'True Blood': Bored on the Bayou

It's hard to remember there was ever a halfway-compelling romance in there somewhere, writes Rob Sheffield

True Blood
John P. Johnson/HBO
Rutina Wesley, Anna Paquin, and Lucy Griffiths in 'True Blood'.
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As the True Blood ads say, "No one lives forever." But vampire sex soaps – damn, those can be pesky to kill off. True Blood has gotten so soft in the head, it's hard to remember there was ever a halfway-compelling romance in there somewhere. The once-beloved drama keeps getting sillier, throwing Viking panthers and faerie elders and werewolf threesomes into the mix. Having given up any sense of emotional stakes, True Blood has become a drinking game of "What next? Leprechauns blowing a Minotaur?"

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Bill Compton was always the vampire stud who held the story together, refusing to bother with facial expressions. His deadly serious poker face gave the hijinks a trace of dignity. Yes, even when he had to bang Salome. (Drink!) But Bill can't help now, and the dumbass social commentary has hijacked the romance. The weak link of True Blood was always the part that aspired to be smart, so maybe they'll just let it turn into a full-blown sex comedy. Maybe they can bring in David Duchovny as that Minotaur? (Drink!)