Kissed in the Dark
True Blood - Season 2 (2009)
rating: 4 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from the vaults
That “God Hates Fangs” church billboard in the opening credits promised more comedy than Season 1 delivered. Ditto True Blood’s very first scene, in which the vampire is not the scary Trent Reznor knock-off we suspect but instead the overweight country hunter browsing the cooler. Brother Jason was a gay idol just waiting for his breakout, Andy was still the angry Pole from The Wire, and the killer was any name picked from a hat. Don’t tell me it wasn’t, in the end.
Freed of Sookie’s grandmother, the writers made Season 2 as wonderful as I always wanted True Blood to be. Fully realized characters interesting enough to anchor their own shows are introduced and killed off with gleeful abandon. The world outside of Bon Temps expands exponentially with each episode’s dozen or so new mythological revelations. Vampires fly! Dallas is a sexy city! The blood of a vampire might save your life, but you’ll think of him in your dreams. There is art in the little touches, subtlety in the humor, and everywhere an un-self-conscious sense of fun. Stuffed as a turkey, stuffed as a pillow.
The Buffy-Angel-Spike love triangle (a match down to the same heads of hair) is the definitive fictional romantic TV template, and True Blood is smart enough to steal from the best. Without someone like Xander dressing like he can’t do it himself, the supporting players find plenty to occupy their hours that isn’t just reacting to the principal cast. Remember when Lohan donned fake fangs to “audition” for True Blood on Twitter? You don’t? Well, she did, but True Blood, by and large, is a cast of non-famous faces. New episodes are like happy meals with their own shiny stars-to-be.
The best idea? That words – spoken deliberately, though their implications are forgotten – have power, whether or not the person who speaks them is a fraud. The best moment? Eric with the kids. But there is so much that’s good, delivered fast and loose from the mouths of charmers, beauties, and con-men, that – at least until the disappointingly transitional season finale – the argument for fantasy as the great escape from a daily grind wins (back) a friend in me. Alan Ball, I owe you an apology.
rating: 4 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from the vaults
That “God Hates Fangs” church billboard in the opening credits promised more comedy than Season 1 delivered. Ditto True Blood’s very first scene, in which the vampire is not the scary Trent Reznor knock-off we suspect but instead the overweight country hunter browsing the cooler. Brother Jason was a gay idol just waiting for his breakout, Andy was still the angry Pole from The Wire, and the killer was any name picked from a hat. Don’t tell me it wasn’t, in the end.
Freed of Sookie’s grandmother, the writers made Season 2 as wonderful as I always wanted True Blood to be. Fully realized characters interesting enough to anchor their own shows are introduced and killed off with gleeful abandon. The world outside of Bon Temps expands exponentially with each episode’s dozen or so new mythological revelations. Vampires fly! Dallas is a sexy city! The blood of a vampire might save your life, but you’ll think of him in your dreams. There is art in the little touches, subtlety in the humor, and everywhere an un-self-conscious sense of fun. Stuffed as a turkey, stuffed as a pillow.
The Buffy-Angel-Spike love triangle (a match down to the same heads of hair) is the definitive fictional romantic TV template, and True Blood is smart enough to steal from the best. Without someone like Xander dressing like he can’t do it himself, the supporting players find plenty to occupy their hours that isn’t just reacting to the principal cast. Remember when Lohan donned fake fangs to “audition” for True Blood on Twitter? You don’t? Well, she did, but True Blood, by and large, is a cast of non-famous faces. New episodes are like happy meals with their own shiny stars-to-be.
The best idea? That words – spoken deliberately, though their implications are forgotten – have power, whether or not the person who speaks them is a fraud. The best moment? Eric with the kids. But there is so much that’s good, delivered fast and loose from the mouths of charmers, beauties, and con-men, that – at least until the disappointingly transitional season finale – the argument for fantasy as the great escape from a daily grind wins (back) a friend in me. Alan Ball, I owe you an apology.
posted by NPK at 6:50 AM
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