Great Scenes in Not-Great Shows: “True Detective Season 2”
In a messy, overcomplicated sequel to a classic season of television, True Detective gave us one sparkling moment: Frank Semyon’s death strut.
NEW STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This newsletter aggressively spoils things.
I don’t remember much about the plot of True Detective Season Two1. After the legendary success of the first season, the second season came with a lot of heat and a lot of expectations, along with a stacked cast (Vince Vaughn, Colin Farrell, Taylor Kitsch, Rachel McAdams as leads). And it was, as best I can recall, a muddled mess, with a plot so complicated we were all basically Charlie trying to figure out who Pepe Silvia is2. Something about a fake oil company town? A land swindle? Rachel McAdams murdering someone while high as a kite and then falling in love with Colin Farrell3?
It doesn’t matter: It was a miss. The first season was also kind of muddled, but it was muddled in a way that implied vast conspiracies and eldritch powers, and buoyed by the unexpectedly mesmerizing performance of Matthew McConaughey4. Season two was muddled in the way stories go off the rails when they have a lot of threads to tie together and resolve. There’s a reason you’ll get a billion hits if you Google “True Detective Season 2 explained5” or something similar. There’s an interesting story in there, actually, but it takes way too much work to drill into it.
But that’s okay. Sometimes a messy story contains a pearl of a scene, a moment that rises above those choppy waves. There are scenes from otherwise mediocre or flat-out bad series and films that I still think about years after I watched them. Frank Semyon’s death scene in True Detective Season Two is one of them. It’s terrific.
Sometimes a Good Beating Provokes Personal Growth
Here’s the scene, in crappy, subtitled, low-quality glory! Ah, 2014 was so long ago:
Frank (Vaughn) has been taken out into the desert by his former cartel buddies, stabbed, and left for dead as punishment for—oh, it doesn’t matter, we’re not going to attempt to explain the convoluted plot of this show6. He’s been stabbed by organized crime for organized crime reasons, and left in the desert. But Frank is a survivor. Frank is not the type to just lay down and bleed out in the desert. So he starts walking7.
Vaughn sells the pain. The hitch in his stride, the tight face, the grunts. Would it really be possible to bleed like this and still walk some distance? I don’t know! I also don’t care.
As Frank walks, his face a mask of agony and determination—he really believes he can just willpower his way back to civilization and life—he’s assailed by visions from his life8. His father, telling him that he’s worthless and killed his mother by being born. A gang of youths, mocking and taunting him. A man recently murdered by Frank, begging for his life. Frank ignores them all, telling himself that nothing was his fault, that he isn’t the bad guy in these stories. What’s great about this sequence is the energy brought to it: As Frank grunts and grimaces, his eyes locked on the future where he’s receiving medical attention and plotting his revenge, these visions stalk him from the sidelines—angry, but never touching. Never breaking the plane. And they function as shorthand for Frank’s character, a quick rundown of why Frank is who he is. Would this information have been more effective earlier in the series? Sure! But as an isolated scene, it all works.
At one point, he’s literally being followed by vultures. This is an amazing image9.
And then the final vision: His wife, Jordan (Kelly Reilly), offering him comfort and rest. And suddenly Frank stops grimacing, stops lurching. His walk becomes easy. He’s bright and snappy and not in pain.
Because he’s dead. As his vision of Jordan tells him, “Oh, baby. You stopped moving way back there.” Frank looks back, and there he is, curled up in the sand, bled out.
I Figured I'd Drill a New Orifice. Go On and Fuck Myself for a Change
This scene works so well, even in isolation, because it’s completely driven by character. You spend these fleeting minutes with Frank at the end of his life and you walk away with a thumbnail understanding of him. There’s no exposition—it’s all what you see. Frank gets driven to the desert and stabbed, so you know something about him there. You see glimpses of the forces that shaped him. You meet his wife. And at the end, you get a glimpse of the confident, grinning Frank who made it all happen10. By the end of this scene, you know everything you need to know about Frank Semyon. It’s a tight four minutes
If only the rest of this season had been this tight. While I gaze in horror on the fact that it’s been TEN FUCKING YEARS since this episode aired, and I am somehow a decade older11, I still think about this scene because it’s like Nick Pizzolatto woke up from a bender and spent a night snorting coke and just writing this scene like his life depended on it. If the rest of the season had been 20% more of this and 20% less of people with a specific expression best described as “befuddled despair” on their faces, it might have been a worthy followup to Season One.
I have a running argument with my brother12 about the value of discrete scenes or specific aspects of a failed work of art. He’s usually willing to burn a show or film or novel out of the pattern if it isn’t 100% great, while I usually argue that a great piece out of the whole can often be worth hanging onto even if the overall work isn’t great. This is one of the examples I use in that argument.
If I ever got stabbed in the desert by organized crime folk, I’d be very confused as to how I got there since I never leave the house.
NEXT WEEK: The Substance undermines itself.
If you enjoy this newsletter, consider subscribing to my paid fiction Substack, Writing Without Rules: From the Notebook!
To be fair, 2014 was kind of a blur. As was 2015. Come to think of it, the only year I remember is 1983.
This show might as well have inspired the My Disappointment Is Immeasurable And My Day Is Ruined meme. Because it was! And it was.
To be fair, Colin Farrell is a very good-looking man. I’m not saying I would fall in love with him, but … I understand.
I don’t think I’d ever join a cult, but if Matthew McConaughey was in charge I’m not sure I’d have a choice.
And only half the reason is the way Google destroyed the internet with its fucking algorithm.
I’ve always imagined that as long as my associates aren’t actively stabbing me in the back in the desert, I’m doing okay.
I once stubbed my toe and needed a whole day to recover, so I think my reaction to being stabbed would be slightly less Hollywood and slightly more screaming.
I suspect my death visions will be more along the lines of whiskey bottles with arms and legs dancing just out of reach, chanting that I’ll never get to drink them.
I’ve been followed by a vulture that has slowly gotten closer and closer my entire life. You don’t suppose it’s a portent, do you?
Vince Vaughn doing 100% Vince Vaughn despite the dire warnings from scientists.
And … handsomer? Is that possible? Because I think I am!
A man who drinks $20 bottles of whiskey, so you know his opinions are trash.
Ten years? Yikes.