You have to wait until the last five minutes of the entire first True Detective series to find out that it’s really one hell of a love story.
That’s not its intention.
The series is proper modern Gothic thriller, with Rust uttering some of the most intricate, lyrical and arid takes on existence I’ve ever heard. It all plays down in the life-sucking heat of the South, with filmography so rich that you can almost smell the lush decay of life on the edge of the swamp.
The story switches you from airconditioned fluorescent-lit interrogation rooms back to a tent church where you can taste dust, sweat, hope and fear – then to the strange gypsy-camp brothel…. rust-scarred trailers and abuse-scarred women beneath huge 200-yr-old trees, wreathed in cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.
Then down, down, down into the stuff of nightmares.
And all along Rust is talking, talking, weaving a dark spell meant to sing his own terror to sleep. But he sleeps with both eyes open.
On the surface is the case (an impossible horror), behind it is the mystery of these two men, and it’s one they cannot solve. Like all the real mysteries in life, it has to understood by looking at something else and travelling through enough time. You see flashes of it from the corner of your eye, and it reveals pieces of itself in dreams; until one day, when you’ve resolved something else, everything clicks into place.
And it’s a love story.
(both images from truedetectivequotes.blogspot.com)