Few, if any shows have been able to achieve such an extraordinarily high level of depth within its characters. Fewer still have risen above the shallow, surface layer at which most characters lay amicably; never once challenging itself to push forward past the boundaries of the predictable—running its course as little more than a name, insulting what we really want.
Insulting what we truly need for our idle moments, whether we know it or not.
Ours is a landscape of mind numbing predictability. A broken idea of serving the lowest common denominator, forcing the rest of us to regress with no other options available. Forcing us to take sad refuge in the status quo, the only choice we’re given.
In short, while there are many shows, both scripted and naught, very few have risen to the truest acquaintance of greatness.
As if Shakespeare had fathered a bastard son, left to claw its way out of the mud, Deadwood was a show covered in filth yet standing beautiful underneath, speaking true poetry and challenging our understanding of the human condition. It gave us a machiavellian glimpse into the mirror and forced us to see the world for what it was, while subtly reminding us of what it is today.
Left as real and foreign to the normal disposition of understanding as if we were dropped blindly into the past itself, this show forced us to experience something new and different—and sometimes outside the realm of what’s comfortable.
It pushed the boundaries of what television can be; a subtle and refined work of art.
And though lauded by many, and followed devoutly, you saw fit to slap us collectively across our faces, leaving us wondering why, our cheek still burning to this day.
Deadwood produced a harsh yet not altogether unbeautiful look into the annals of what truly drives us as human beings. Cerebral and visceral at once, not unlike a life lived full, it encapsulated man in its truest, sometimes ugliest forms, but with a beautiful voice to guide us through and remind us what it means to be alive.
That it was never given the dignity of a proper ending shows how little respect you have both for we, the people, and the virtues of art itself. That you would abscond with something so cherished shows a true contempt for those that butter your bread and fill your cups.
And for that, like many others, I refuse to support what’s left of you and yours, having proved how little consideration you have for your audience—having sold your soul to something so ugly.
So give us back our show, you dirt worshippin’ hoople-heads, lest you fall victim to the fury of scorned abandonment from those both loyal and new. Unseasoned and fresh, tried and true.