Deadwood: Drama. 9 p.m. Sundays, HBO.
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There's a reason why so many people are upset, on the eve of the third
season of "Deadwood," that there won't be a proper fourth season because
of
monetary shenanigans, creative indulgences and twisted logic from HBO and
the series' creator, David Milch. That reason: This series is one of a
kind.
Literally.
While it's true that "Deadwood" is a Western, a genre so worn thin and
hallowed out through the years it hasn't been approached much in the
modern
world, Milch has risen up to take the form and infuse it with his cockeyed
genius and he has created a landscape, characters and dialogue so
thoroughly
original that "Deadwood," when history has its say, may go down as one of
television's greatest achievements -- a singular, original vision.
But money that works its own kind of madness and uninhibited creative
freedom given to a writer like Milch are two dangerous strands to entwine.
Translation: HBO gave Milch another project, which he took, and then he or
the network or both of them believed that fini****ng Season 4 of "Deadwood"
on time, with the actors on the hook and this other muse calling, might be
impossible. Plus, "Deadwood" is not only expensive to produce, but an
acquired taste. So they could not muster up the means to produce 12 more
episodes, concluding just this week that a pair of two-hour movies might
wrap up the whole affair quite nicely.
And they might. And it's true that viewers get, starting Sunday, 12 full
episodes in Season 3, and they should, in turn, be pretty damned pleased
about it. But still, all you need to do is witness Sunday's episode, "Tell
Your God to Ready for Blood," and you can't shake the feeling of remorse
for
what you won't get next year.
Now, "Deadwood" as a series is probably not something a new viewer can
walk
into come Sunday and make and heads or tails of it. This is Shakespeare in
the mud, a labor-intensive aural pleasure that is gilded with excessive
violence, an unholy amount of swearing and a lawless machismo that will
send
the faint of heart or the politically correct reeling. So, all others
inclined to see what the fuss is about should immediately tape this
season,
then rent or buy Seasons 1 and 2.
There truly is greatness in spades here, and dissecting "Deadwood" is as
much a pleasure as watching it. But before partaking of what Al Swearengen
(Ian McShane) would certainly consider unnecessary chatter, first the
details of Season 3:
The law is coming to Deadwood. The town is about to hold its first
elections
and they are, of course, rife with backstage dealing, killing and fear.
The
dreaded George Hearst (Gerald McRaney -- in a role that certainly reverses
a
lot of recent network nonsense) is slowly putting the town under his
thumb,
leaving his imprint and causing no shortage of harm. But those who have
been
the bigger players in Deadwood, like Swearengen, Seth Bullock (Timothy
Olyphant) and Cyrus Tolliver (Powers Boothe), aren't going down without a
knife to the eye. But if last season was full of foreboding over Hearst's
arrival, this season will be about managing his presence, along with the
usual "Deadwood" storylines of whoring, booze, gambling, killing and,
well,
more whoring.
Since we now know that Season 3 is the last, sans two hard-won but
reluctantly accepted movies that will allegedly appear in the future,
there's no getting around the sense of needing to write a fitting epitaph.
And in the same moment explain, once again to those who doubt but remain
curious and open, what's so special about this foul-mouthed Western.
At the forefront, it's the writing. Next, it's the acting and lastly it's
the storytelling, which allows the other two to mesh. But an interesting
thing happened to the writing in Season 1. It was odd, sure. Milch is odd.
He's theatrical and smart and adorned with a fearlessness that allows him
to
show off his virtuosity without actually making you hate him for it. But
in
the beginning, everybody focused on the incessant swearing, which is like
a
machine gun volley of words that daily newspapers, this one included,
hesitate to even judiciously shorten. Suffice it to say all the really bad
ones are in "Deadwood" and they pile up on top of each other like corpses
in
a lawless, godforsaken town. If you can't get past that, go elsewhere.
But what emerged, by midseason of that first year -- gaining confidence in
later episodes and then blooming into magnificence last season -- was a
Shakespearean grandness to the vocabulary that built on an ornate
structure
and was electrified by both humor and twisted logic. It got to the point
last year that actually having a story arc for the season and various
storylines in each episode was unnecessary (though they were present,
handcrafted with precision). No, there was enough joy in just listening to
the actors perform that a plot was like a forgotten present after a
gift-ravaging Christmas morning.
The dialogue alone proved there really was nothing else like "Deadwood" on
television. But for Milch's vision to succeed, he needs actors to pull it
off. That, too, sets "Deadwood" apart from a lot of other series. (HBO has
a
stable of shows where you can take the 15th most im****tant character and
find him or her to be richly nuanced and the actor responsible to be
immensely talented). Take a look at this cast. W. Earl Brown as Dan Dority
is wonderful. Dayton Callie as Charlie Utter -- excellent. Paula Malcomson
as Trixie, Brad Dourif as Doc Cochran, Robin Weigert as Calamity Jane,
William Sanderson as E.B. Farnum -- they are all incredible, and that's
barely half the cast.
"Deadwood" is just littered with talent. Hell, you can make an argument
that
Olyphant or Boothe have the misfortune to be overshadowed by the fully
earned and totally ca****ered virtuosity of McShane. They're really great
--
but he's from another planet entirely.
Part of the sadness in knowing that after this season there are only four
hours instead of 12 is directly related to the work of these actors as
they
read the scripts. It's a pleasure to witness them at work.
On a positive note, Season 3 is in the can. On Sunday, it's going to leap
out at you, like a knife from a desperate man's pocket. Watch yourself.
E-mail Tim Goodman at tgoodman@[EMAIL PROTECTED]
You can read his blog,
"The
Bastard Machine," at sfgate.com/blogs/goodman.
--
Spreading the gospel of Kennedy one post at a time.
MRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR....KENNEDY........KENNEDY!
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