![]() Vince Vaughn in “True Detective.” Credit Lacey Terrell On his notebook because he thought it looked cool. To have everything lead finally to a demented backwoods gardener made all the cryptic drawings and Carcosa graffiti seem, in retrospect, less like occult clues than something a freshman scrawled Those heady first five or so episodes suggested an allegory about a fallen world, or at least an existential horror story about self-deception, humanity’s desperation for meaning and the evil that results from Reginald Ledoux, stalking out of the woods with a machete in his hand. I’m thinking about moments like at the end of episode 3, when a monologue about dreams and monsters gave way to a grotesquely jock-strapped and gas-masked ![]() But at its best,Īll the pseudo-philosophical ramblings, nightmarish crimes and narcotic, Southern Gothic imagery coalesced to spark a rare sort of spine-tingly jolt. Rust Cohle’s musings could be ponderous, it’s true, and the show could seem too impressed with itself. The problem was that the stuff that led up to that final hour promised so much more. To be a perfectly fine sort of show: a macabre murder mystery and ode to male friendship, brought to life by two actors of exceptional charisma and shared chemistry. Season 2, Episode 1, “The Western Book of the Dead”īy the end of its first season, “True Detective” was revealed
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