It’s unfair for someone to review a television show from a genre he neither understands nor respects. For instance, most women view football as a pointless exercise in which hyper masculine, spandex-clad men gun a pigskin sphere off each other’s heads and smack each other on the butt for a couple of hours. And they are rightly relegated to sideline reportage and pre-game weather forecasts while dressed like they are expected on stage six at Spearmint Rhino.
So, a show like True Blood, an HBO series written for gays, women, tweens and softcore pornography aficionados should, in all fairness, be reviewed by housewives, twinks and heavyset date rapists. It is not designed for 29 year-old, semi-alcoholic black misanthropes. Me reviewing True Blood is like allowing Craig Cobb to host the Hip Hop Music Awards.
With the exception of Blade, I hate all things vampire. From Anne Rice (who set us down the path of mainstream vampires that look like sensitive SoHo food critics in Halloween costume) to the abortive Twilight series, the entire genre is, personally, lazy and more well-tread than the parking lot Walter White marked up with Junior’s Charger. So, no surprise that a television show with yet more effeminate vampires, feeble werewolves, human panthers, a fairy in tight shirts and water bras, and stereotypically flamboyant gays was not something I’d seek out in the TV Guide. Continue reading