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 Wild, Wild West
by Margaret Wappler
I know, I know. The last thing you need to read from a critic is another giddy, gooey review of an HBO show. O great TV watcher, you already realize that scenes of James Gandolfini shoveling ice cream into his mouth while watching the History Channel are saving civilization. But I plead with you: Read what I have to say about David Milch's Deadwood, not because I'm going to praise his incendiary vision or his inflamed screen prose (which, by the way, is like some unholy deracinated breed of ancient text, Melville, comic books and even Mel Brooks). What I'm really going to slaver over is how damn sexy Deadwood is, how foul, crude and freakishly hot.
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