'True Blood' Officially Doesn't Suck

Posted at 11:53 AM Nov 17, 2008

By Kenny Herzog

Don't worry, later on today we'll debrief you on why some other cultural contribution does, in fact, Suck. And I realize this may seem a bit hypocritical, as I myself recently denounced True Blood's baffling mediocrity. But after the last two episodes (the buildup to this Sunday's season finale), I have officially undergone a transformation in opinion as radical as young Jessica's giddy metamorphosis into a neck-muncher.

There seemed to be a tipping point prior to the program's penultimate couple of hours (which makes sense, as the final three episodes of an HBO show tend to be its version of sweeps), where its precarious balance of broad satire, absurdist violence and genteel drama was going to break under the weight of its own indecisiveness. But somehow, by steering the course of all three tonal possibilities into manically goofy overdrive, True Blood has found its voice, and a dedicated audience.

Where posters like "God Hates Fangs" hanging above a sheriff's wall used to elicit groans, they now inspire accepting cackles. Where Bill Compton's antiquated romantic delivery once was painfully out of place, it's now acknowledged outright by other characters as hilariously out of time. And with certain developments (yes, I now realize people hate spoilers, and thus less people read the accompanying story) regarding Sam and Tara in recent weeks, it's been made clear by Alan Ball and co. that there are no rules in Bon Temps, so we should all stop trying so hard to turn it into the network's next great relatable human drama.

Hell, they even threw us a bone this week by way of conceding a possible solution to the mystery of the killer. While this could just be a decoy, it still allows us to focus on the effects all this murdering has had on the primary cast, rather than get preoccupied with whodunit nonsense. Which, of course, would be rather counterintuitive in a show where life and death are fairly transient concepts in the first place.

So bring it on, fine citizens and undead of Bon Temps. You have officially planted your elongated saber chompers in my viewing consciousness, and I am beyond excited to have you drain my attention span for one last hour-long hurrah (well, at least until the second season, which is about as guaranteed as a lopsided Barack Obama electorate).