Oh boy, we loved True Blood when it started back in 2008. A cable-produced hybrid of daytime soap and American Gothic horror? High camp vamps with Deep South drawls and white trash sass? Sex n blood n gumbo? Yeah, go on then... And it was all kinds of fine for a few years, giving us everything we could possibly want in an over-sexed wink of a show, featuring a cast that were never knowingly under-acting. Very loosely based on Charlaine Harris Southern Vampire Mysteries series of pulp novels, the television adaptation veered off at a sharp angle as soon as it had found its feet, with showrunner Alan Ball electing to tell his own stories based upon the inhabitants of Bon Temps, Louisiana rather than follow the more established source material. And then it all started to go pear-shaped. Around the beginning of season four, True Blood stopped being a hilariously, brilliantly over-the-top guilty pleasure - the TV equivalent of a drunken game of strip poker - and became disjointed, garbled nonsense. Last Septembers announcement that season seven would be the last was greeted with a howl of well, indifference, which is curious given the fact that viewing figures for the show were still strong at the tail end of season six. But whats that? How can such a ridiculous television show becoming more nonsensical be a bad thing? Settle back, sweethearts. Let us explain (and, of course, here be spoilers).
Professional writer, punk werewolf and nesting place for starfish. Obsessed with squid, spirals and story. I publish short weird fiction online at desincarne.com, and tweet nonsense under the name Jack The Bodiless. You can follow me all you like, just don't touch my stuff.