The Wire, seasons 1 to 4 and counting

I’m in danger of becoming evangelical about The Wire. But if there is Good television and Evil television (and I think there is), then David Simon’s visionary crime series is firmly on the side of the angels.

It’s a slow-burner, and takes some early stamina. The episodes aren’t self-contained and satisfying, no bite-size chunks of glitzy drama here. The tone and pace are established immediately, the programme-maker unapologetically sacrificing short-term titillation for things that disappeared long ago from American TV drama – characterisation, narrative, a proper hour per episode – and for a moment it’s disconcerting and strangely uncomfortable, like picking up a book after watching too much MTV.

But as the stories unfold, the characters develop, the worlds and underworlds are created, the effect is rewarding, entertaining and gripping, as the plotlines twist, turn, delight and repulse. The whole thing does have a literary quality, with exquisitely woven narrative strands slowly but surely seducing and engaging an increasingly captive audience.

There’s been a lot of talk about the show recently, with critics like Charlie Brooker herding people onto the bandwagon. Don’t let that put you off. As Brooker says, it’s fucking brilliant – time to get in the game.