Television Review: M.E., Myself and I (Homicide: Life on the Street, S5X05, 1996)

M.E., Myself and I (S05E05)

Airdate: 1 November 1996

Written by: Lyle Weldon & Emily Whitesell
Directed by: Michael Fields

Running Time: 46 minutes

The fifth season of Homicide: Life on the Street opened with a meta-narrative crisis mirroring the chaos within its fictional Baltimore Homicide Unit. Lieutenant Al Giardello’s repeated grievances about understaffing reflect both the unit’s diegetic struggles and the show’s behind-the-scenes challenges. The departures of Russert, Bollander, and Felton—whether through suspension, resignation, or narrative contrivance—coupled with Pembleton’s medical issues and Kellerman’s entanglement in a federal probe, leave the unit depleted. This scarcity of personnel becomes a recurring motif, one the series attempts to counter by promoting peripheral figures to central roles. The elevation of Brodie, the roving videographer, to a regular cast member exemplifies this strategy—a move that would later pave the way for similarly unconventional additions. While this approach injects fresh dynamics, it risks diluting the gritty realism that once anchored the show, substituting seasoned detectives with observers whose narrative utility remains ambiguous.

The episode’s most arresting moment arrives with Dr. Julianna Cox’s (Michelle Forbes) introduction—a scene steeped in reckless abandon. Speeding into Baltimore, she is halted by a traffic officer, her defiance and dishevelled demeanour while introducing herself as new Chief Medical Examiner instantly telegraphing a character unmoored by personal demons. Cox’s vices—reckless driving, drinking, transient relationships—are framed as coping mechanisms for the psychological toll of her work. Yet beneath this self-destructive façade lies a dedicated professional. When a homeless man confesses to a months-old strangulation dismissed as an overdose by her predecessor, Dr. Rivlin (Marty McDonough), Cox’s insistence on exhuming the victim exposes institutional negligence. Her swift dismissal of Rivlin—a man whose apathy symbolises systemic rot—cements her authority, though the victory is undercut by the revelation that her move to Baltimore was motivated by her terminally ill father’s decline. His death, closing the episode, adds pathos to her bravado, suggesting a vulnerability that Forbes portrays with exquisite subtlety. This duality—flawed yet fiercely principled—elevates Cox beyond the trope of the “troubled professional,” though the abruptness of her personal subplot risks reducing her grief to a narrative device.

The arrival of FBI Agent Thomas Pandolfi (Edward Herrmann) amplifies the unit’s tensions, particularly for Kellerman, whose past in the Arson Unit resurfaces like a spectre. Pandolfi’s “Box” interrogations probe Kellerman’s alleged corruption, unearthing a paranoia that manifests in self-sabotage. Kellerman’s combative encounter with Bobby Connelly (Cleo Reginald Pizzana), a former colleague he accuses of his predicament, underscores his descent into alcoholic defiance. While this arc effectively mirrors real-world anxieties about institutional distrust, Kellerman’s trajectory feels cyclical. His anger, though visceral, echoes prior seasons’ explorations of his moral ambiguity, begging the question: does his character evolve, or merely implode? Herrmann’s Pandolfi, meanwhile, is underutilised—a bureaucratic antagonist whose presence hints at broader systemic critique but never fully engages with it.

Frank Pembleton’s storyline—a subplot of quiet desperation—sees him grappling with medication-induced impotence, a cruel irony on his tenth wedding anniversary. His plea to his doctor—a midnight visit that breaches professional boundaries—yields a temporary reprieve: a 24-hour hiatus from antidepressants to reclaim intimacy. The sequence is poignant, exposing the toll of his high-stakes career on his private life. Yet the resolution’s tidiness—a fleeting reconnection with his wife—feels incongruous against the episode’s otherwise unflinching realism.

Brodie’s nomadic existence—crashing with detectives to comedic effect—takes a darker turn in Lewis’s home. His culinary skills, initially a boon, are overshadowed by an innocent comment about a painting on the wall, igniting tensions between Lewis and his wife. This subplot, while minor, underscores Brodie’s role as an unwitting agent of chaos. His outsider status, once a source of levity, now exposes the fragility of the detectives’ personal lives. Yet the episode falters in balancing Brodie’s comedic potential with his dramatic impact; the marital strife he incites feels abrupt, reducing complex relationships to a narrative contrivance.

Dr. Cox’s introduction invites comparison to Season 1’s Dr. Carol Blythe (Wendy Hughes), a character whose potential was squandered in a superficial romantic subplot with Bollander. M.E., Myself and I corrects this misstep, crafting a medical examiner whose allure is matched by her complexity. Cox’s professionalism—rigorous, unyielding—contrasts with her personal recklessness, a dichotomy Forbes embodies with magnetic intensity. Hints of romantic tension with Bayliss are wisely muted, prioritising her autonomy over clichéd entanglements. This recalibration reflects the show’s matured approach to female characters, though the shadow of Blythe’s wasted potential lingers, a reminder of earlier missteps.

The episode’s quieter moments include State Attorney Danvers’ announcement of his impending marriage—a revelation met with Howard’s stoic professionalism. Their past romance, alluded to but never fully explored, adds subtext to Howard’s terse congratulations. This exchange, though brief, epitomises the series’ strength in portraying workplace dynamics fraught with unspoken history. Howard’s restraint—masking personal hurt beneath procedural detachment—resonates as a testament to the show’s nuanced characterisation.

While the episode’s performances—particularly Forbes’s and Herrmann’s—anchor its emotional core, director Michael Fields’ stylistic choices occasionally undermine its gravity. Montages set to incongruously upbeat songs, a hallmark of the era’s television, clash with the narrative’s sombre themes. These sequences, though visually inventive, disrupt the show’s signature vérité aesthetic, veering into melodrama.

M.E., Myself and I encapsulates Season 5’s ambitions and growing pains. Dr. Cox’s introduction revitalises the forensic element of the series, while Kellerman’s unraveling and Pembleton’s fragility deepen the show’s exploration of moral exhaustion. Yet the episode’s tonal inconsistencies—swinging between gritty realism and stylistic excess—hint at a series grappling with its identity. The reliance on new characters to offset departures speaks to Homicide’s adaptability, even as it strains credulity. For all its flaws, the episode remains a testament to the show’s willingness to confront institutional decay—both within its fictional unit and the broader criminal justice system. In Cox, the series finds a worthy successor to its legacy of complex antiheroes, even if the path forward feels as precarious as her reckless drive into Baltimore.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

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