After all that buildup, all that talk of visions and memories and time, all those allusions to the Yellow King and H.P. Although it was brilliantly executed by series director Cary Fukunaga, conceptually it was a dud. None of the above is meant to excuse that final action sequence at Errol Childress’s weed-and-ivy-strewn lair. (A likelihood that recapper Kenny Herzog made strong note of in his writeup.) When you try, you usually end up with a rearrangement of things already seen - in which case the work is wise to build the idea of disappointment, or anticlimax, into the story itself, as writer-director Francis Coppola did in Apocalypse Now, a work that True Detective creator Nic Pizzolatto has surely seen once or twice. No matter how cleverly an artist stimulates the mind, the power of our dread and curiosity will still exceed the work’s ability to match them. 2001: A Space Odyssey aside, I can’t think of a quasi-mystical tale full of metafictional elements that built and built but did not in some sense disappoint. Was the final hour disappointing? Was the whole miniseries? Yes and yes, I suppose - if you expected True Detective to tell a story you have never, in any sense, heard before. (That old man with his mouth stitched shut and his eyes wide open - oof.) I immediately rewatched certain scenes because I could not stop laughing at them, but the show gave me nightmares anyway. The one thing you definitely can’t say about it is that it failed to commit. The finale of True Detective was silly and awesome, and awesomely silly.
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