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10 Reasons 'The Wire' Is Better than 'The Sopranos'

I watched The Sopranos from the beginning, and came late to The Wire. I regret the error. Don't get me wrong --I am one of those viewers who insisted that even at its worst, The Sopranos was still one of the best shows on television. I'll tell you right now that I did not like the ending, no matter whether or not Tony got whacked. But what you should know, if you don't already, is that the fifth and final season of The Wire starts January 6 on HBO. And while I anticipated the final season of The Sopranos with little more than resignation and a willingness to see it over with, I'm looking forward to this last season of The Wire with nervous anticipation and serious, sincere, enthusiastic excitement. And when I think about what The Wire accomplishes in comparison to The Sopranos, it's easy to see why the former beats the latter, hands down. There are more than ten reasons, but here are my best of the moment.

Where I'm Bacalling From

While home for the holidays and watching the required amount of holiday TV, I finally saw Dark Passage, the 1947 Humphrey Bogart-Lauren Bacall noir. It's pretty fine, but several close-ups convinced me that Bacall possessed supernatural good looks even among the noir siren pantheon. By the time of this movie, the 23-year-old Bacall was already married to the 48-year old Bogart, whom she met while filming her first movie, 1944's To Have and To Have Not. Bacall got that role because of the Harper's Bazaar cover above, which was spotted by director Howard Hawks' wife. Something kind of creepy about the blood-nurse tableau and Bacall's doll-like expression -- but still, what a honey.

Gawker Is Dead-ish

I admire Carla Blumenkranz's long essay about Gawker in n+1 for attempting to summarize the website's history and predict its future. Or rather Gawker's lack of a future, as it's clear from the title alone ("Gawker 2002-2007") that the essay is meant as a funeral speech. I like this one more than I liked the New York article on Gawker, which admittedly had different goals. What I chiefly admire is Blumenkranz's ability to keep her knives sheathed for at least two thirds of the essay -- a thoughtful recounting of Gawker's progress from Elizabeth Spiers through Chorie Sicha's first stint to the beginning of Jessica Coen's tenure. You know the knives are there, of course, and they are gonna come out, but it's still an unhurried read almost free of judgment.  There's some good meat here, as no one (that I know of) has troubled to really plumb the Gawker archives with this kind of eye. But then the knives are drawn, and the judgment must be rendered, and the focus goes soft, scratchy, and self-righteous.