The titular adjective reveals itself to be a definite understatement: our lieutenant (Harvey Keitel) oftentimes seems like a spy from the underworld, and a not very clever or cautious spy at that, who somehow has infiltrated the New York Police Department. He takes drugs the whole day through (albeit holding off till he has dropped off the kids at school) as well as trafficking in them; he gambles compulsively (turning a blind eye to a car break-in while on the phone to his bookie); he patronizes hookers (two at a time); he mediates a liquor-store holdup for the sole purpose of confiscating the loot (and a bag of cookies) for himself, after first shooing away the culprits. The only case he shows an interest in solving is the rape of a nun (salaciously depicted), and only because the $50,000 reward put up by the Catholic Church would come in handy for his mounting gambling debts. But there's no more investigatory tension than there is moral tension. The character's almost total isolation on screen, his driftlessness, his stuporousness, his endless devotion to misdeeds — never impinged upon by the call of duty — are perhaps meant to convey a spiritual or psychological state. But a little obligatory contact with his family (he has one), a partner (he hasn't one), or simply the stationhouse (assuming there is one) would have helped us to gauge his depravity; would have given us a touchstone of normalcy. The ongoing — and purely imaginary — playoff series between the Mets and the Dodgers is the one bit of structural solidness in the movie. Without it, this raw, grubby, wallowing piece of work would have provided no foothold. Directed by Abel Ferrera. (1992) — Duncan Shepherd