Saturday, June 20, 2009

Buffy's Got Those Culver City Blues Again

True Blood - Season One (2008)
rating: 1 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Netflix

Episode six – the “grief” episode – is a great example of how bad this show can get, and the problem with setting your vampire saga in similar emotional and narrative territory as the great vampire show is that True Blood makes a sad, pale-even-by-undead-standards contrast to Buffy. I have a laundry list of grievances against True Blood which I suppose I’ll get into, since the people I trust to stand in my corner have nothing but praise for Ms. Stackhouse & friends.

If nothing else, there’s a dearth of imagination in creator Alan Ball’s vision (I hold author Charlaine Harris blameless for cashing what I hope was a very large check). * For example, a show set in backwoods Louisiana is one of the few remaining opportunities to still make telephone land lines and bad cell phone reception relevant to a plot about isolation, loneliness, and the dark, but all of Sookie’s friends can call from anywhere, anytime. People should sweat (isn’t “sex” a big part of True Blood, too?) when they dance at an outdoor wedding reception, or make love in an un-air-conditioned house, or even walk outside. They don’t. And, of course, the incredible physical power of vampires is only called upon when needed by the writers; otherwise, wouldn’t Bill destroy half his plantation when he beats an old-fashioned iron toaster against the fireplace?

Black characters in True Blood can’t ever hold their liquor, drugs, or emotional outbursts. Accents are atrocious all around, and “dudes” like Sam – intended to be as loyal and reliable as the dogs they turn into – are, like Rufus in Gossip Girl, sad excuses for men. Can someone explain to me why Sookie’s grandmother’s house – the house that everyone says at least half a dozen times that Sookie’s grandmother takes such good care of – is covered in peeling paint?

If the world doesn’t want a lot of predictable Buffy hosannas from the peanut gallery, or childish remarks about the “accuracy” of a mob of Southern vampires living outside Baton Rouge, I certainly understand, but there are better examples elsewhere of every narrative hook the writers of True Blood try.

* I mean, Alan Ball wrote American Beauty, short-list contender for worst screenplay of all time. Did everyone forget that?