Every crime story takes place somewhere, but those "somewheres" can be very different in kind. There are the artificial somewheres of Agatha Christie's country houses and the mean streets of noir. There are the touristic somewheres of murder mysteries that serve up Paris or Tuscany as envy-inducing backdrops. And then there are the somewheres that are so gritty and confining they become a major character in the story — the Baltimore of The Wire, say, or Dennis Lehane's Boston.
The new Peacock streaming series Long Bright River belongs to this last group. Based on the acclaimed novel by Liz Moore, who co-wrote the series with Nikki Toscano, this eight-part story is set in Kensington, a struggling, opioid-ravaged, blue-collar Philadelphia neighborhood that leaves its mark on everyone who lives there. Propelled by its heroine's search for a killer, Long Bright River isn't just a mystery but a heartfelt story about wounded communities, wounded families and the wounded individuals who try to make things better.
Amanda Seyfried stars as Mickey Fitzpatrick, a Kensington-born cop who patrols her old 'hood while trying to raise her brainy 7-year-old son, Thomas, as a single mom. Although Mickey doesn't love her job — she once dreamed of being a classical musician — she jumps into action when somebody starts murdering young, drug-addicted women who are "working the avenue," as they call it. Not only did she grow up alongside some of these sex workers, her own estranged sister Kacey, played by Ashleigh Cummings, is one of their cohort. And Mickey can't find her.
As she starts investigating the case — not always wisely — Mickey soon discovers that to get anywhere, she's going to need to face up to her past. She starts by seeking help from her former police partner, Truman — that's British actor Nicholas Pinnock — a real mensch whose friendship she has betrayed.
But that's not all. Mickey has her own dark secrets, and the quest for the magenta-haired Kacey forces her to expose them. In a series of flashbacks, we learn the painful family history that led the sisters to be raised by their grandfather, a gruff, but essentially decent man played by that great hard-a** actor John Doman. And we see what drove them apart.
If you watch a lot of police shows, you'll know that Long Bright River belongs to the operatic sub-genre that includes Mare of Easttown and — perhaps the mother of such shows — the British series Happy Valley, all of which focus on women cops whose family crises are woven deeply and inextricably into the mysteries they're solving. Reacher they're not. If Long Bright River is less enjoyable than those earlier series, that's because it's less good at infusing its grown up themes with a sense of pop melodrama. It can feel a tad depressive.
While Seyfried is an actress I've long admired, she doesn't automatically strike one as a cop, and in fact her best scenes are the intimate ones with Kacey, Truman and her grandfather. She's great at conveying Mickey's struggle to do the right thing in a neighborhood that has learned to treat the police as an enemy that harasses them but doesn't protect them. Painfully self-contained, she lives a life of anxious responsibility — forever trying to safeguard her sister and her son.
You can understand her fears. The show depicts the characters living in an area of Philly whose decline embodies a profound social collapse — incomes low, jobs vanished, schools lousy, opioids replacing hope. The neighborhood is a place of ragtag shops, worn-out housing, terrifying street life and unhappy faces. Hopelessness passes itself from generation to generation, with some like Kacey being sucked into the whirlpool of addiction and despair, while others like Mickey struggle to keep those they love from joining what a priest calls "a long bright river of departed souls."
Of course, Long Bright River is a mystery not a sociology lesson, and I'm happy to assure you that, by the end, we discover the killer's identity and see justice done. Or a certain kind of justice anyway.
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