This wasn’t your daddy’s revisionist Western. Since High Noon in 1952, the traditional Hollywood view of the old west had been assailed by those who didn’t view it through the rose tinted glasses of (early) John Ford and Howard Hawks. None, however, saw it as dirty, ugly, mean spirited or full of as much cursing as Deadwood.
Nothing in the vaunted HBO stable of series from the past decade burned as intensely as Deadwood. It possessed an unrelenting ferocity, not only shining a light on the darkness of how the American west was really won but on the merciless economic system still in play today. To label the series operatic is not indulging in overstatement or hyperbole. Operatic. Shakespearean. Operapearean. Or more precisely, fucking, cocksucking Operapearean.
The show’s somewhat abrupt conclusion after its 3rd season caused much hullabaloo within the fanatically dedicated fan base and removed some of the sheen from its luster. Creator David Milch moved on to his next project, John From Cincinnati; a compelling oddity that only seemed to further outrage the Deadwood crowd. He left us to do that!?! But arguably, there was nothing left to say with Deadwood. The baddest asses won and only in your wildest dreams (and Hollywood recreations) would the meek inherit the earth.
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