![]() ![]() And then the second episode was terrible. Season 2-which would swap the swamp for Los Angeles and replace season 1's two-handed star power with the A-list crew of Colin Farrell, Rachel McAdams, Vince Vaughn, and Taylor Kitsch-debuted aboard an out-of-control hype train headed straight for anticipation station. It was a critical hit and internet sensation that basically launched McConaughey toward his Oscar win that same year and gave Pizzolatto an almost literary auteur aura. The first season of HBO's True Detective was an unholy witches' brew that perfectly combined a writer's taste for grand philosophy (Pizzolatto), a director's singular flair for the beautifully unclean ( Cary Joji Fukunaga), and two dynamite leading men in Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConaughey going for absolute broke as the drunken straight-man and his backwoods mystic partner. For reasons I can't quite recall, I watched those first few screeners in my childhood bedroom while my parents threw a party. When the credits rolled on those first few episodes, I trudged downstairs to join the gathering, and I'll never forget the genuinely concerned voice of a family member asking, as I emerged, "Oh my God, are you okay?"įolks, I was not okay. I was reviewing Pizzolatto's highly-anticipated follow-up to the phenom first season for the New York Observer, which isn't even a newspaper anymore. I had been given physical screeners back before the Great Game of Thrones Leak made HBO abolish such primitive things. Do you remember where you were when you first watched True Detective season 2? I certainly do. ![]()
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