even though the series continued to finish third in its time-slot, behind ABC's 20120 and CBS's Picket Fences, the network responded with a full order of 22 episodes for the fourth season, and then granted the series a two-year lease for its fifth and sixth seasons (1996-97 and 1997-98). But while the series managed to survive the lean years, the network's generosity always came with a mandate to clean up the series' look (including the cast) and to focus more expansive and dramatic stories built around "red balls"--cases and situations that demanded the attention and effort of the entire squad.

     The end finally came for Homicide after the seventh season (1998-99). NBC held off making its final decision until after the production company had wrapped up shooting for the season and, consequently, the final episode was shot with two possible endings: a season finale and a series finale. The multiple endings seem fitting for a series perpetually threatened with cancellation, and for which the end was always in sight, but repeatedly deferred.

     As a final testament to Homicide's troubled relationship to the increasingly unstable fortunes of the network, NBC brought Homicide back for a two-hour movie during March sweeps in 2000. The series that existed perpetually on the cancellation bubble, unable to attract a significant audience for advertisers, and continually finishing third in its time slot, was brought back to represent the network in the sweeps battle that helps determine advertising rates. On the one hand, bringing the series back for a 2-hour movie allowed the producers to wrap up some of the most important narrative arcs, something they were unable to do previously, given the cloud of uncertainty that haunted the final season. But, perhaps more significantly, NBC's actions regarding Homicide were a telling indication of the chaotic state of network programming at the turn of the century.