Baltimore City Councilwoman Catherine E. Pugh attracted a small crowd last week for a public hearing on a resolution to find ways to promote a better image of the city.

A former college professor showed up with an idea for "entrepreneurship education" in the public schools. A guitarist for a local band named Fitehouse made an appearance to tout his very own rock 'n' roll anthem for Baltimore.

But also seated in a dark row of vacant seats, waiting to speak, was David Simon, celebrated producer and writer for such Baltimore-based crime dramas as Homicide, The Wire and The Corner - the very kinds of programs Pugh feared were sullying the image of Charm City, the same dramas her resolution sought, in her words, to "counteract."

Usually, a local resolution to encourage civic boosterism would not be of much note. City councils sometimes engage in this sort of harmless political meandering during times of indecision or duress. As Mayor Martin O'Malley promotes his "Believe" campaign and offers funds to illuminate the city skies at night with lights on church spires (his "Inspire" campaign), a dogged hunt for signs of hope is not uncommon.

But when Baltimore City Council Bill 02-0917, Pugh's resolution seeking ways to project a better image of the city, died Monday night, its demise prompted a double-take.

Call this story: "Homicide: How the Bill Got Beat."

Caught in the crossfire between the city councilwoman who said she "only wanted to do something positive" and the successful TV crime show producer who threatened to pull his production crews out of Baltimore, Bill 02-0917 and its demise raise a provocative question: Whose vision of Baltimore will rule?

Problems began when members of the local filmmaking industry read a precis to the resolution, in which Pugh excerpted comments by newspaper writers around the country "heralding the summer debut of a new cable TV crime-drama set in our City, each vying to outdo the other in gritty depictions of a crime ridden hell-hole and in clever expressions of chagrin at Baltimore's fate as a patsy for blood-and-guts storytellers."

The crime drama (Simon's latest show, The Wire), one account said, "is the starkest look yet at the redoubtable, battered, drug-ridden streets of Baltimore. ... The Chamber of Commerce must be apoplectic by now." Another noted: "Poor Baltimore! It must be the city of choice for producers doing somber crime stories. One worries that all the gloom and doom may adversely affect tourism."

The councilwoman opened the public hearing insisting that she had not targeted "only movies and TV programs" but also pointed to sensationalized crime coverage on local TV news shows. She wondered aloud how to respond to editorials that appeared in places like The New York Times that cast the city in a poor light. She told the audience she merely hoped to safeguard tourism and find ways to counteract the negative and highlight the positive.

The audience barely stirred.

Jack Gerbes, director of the Maryland Film Office, spoke first. Dressed entirely in black, he apologized for not appearing in business attire, but explained that he had just been out "scouting for a movie."

Filmmaking in Maryland, he began, has brought $620 million to the state over the past 10 years, $68 million last year alone.

He noted that a few years ago, after The Blair Witch Project was released, citizens of Burkittsville, where the film was set, tried to write legislation to appoint a "censor" to decide what kinds of films would be "appropriate" to shoot in Maryland.

"Before we heard about the bill," Gerbes said, "we got calls from Sony Pictures, Warner Bros. and the Motion Picture Association [of America] saying if this legislation passed, none of those companies would come to Maryland. Just the fact that it was being considered gave them pause."

By the time Gerbes was done, Pugh was holding her head in her hands, left trying to explain that she only wanted suggestions for how to promote the city. "The idea of this hearing is not just to address your programs or movies - that's not what it's about. ... We appreciate the dollars that the film industry brings to Baltimore and Maryland, but we do have an image we need to address as the press pursues us."

But it was too late.

Taking his place at the microphone, Simon opened a notebook and settled in for a lengthy diatribe.

The resolution was not about promoting the city, he said. It was, he suggested, about censoring his vision, his voice, the voice of the people he writes about and the voice of dissent that he has raised against the city's war on drugs.

"The first season of The Wire, which is fictional but based in large part on the experiences of Baltimore Detective Edward Burns," he said, "is nothing more or less than a treatise against the drug war and a policy prohibition that has turned vast tracts of your city, the city that this council claims to govern and administer, into a barren battleground in a neverending war of attrition.

"Those of you who suggest such a viewpoint ought not be seen or heard in connection with Baltimore. ... I don't know what to say. I can only note that until we all begin to honestly assess the urban drug culture and our militarized response to it, there will continue to be more tragedies like the one that recently befell the Dawson family on the city's East Side. That got you more bad headlines around America. That got you more of a reputation around America than anything I put on HBO. That got you the editorials in The New York Times."

As his voice grew louder and quivered, at times, in anger, any hope that Simon would spring with an idea that would promote something heartening about Baltimore faded. He did acknowledge his "love" for the city, mentioning that he is also a taxpayer and voter in District 1. But he offered only one suggestion for promotion. His own decision to live in Baltimore "as opposed to New York or Los Angeles, where my industry is located," he said, is "admirable ... and I think it's certainly worthy of the council's attention of how the city could be better promoted."

Beyond that, he called the council "oblivious," the resolution "parochial," and their critique of his work "meaningless."

"I voted in recent elections to reduce your ranks by five," he concluded. "I see now that it may not have been reform enough. ... A more deliberative body with real responsibilities and a relevant agenda would be ashamed."

He turned to leave, but Council President Sheila Dixon called him back for a question.

"Mr. Simon," she said, "I would like to compliment you on your good writing. I just have a question: Have you ever had a thought on writing something pretty or positive about Baltimore? ... Is there something that will give the children something to look up to about the city of Baltimore?"

His answer: "I write what I know."

While he spoke, Pugh later recalled, "I kept thinking, 'Calm down, David. Calm down. That isn't what this is about.'"

But again it was too late. Simon left before the other presentations concluded, and this week sent a letter to the council threatening to "speak with HBO about the possibility of shooting coming seasons of The Wire in another, comparable city" if the resolution passed.

The resolution died.

"I didn't expect that," Pugh said later. "I expected people to come in and say, 'Here is what you need to do, and here are some people who are willing to help.'"

But when you offend the man who also brings the city money, as well as notoriety, by selling your city's troubles for entertainment and defends it as an artistic vision, the deal is already done, perhaps. And any question about "Baltimore's fate as a patsy for blood-and-guts storytellers" becomes more interesting and more complicated than you might have ever imagined.