Chemo and radiation can leave patients a tad confused. It’s called Chemo Brain. Basically, patients are never quite sure if they’re a little fuzzy or if its the drugs. Same can be said for this season’s True Detective. As of Sunday, two episodes remain and I wonder if it’s the drugs or my brain.
Those of us who relished last year’s offering with Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConaughey as two Louisiana Bayou cops on a seventeen-year hunt for a serial killer found it so compelling we were on seat’s edge, pondering all week what might happen next. Probably because we were able to follow along.
Perhaps it was the New Orleans, southern vibe. Perhaps it was the jarring, but in the end comforting, combination of Harrelson and McConaughey keeping us glued to our screens. Perhaps it was the creepy ass things hanging from trees out in the swamp or perhaps it was just that the damn story made sense.
Fast forward to season two. We are dumped somewhere between LA and San Francisco. Even then, writers and producers had to search for the ugliest, grimiest parts of Cali to film. Our only respite is a glimpse of Mulholland Drive when we find the dead guy in the first episode. Found by Taylor Kitsch—squee. Not so much. You can’t be a character in season two unless you are damaged, unwashed and have secrets so dark we’ d have to get to know you to care. Which is impossible ‘cuz we don’t know what’s going on. Pfft.
Kitsch is joined by Rachel McAdams, who frankly if she’s not going to reprise The Notebook’s Allie who cares? She is Antigone Bezzerides, a detective who knives wooden dummies for a workout. Let’s back up. Did you know her name is “Antigone?” I figured it was Cancer Brain that I missed it in an earlier episode. Perhaps I dozed or morphine took me on an imaginary shopping trip. She’s only “Ani” on the show or that last name, which I had to look up on IMBD to figure out what the hell they were saying.
Colin Farrell, in greasy hair and greasy character eliminates any remnants of leading man status. He’s not even yummy scruffy where you know with your good intentions and talents he could be putty in your hands. He’s just dirty and a little creepy.
Squees went to the heavens when the cast was announced. What kind of story attracts that level of talent? How can it possibly top the bayou and all its secrets? Perhaps it does. Who can say? If only we could follow along.
Example. Middle Chicken, Baby Chicken and myself settle in on Sunday eve past. Conversation goes like this.
Me: “Wait, whoa, who’s that?”
Middle Chicken, Baby Chicken: No answer, which means they don’t know either. It also means they are willing to let me think Chemo Brain has taken over. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s easy having college age children home for the summer.
Me: “So is that guy she’s hallucinating about someone from her dad’s commune?”
Baby Chicken: “I think it is her dad.”
Me: “Do we know that? Do we know he abused her?”
Baby: “I don’t know. Who knows? That’s my best guess.”
And on and on and on. It’s okay; Gawker has an explanation every Monday called “Who’s the Real True Detective?”
Easy answer? Not me.