True Blood: Moby vs. Mopey

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Spoilers ahead in this one. Big spoilers.

As the last season of True Blood comes to a close, it's pretty clear that we're saying goodbye to better aspects of the show the way you say goodbye to a friend who is very sick and is never going to get better.

Well excuse me, because I'm not that guy and I expect the best you have to offer right up until the flatline. True Blood once again underwhelms in its final days.

Oh, there are a few bright spots. Jim Parrack's return to the role of Hoyt Fortenberry for instance is an unexpected treat. Frankly, I felt that Hoyt's arc had come to a satisfying conclusion. It was really hard to get behind him -- goodhearted but dumb -- as a romantic interest for Jessica.

In real life, your formerly religious girl with daddy issues turned vixen of the night often does indeed find her soulmate within the arms of a rather dull road-crew worker willing to go along with a few kinks in order to keep the redheaded dead girl's demons at bay, but it doesn't make for interesting drama on screen.

Nonetheless, it's Hoyt who comes to the rescue when Jason's insane psycho ex-girlfriend concocts an elaborate (and ridiculous) revenge fantasy because apparently some woman who has seen millennia pass can't get the hell over a small-town sheriff cheating on her. Seriously, the obscene amount of jealousy in vampires in this show is laughable. I'm in my thirties and I don't even take a stolen CD wallet all that badly anymore. These guys sometimes predate Christ and act like every illicit penis/vagina combination is worth a Jigsaw trap.

Doesn't say much for immortality.

In other news, Lafayette and Lettie Mae go on a touching yet completely pointless spirit quest to show us that Tara's childhood was even more fucked-up than we imagined. Guys, you've basically fetishized child abuse at this point. Make like Elsa and let it go.

Story continues on the next page.

The big news, of course, is that Sarah Newlin continues to hold the cure for the Hep V crisis in her blood, a cure Bill Compton apparently decides he is not worthy of because of blah blah blah, the darkness within me is poisoning Sookie's heart. I do so love how the last season has basically been reduced to a bunch of men killing themselves because they are not worthy of Sookie's fairy vagina. You know what kind of music would go great with this mopey stuff?

Moby. That's who takes us out this week. His track "Almost Home," recorded with Damien Jurado, that takes the musical focus. I know a lot of people that don't like Moby, but I've never heard a song I didn't like from the man.

The song sums up the episode quite well. It's wet washcloth on a fevered brow. I wish it had been a leitmotif, popping up here in there in the action as a reminder that the end is nigh. Violet off on her crappy vampire superiority monologue? We're almost home. Bill and Sookie dueling for Sookie? Nearly there. I still have hope for a grand finale, and Moby is one of those acts that has helped that hope.

Jef has a new story, a tale of headless strippers and The Rolling Stones, available now in Broken Mirrors, Fractured Minds. You can also connect with him on Facebook.


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