R. and I have been rewatching Deadwood, starting from the beginning, over the last few weeks, and I’ve found myself rather astonished by a few things:
1. How many small details and insinuations I’ve picked up that simply eluded me the first time around. I can’t count the number of times I’ve said “oh! That’s what that was about!”
2. How quickly my language has once again been infected by Deadwood-speak, not just in my choice of nouns and adjectives, but in syntax.
3. How absolutely brilliant the series was, not just in a use of language that comes as close as I can imagine to the Shakespearean, and not just in its stunning visual sense, but in its characterizations, its performances, and in the degree to which it made me care about a time and a place that I’d never before had the least interest in.
4. How insanely fucking furious I am made by the decisions of HBO/David Milch/whomever else involved, first to pull the plug on the fourth and final season, and now to eliminate what pathetic little shred of hope remained for any kind of even half-assed conclusion to the series.