True Detective is a television program that aired on HBO some time back. Around the time of the Ukrainian crisis and not long before Max Read became editor of Gawker. Not your ordinary, photogenic teledrama that circles the drain tentatively until its ratings expires. The conclusion of True Detective №1 placed it in that esteemed category of narrative that is immediately recognized as classic and thankfully, finite. The experience of art is a unique thread among many extending from the creation to ourselves, and sometimes it can penetrate quite deeply and painfully. Millions of Americans and HBO-loving foreigners are right now cementing their opinions of the show, condensing their sentiments into one potent line of thought they can draw on next year (did I like it?) when the scenes of bestial corpses and organized savagery are too degraded to focus into an image. Intervening films and television programming promise to titillate us with further damage to human flesh and more accurate models of pain and suffering than technology and theatrical technique have dared venture before, and it is not always easy to distinguish these brutalities from one another.

Having said my bit, here's what happened in one-point-one. Rust Cohle (porn name: Rusty Cobalt) and Marty ~ are two detectives getting interviewed by two black detectives in a contemporary time. It's important to point out they're black because it shows just how much has changed in the intersession. Before blacks were the helpless victims of minor terroristic crimes (cats, nails, stigmata); now they are solving the crimes. Folded in like cocoa powder when you beat egg whites for meringue. A little cream of tartar, some refined Louisiana sugar and you're good to go. Important or amusing to note as well that later Rusty Cobalt and the Marties visit one of the nicer state prisons in Avoyelles Parish, where notable caner Solomon Northup was emancipated from Edwin Epps at Marksville in January 1853.

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Rust and Marty (having said their names I would note their characterizations are so strong, so far from the normative McConaughey, the proceedings complementing Harrelson's natural baseness well enough, that I did not resort internally to referencing them by the actors' names) were once partners around the time I was born. The neighborhood I was born in looks a lot like mid-90's Louisiana. I'll let them know when I visit they have the prospect of looking like contemporary Louisiana in 20 years. Speaking of throwbacks, it's nice to see Judge Phelan and Lester Freamon from The Wire make appearances as Ken Quesada and a preacher, respectively. The preacher cast doubts on Rustymart's detective skills and does not even deign to call them natural POAH-lice. Rust, for his part, is equal parts pseudo-intellectual and country sheriff, riding roughshod over his polar nemeses, the longstanding forces of evil in these parts and all regions of the Texas Republic and Louisiana Purchase. But while being just as cynical as I am (his comment about not being brave enough to kill oneself in the face of irrational Darwinian instincts to carry on, I swear were taken straight from stray thoughts flitting about while I'm showering or folding some laundry), when two such unpleasant people to share the same space the negativity can reach toxic levels, mingling between monitor and viewer like two exhaust pipes rerouted through a car window sealed with tape.

In the midst of all this rambling on my part a woman is found dead with a crown on her head fashioned from antlers arranged with some folkloric twig figures later discovered in the homestead of a stroke victim and his wife. The governor takes a personal interest in the case goaded by his relative the Reverend Tuttle who will surely be but has not yet revealed himself as the fountainhead of insidious power in the police department. Rust keeps remembering it's his daughter's birthday, but it's okay, he doesn't have to buy her a present because she's dead. Instead he go gets drunk and suffers a million prying questions from Marty's wife Maggie and their two precocious children. The children know things in all likelihood they will later on refuse to tell.

The setting is an inexhaustible source of poverty horror. We're this not a percolated contrivance of the screenwriter it'd be the kind of sticky place you could drive through until your tires are soaked with molasses and refuse to go on from exhaustion. The strip mall down the street from my house is a Floridian facsimile of the parking lot "town square" the coroner's office forms one side of, all warping wooden slats, faded paint, ambiguously occupied storefronts. The perfect place to get murdered in broad daylight, if not for the steady flow of traffic trying to get to better places yet. As for ghastly little girls standing by telephone poles and murderous cults roaming the countryside, not far from here a man set fire to his apartment building after the neighbors complained of his public indecencies. His face was sheathed in a pale, grainy pudding defying recognition since many years back he tried to off himself with a shotgun blast to the head. When will we be getting our True Florida Man anthology, HBO?

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Episode one-point-two was totally bollocks. The drunkard duo make their way to a leased brothel, and recover a diary. That's all I can remember and I watched it not even four hours from writing this. Uneven qualities test my patience. But at the very least this show will hold up to more literary stress testing than others.