Truly Truebie. That’s what they’ll write on my tombstone (if my Post-Death Wishes 1, 2, and 3 are all ignored). The devoted viewers of True Blood are waning and dying out, much like the vampire race, but some real crazies still remain. Self included. There’s really nothing “good” about the show anymore, insofar as “good” usually means “story arcs that make sense,” or “cultural significance,” or “any character continuity whatsoever.” But who cares?? Is THAT why you started watching? For quality television?
Because I think you started watching for boobies, blood, and bitchery. It was merely a coincidence that the first couple of seasons were marvelously written and straddled the difficult line between satire and melodrama. Now the actors and writers are tired, and all we’re left with is the bare bones. But I still love those bones! They’re HBO-branded bones. So now we get utter crap that’s beautifully photographed and peppered with witticisms that belong on a much better show. And I love utter crap. I love utter crap so much.
This season’s been…comforting so far. I like enjoying it with my roommates, letting our eyes simultaneously rake over Alexander Skarsgard’s dewy chest like we’re taking communion together. True Blood‘s a show for girlfriends. When it was an allegory for civil rights, it was a monumental and daring slice of sex. Now it’s pretty much just a weekly one-night stand, a tasty little romp I usually block out the next day. It feels right.
True Blood, I just want to let you know that you never let me down. Once upon a time, you made me think. But now all you make me do is scream and drool and drink a lot on Sunday nights. It’s alright. You be as dirty and dumb as you want. Because I’ll be there until the network stakes you in the back. I’ll stand by you whether your final episodes B positive O negative. I said it. Yep.