Last August I described Nic Pizzolatto, the showrunner and novelist behind the HBO critical smash True Detective, as a “schmuck.” I feel as though I made a strong case, based on schmucky words that came out of his mouth, and this photograph of him inside an abandoned insane asylum:
As it happens, my post angered a number of fans of True Detective, who described me as, variously, “whiny,” “just another blogger with a useless opinion,” and “intimidated” by Pizzolatto’s masculinity. (“You make ‘masculine’ sound like a crime in this article. As if there aren’t enough vapid, feminine shows on television these days.”)
Well, commenting sirs and madams, allow me to direct you to this Vanity Fair profile of Nic Pizzolatto, which proves definitively that Nic Pizzolatto is a schmuck and True Detective’s second season will suck.
The show’s creator and executive producer, Mitch Glazer, was introducing me to the other writers when a young man in jeans and a leather jacket smirked from the couch, saying, “I know you. We had a serious conversation once, in Indiana. We talked about God. Don’t you remember?”
“I become very raw emotionally [when I’m writing]—a good steak could bring me to tears. I’m very porous. My membrane isn’t solid. And then I gradually come out of that. And it’s time to join the circus.”
He described the new season as a detective story in the manner of Oedipus Rex, in which “the detective is searching and searching and searching, and the culprit is him.”
He described the new season as a detective story in the manner of Oedipus Rex, in which “the detective is searching and searching and searching, and the culprit is him.” (This direct quote from the article is not set aside in quotation marks here because in this instance it represents me repeating it out loud in a monotone.)
I spent the ensuing weeks across a table from Nic, hashing out plotlines. It gave me a chance to study him at close quarters. No one was more vehement about character and motivation than Nic. Now and then, he’d do the voices or act out a scene, turning his wrist to demonstrate the pop-pop of gunplay. He was 37 but somehow ageless. He could’ve stepped out of a novel by Steinbeck. The writer as crusader, chronicler of love and depravity. His shirt was rumpled, his hair mussed, his manner that of a man who’d just hiked along the railroad tracks or rolled out from under a box. He is fine-featured, with fierce eyes a little too small for his face. It gives him the aura of a bear or some other species of dangerous animal. When I was a boy and dreamed of literature, this is how I imagined a writer—a kind of outlaw, always ready to fight or go on a spree. After a few drinks, you realize the night will culminate with pledges of undying friendship or the two of you on the floor, trying to gouge each other’s eyes out.
Who is threatened by this guy’s masculinity now, huh?
image via HBO