The Smog Of War

Deep into the second episode of the second season of Showtime’s “Sleeper Cell,” the FBI falls for one of the oldest tricks in the book. And it’s not even a trick unique to al-Qaeda, the show’s arch enemy. It was used at least as far back as the 1991 film Backdraft by a plain old deranged arsonist. This is a disappointing moment for a series that in its first season was freakin’ terrifying in its ability to conjure a totally believable world of Jihadist recruitment and FBI deep cover. This year’s efforts drop down a level to the realm of really sadistic, really oversexed and really derivative of “The Sopranos.” It also reminds us that, as Adriana La Cerva discovered in New Jersey, it’s never a good idea to be a murderer’s girlfriend.

In eight episodes presented over consecutive nights, the tale picks up just about where it left off, with the aftermath of a failed chemical attack on Dodger Stadium. Terrorist leader Farik, played with keen understatement by Oded Fehr, is in U.S. custody and hesitant to talk. Suffice it to say that male viewers will forever cringe at the word “urethra” if they withstand episode three (“Torture”). War-torn conspirator Korjenic (Henri Lubatti) is on the run and just wants to get home. But every time he thinks he’s out, they pull him back in. This leaves terrorist Darwyn Al-Sayeed (Michael Ealy), who is actually the FBI’s inside man, in need of some new cell members. So, smuggled in from central casting come a European prostitute, an Iraqi ex-pat and a Latino gang member, all well versed in Islamic extremism. July 4 is around the corner and Los Angeles is about to endure some payback. Meanwhile, friends and relatives get victimized and significant others make big mistakes.

Steely-eyed Ealy has to stretch in every direction to keep his character afloat but manages to suffer and cause suffering with equal aplomb. And the show is still an excellent venue for both Muslim awareness and world music. But this more bombastic season tends toward somber, explanatory, two-person scenes that bog down the enterprise. The writers try compensating with prolific fornication of both the hetero and homo variety: a rape and the gratuitous use of a strip club as an FBI meeting ground. It’s a more upscale joint than Silvio’s Bada Bing, but more artificial as well—and not just because of the abundance of silicone.