Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Boy The Earth Talks To At Great Length

At the risk of this developing into a theme, more on Deadwood, for no better reason than the fact that myself, a friend, and said friend's on-demand HBO were up until 5 AM last night ploughing through the first eight episodes of the second season. My jaw, as I walk along, is still scooping up tasty debris from the sidewalk, and until I catch up on my sleep my vocabulary is more or less restricted to the word "cocksucker".

But there is a reason for posting. I found the text of the recent New Yorker profile on series maven David Milch, here. The New Yorker pays by the syllable, so it's on the long side, although that can in part be attributed to Milch's style of extemporania (not a word, but a discarded title for this blog) which goes like this:
"Darwin wrote about accidents of evolution - he called them 'sports' - species which turned out to be superadaptive in whatever environment they discovered themselves in. In social terms, those are civilizers. Intuitively, I knew that there had to be a Bullock, and when I read about him it was like" - he snapped his fingers - " 'I met him on the river.' And those guys - those sports - are what made the country great. Bill Hickok was another guy like that, men who were absolute mysteries to themselves. And my dad was that way, too, a complete mystery to himself - someone who would engage in purifying acts of kindness but done in such a contorted fucking way, in no way that could ever be rationalized. There's no way my peculiar set of adaptive characteristics could have survived except in that crucible."
We also learn that the character of Al Swearengen is drawn from history, rather than just having been given a funny name because he says "fuck" quite frequently.