‘Cross’ Review: Aldis Hodge Elevates Amazon’s Otherwise By-The-Book James Patterson Drama

For all of the money Amazon‘s original programming department spends on vaguely connected tales of international espionage or low-cultural-impact origin stories for various hobbits and dwarves, the thing the streamer does most successfully is harken back to its “that place you started buying books from when the Waldenbooks at the mall went under” roots by making polished, middlebrow series adaptations of polished, middlebrow best-selling novels.

It’s a burgeoning category of which the pragmatic urban tapestry of Bosch is probably the smartest example, the blunt pleasures of Reacher the most satisfying and Jack Ryan a show that definitely also exists.

That’s enough of a positive track record that Amazon has already renewed Cross for a second season, before audiences have even had the chance to sample a series wedged awkwardly between an exceptional star vehicle for lead Aldis Hodge and a bloated, over-familiar episode of Criminal Minds stretched across eight hours. Though Hodge’s grounded center singlehandedly keeps the drama watchable throughout, the material around him is exploitative, frustratingly trashy and absolutely destined to be a hit.

If you haven’t read any of James Patterson‘s dozens of Alex Cross novels or seen the film adaptations starring Morgan Freeman and then Tyler Perry, creator Ben Watkins and early director Nzingha Stewart waste little time in introducing the much-admired character. (Plenty of time is wasted later, but Cross at least starts decently before floundering). 

Cross is a Washington, D.C. police detective with a psychology Ph.D. who’s become a minor local celebrity after cracking the Gary Soneji case, a pivotal one in book lore. With a beautiful wife (Chaunteé Schuler Irving), two precocious kids (Melody Hurd and Caleb Elijah) and a helpful grandma (Juanita Jennings), Cross seems to have it all. Then, in opening scene of the premiere, Maria is murdered. Cross goes into downward spiral that leaves his family and his closest collaborators, including partner John Sampson (Isaiah Mustafa) and FBI agent Kayla Craig (Alona Tal), very concerned about his well-being.

After a year of resisting therapy and seeing his temper outbursts escalate, Cross is on the verge of requesting a leave of absence when he gets pulled into an investigation of the death of a local Defund the Police/Black Lives Matter activist. The politically ambitious white chief of police (Jennifer Wigmore) simultaneously needs a Black detective as a public-facing presence on the controversial case and wants it buried swiftly. 

For a few minutes, it looks like the plot will be an opportunity for a nuanced exploration of what it means to be a Black law enforcement officer in a primarily Black community that views the police as an occupying force. There’s a suggestion that something provocative is about to be afoot. But, nah! Rather than use the thriller trappings as a Trojan horse for contemporary subtext, the first season of Cross revolves around a ghoulish serial killer who really loves other serial killers, as well as a separate but possibly related case tied to Cross’ past. While not based on a specific book, the storyline is completely on-formula for the Cross brand. But it’s disappointing in this instance because of the topical potential, which it turns into window dressing and then squanders entirely. 

Without spoiling much, the actual mystery, which relates to our societal obsession with serial killers but really just provides another one for audiences to obsess over, involves Ed Ramsey (Ryan Eggold), a wealthy D.C. kingmaker; Bobby Trey (Johnny Ray Gill), a former cop with issues; and Shannon (Eloise Mumford), an ordinary woman who just wants to be an art curator for a hotel chain.

Much as the season’s antagonist is a fanatical devotee of celebrity serial killers — the show’s mixture of real and fictional murderers and real and fictional victims of police violence is a noxiously insensitive brew — Cross is, as a series, a fanatical devotee of pop cultural depictions of murder-solving. Wink-and-nudge references about, from overt nods to Silence of the Lambs, Sherlock Holmes and Easy Rawlins (a role I’ve wish-cast for Hodge for a decade) to jokes abut the genre’s tendency toward murky lighting and detectives whose magical process involves suddenly staring off into space until they have grand revelations.

But if you spend one or two episodes suggesting you’re commenting on hackneyed tropes and six or seven episodes reproducing them, the preponderance of evidence indicates that the thing you were implying you were better than, is actually what you are. 

You know that scene in most serial killer narratives in which the villain talks their way through their nefarious motivation, usually while torturing a sobbing victim (and, in the case of one Silence of the Lambs scene that Cross copies, mimicking the victim’s sobbing)? Part of what I’ve always found so consistently repellent about Criminal Minds is that its formula allows for this scene to be reproduced almost on a weekly basis. What makes Cross tiresome in its own way is that by taking a story that could have been told in 42 minutes or as a two-hour movie and stretching it to series form, the fetishized abuse gets elongated over nearly two-thirds of a season.

Just because NBC’s Hannibal did something comparable and did it well — with a similar backdrop critiquing the moral rot of Beltway and Mid-Atlantic aristocracy — doesn’t mean everybody can.

It’s the overextending of these clichés that makes Cross so frequently oppressive. It’s a lot of torment, a lot of whimpering and a lot of violence against a woman — sometimes presented to trick you into thinking you’re seeing more it than you are, and sometimes just shown directly — and, after maybe an episode or two, almost no commentary on much of anything. These suspense sequences are merely variations on ones you’ve seen executed elsewhere, playing out mostly in Ontario locations masquerading as DC. 

Consistently offering hope that Cross could evolve into something more is Leverage veteran Hodge, who proves equally persuasive depicting Alex Cross as a suave intellectual terminator or as a broken soul on the perpetual verge of lashing out. Alternately raging and simmering, he’s an exposed raw nerve clothed in precisely tailored suits and turtleneck sweaters, and Hodge makes Cross’ carefully calibrated control enticing and his lapses in control threatening and scary. Playing opposite the mature-beyond-their-years Hurd and Elijah, Hodge is able to embody both a paragon of paternal affection and man in desperate need of therapy. 

On the job, he parries well with Mustafa (subject of only one Old Spice joke) and Tal, but less well with the slew of supporting characters and actors ranging from no-dimensional (Sharon Taylor plays Cross’ boss, who is pregnant and nothing more) to one-dimensional (only a lack of mustache keeps Wigmore’s Chief Anderson from twirling one wickedly nonstop) to pointlessly inconsistent (watch for the rival detective who’s an adversary for half the series and then becomes inexplicably friendly).

Adding to the Criminal Minds feel is Eggold’s proudly but predictably against-type performance as the sort of power player you instantly know harbors dark secrets. He absolutely feels like a weekly guest star in a crime procedural and not at all like a human. Mumford convincingly gives the impression of having an awful time throughout the series. Gill gives the impression of having been told that he couldn’t possibly go too big with his character, and as a result, he delivers a jolt of crazy energy whenever he appears. But when he’s gone, you forget he had anything at all to do with the plot.

While its reverse Trojan horse structure is irritating, and the meta serial killer noodling adds layers of exhausting repetition instead of anything fresh, you can expect Cross to finally give Hodge the career-defining spotlight that potential vehicles like City on a Hill and Black Adam have failed to do. He’s great, and the show is something Amazon does successfully — if not always well.