True Blood

I’m serving up second week of vampire goodness, following on from my last post about The Vampire Diaries, as I’ve decided that vampires are the opposite of Christmas.  Even though the big day might now be in the past, anything I can do to accelerate its rapid disappearance in the rear-view mirror is to be commended.  And while The Vampire Diaries’ PG-rated light snogging and minimal gore might have felt (deliberately) unseasonal, True Blood’s definitive shag-fest and graphic blood-splurging should be the nail in the coffin (as it were) of this festive period.

We’re all clear on the fact that anything supernatural is a trigger theme for me.  But True Blood laced its vampires in with so much more that it was by and large a foregone conclusion that I would work my way into this boxset and swiftly devour all seven seasons.  I’m not sure where it was broadcast in the UK (and I’m too lazy to check) but I made my way through the various DVD discs as and when they came from Lovefilm, back in the day when Netflix was just a thing you thought that wouldn’t take off because internet connections weren’t fast enough.

True Blood’s true charm comes from its Southern setting.  And not just the Deep South, but deepest Louisiana.  We’re talking down by the bayou here.  Strangely, it seems like a great place for vampires, with the voodoo and Cajun influences making hokey pokey all that more realistic.  Perhaps if you’re used to looking out for alligators in the dark, then checking around for one additional cold-blooded predator isn’t too much of a reach.  The first season even had a Cajun-accented character as its antagonist (spoiler alert) and as a languages geek I couldn’t get enough.  That said, I would cite accents as one of the show’s weaker points.  While all our visual cues vividly bring to life the swamp mist and superstition of rural Louisiana, the international cast have varying levels of success in wrapping their chops credibly around the dialect.  Leading lady, Anna Paquin, never quite convinces as Sookie Stackhouse’s southern belle, while Stephen Moyer, a native of Essex, chewed his way around Bill Compton’s confederate gent (an oxymoron of course).  Throw in an Australian as Sookie’s brother and you’ll be unable to do anything but cringe each time one of them mentions the name of the town at the heart of True Blood’s goings on: Bon Temps.  Thing is, you’re saying it wrong as well.  Probably.

Fairly unique in its setting, then, (at least in my boxset experience), True Blood gained itself greater suspension of disbelief when it whipped out its key premise in episode one: vampires have always lived among us, but events have finally unfolded in a way that allows them to come out (of the coffin, arf arf) and live in the open.  A synthetic form of their fave tipple, Tru Blood, means they no longer have to prey on human arteries.  Therefore, the integration of this centuries-old myth into modern society comes along like just another tale of a minority group looking for the same rights as the majority.  And we all know that the Southern states of the US aren’t the best place for this.  Cue dramatic tension on all levels, from inter-family up to full societal.  True Blood seems to ape everything: rights activists, religious zealots, politicians, local law enforcement, pressure groups, lobbyists and anything else that’s been a bit shonky.

But, as we all know, the struggle between man and vampire isn’t enough (see previous posts on Buffy, Teen Wolf etc).  Before long, we’ve got werewolves, witches, shape-shifters and various other demons, giving many of the sprawling ensemble cast further reasons to get involved in the action and, more often than not, take their clothes off.  Funniest of all, there are faeries (whose clothes also get popped off).  And this is because, no matter what supernatural heritage a particular character may or may not have, True Blood hammers home the universal truth that people are horny bastards, drenching its camp action in oodles of sex.  It’s clear everyone has taken their role preparation seriously by smashing the gym hard in advance, so it’s not half bad to look at and also occasionally has things to do with the actual plot.  Sure, there’s body positivity in a range of shapes and sizes, but the sex positivity is mostly displayed by those who’ve been off the carbs.

It’s a show whose opening credits prepare you perfectly for what’s about to come: it’s a sexy mess that veers on being a danger wank, but you can’t stop looking.  Based on some books I’ve never read, True Blood is coming at you this Christmas with a firm recommendation.  It’s highly sexed, highly stylised, and highly entertaining.  If you like your humour dark and bloody, you characters feisty and spunky, and your vampires shackled down by politicking bureaucracy, True Blood will arouse your emotions in a fistful of different ways with every episode you subject your eyes to.  It’s going to do bad things to you.