God, that was gorgeous, wasn’t it? Every one of them like an oil painting, all rich with the gutter glory of the old masters. Beauty of the muck, in the muck, and mucked in the middle like Maker’s Muck.
Take a gander back, if you will, to that shot of Wild Bill’s final game of chance. Zoom in and drink up of the Last Supper details going on there. The vignette of shadows. Tom Nuttal’s shocked turn and hands. Con Stapleton’s ring, his fence of clutched cards. All the blur of wet on wet painting, except for the perfectly still figure of death - the gun replacing his face, his identity. Jack McCall all gone now, he’s Judas, he’s Brutus, he’s Mark David Chapman, Mr. Lennon. And then in the middle of all the darkness and blur, the pure gleam of the handle on Bill’s iron on a direct diagonal to the raised black iron of his killer, yet so far from his own hands.
So that’s what I saw when I saw Deadwood, at least on this watch-through. I saw paintings that told stories of ethical tragedies in a world lit with gold and blood.
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I’m well ahead, now, in the actual capturing of shots. As I write this, I’m almost at the end of SHELF TWO ROW ONE, which is four months away for you. You’re seeing Westerns while I’m capping Easterns. Tra-la.