Tom Till     1.8.7 Pity the poor Winter Olympics, gone barely a few days and already largely forgotten. The hapless amalgamation of canceled events and shoddy broadcasting that defined the 1998 Games rightly earned them the title of Least-Watched Olympics In History, and thus set the stage for the final curtain of the real Titanic -- CBS. But in anticipation of a ratings bonanza, CBS's competitors sought to dilute their schedules for the entire interim, throwing up a gross cocktail of mediocre repeats and extremely bad films (NBC actually showed Passenger 57). The pernicious effects of this defeatist attitude knew few boundaries as executives encroached mercilessly upon their respective networks, casually deleting any show that refused to feature a band of white yuppie New Yorkers crying about their respective stations in life. Yet one victim in particular has repeatedly weathered the dark machinations of the network brass, Olympics or no, and emerged victorious -- at least so far. But do not think for a moment that Homicide: Life on the Street (NBC Fridays, 10 p.m.) has reached sanctuary. In today's atmosphere nothing this pure, this noncommercial, could exist without constant threat of cancellation. Based on Baltimore Sun reporter David Simon's 1991 book Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets and created for television by director Barry Levinson and screenwriter and former Washington Post film critic Paul Attanasio, Homicide eschews any hint of formula, focusing instead on the minds of and interactions between the men and women of a fictional Baltimore City Police homicide unit, as well as how they respond to the community and conditions surrounding them. As the show is shot on location, the city of Baltimore serves as a character in itself, and only heightens the sense of authenticity. This eclectic approach produces incisive meditations on just about every subject imaginable, from Black Muslims patrolling public housing projects to AIDS and the meaning of revenge to professional sports and the fanatics they spawn. Supplemented by healthy doses of provocative commentary on race, corruption, morality and crime itself, the end result represents nothing less than the most original and challenging television currently available. Homicide's greatest strength lies in its cast, or, more specifically, in its decision to spend a few episodes concentrating on the developments of a handful of characters, before quietly placing them in the background in order to move on to others. After several weeks of wallowing in relative obscurity, each character (re)emerges as pivotal to a particular episode, with a plot specifically tailored to his or her personality, past, professional status, or beliefs. Featuring veterans of stage and screen, the show boasts Yaphet Kotto as Lieutenant Al Giardello, a half-black half-Italian wickedly no-bullshit leader; Richard Belzer (yes, Richard Belzer) as the hopelessly cynical yet oddly competent Detective John Munch; and Reed Diamond as Mike Kellerman, once a promising detective until accusations of bribery and his morally dubious shooting of a sadistic drug lord derail both his career and personal life. Three newcomers have added even greater dynamism this season, particularly Jon Seda's Detective Paul Falsone, a cop whose abrasive, cocky demeanor neatly hides a genuinely good man. The remaining players, including Kyle Secor, Clark Johnson, Michelle Forbes, Callie Thorne, and Peter Gerety, all register strongly. The cast, although nominally an ensemble, unofficially revolves around Detective Frank Pembleton, played by the incomparable Andre Braugher. Braugher's sheer intensity, accentuated by a stare that resides somewhere in between frightening and truly demonic, commands the viewer's attention -- even during those episodes in which he only appears fleetingly. Pembleton qualifies as the unit's most gifted and dedicated cop, but one whose personal complexities and uncompromising approach to work and life often alienate his colleagues. Viewers can see the conflicts raging within him as he devotes himself unfailingly to the rule of the law, while at the same time privately lamenting the depraved nature of the urban world and its resulting impact on blacks, scores of whom he puts behind bars. In terms of pure talent, Braugher stands virtually alone among his contemporaries in film or television, a fact confirmed by his performances, past and present. Whether moving in to protect a prominent black family from accusations of murder that ultimately prove true, or, in one of the greatest hours of television ever, relentlessly bullying a 12-year-old gang-banger who treats his shooting of the wrong "target" (a boy of similar age) with horrifying nonchalance, Braugher consistently evinces a gravity alien to all other actors working today. At the beginning of this season, NBC warned Homicide that if better ratings did not materialize, a permanent cancellation would follow (the network has put it on hiatus twice since its 1993 debut). An empty threat? Possibly. After all, someone in the front office hatched the exquisite idea of allowing the show's creators unmatched artistic latitude. For the sake of good television, let us hope that those in charge continue to ignore the so-called demands of the marketplace.

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