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Riz Ahmed: "The Night Of"

 My husband and I have sensed a hole in our lives since “Mare of Easttown” ended, so we recently dug up “The Night Of.”


I had resisted this series for a long while. I think the awkwardness of the title bugged me. And the fact that the three leads are all men. But I’m hooked.


“The Night Of” concerns a party. A Muslim kid wants to attend, but he can’t get a ride, so he steals his dad’s cab. This theft becomes crucial: A pretty young woman believes our star is a cab driver, and hops in. Our star--Naz--should correct the record here, but he is young, and soon enough he is in an apartment on the Upper West Side, having semi-anonymous sex. The next morning, his friend/consort won’t wake up. Blood drips from the sheets. Naz runs away.


At this point, a conventional series would focus on the hunt for the real killer, but that’s not really what HBO does. Naz gets thrown in jail, and we begin to study two communities: prison, and the world surrounding the court. (Order, and law.) In prison, Naz encounters enemies, mentors, and tricksters, and he tries to “read” people who are surely mysteries even to themselves. A guy who seems to be a friend becomes impatient when Naz won’t “admit” to his crime; the guy throws hot oil in Naz’s face. (We know the guy is impetuous--he has actually shared this information--but somehow Naz misses clues, and he ends up wounded.)


In court, a powerful lawyer seems to want to help Naz (pro bono!), but she has a selfish agenda, and she drops her client the moment he stops serving her (clearly-irrelevant) interests.


The scripts are lovingly detailed. One dogged investigator spends many minutes talking about eczema; real life has a way of splitting off into absurd subplots, in pharmacies, doctor’s offices, and eczema-victim support groups. Naz gets head-spinner advice in jail. “Whatever you do, don’t share your story with anyone.” “Just tell people what happened to you. What’s the harm?” In one of my favorite moments, a rehab worker offers illegal photos to an investigator. (“Most ATMs give only 200 bucks a pop, but there’s one on fourteenth that will give you $350. Meet me back here in an hour.”) The rehab guy later flexes yet-additional capitalist muscles: “If you want file-info on other patients, it’s just $100 per client now. We have so many celebrities….you wouldn’t guess….”)


I’m not sure I’m learning much from this story, but I’m seduced by the writers’ talent. One writer in particular--Richard Price--is a crime legend. I hope this show “sticks the landing.”


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