It seems so long ago that Rust Cohle and Marty Hart stumbled wide-eyed into Carcosa to take down The Yellow King. By that stage True Detective had become a huge hit and had ignited theorists all over the internet to speculate daily on the nature of those totems, the location of Carcosa and the identity of The Yellow King. That the finale never quite hit the heights the rest of the series had promised was almost moot – the whole series was a bold, visually stunning, supremely acted crime drama of epic proportions. Nic Pizzolatto had crafted a television drama so dense and rich it felt like a novel, intertwining existential philosophising with noir and procedural tropes, which were all played out across the mystical, sometimes other-worldly and sultry Louisiana bayou. It wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, of course, and it was flawed in places. But its scope and ambition just about blew every other crime drama of the past 10 years into dust. In my eyes it was that good. So to say series two was highly anticipated was an understatement. And, after all the waiting, speculating and clenching of fists, it was here.
It’s impossible to know how anyone would react if a partner died suddenly. The grief and shock must be crushing. You must hold onto those last few moments you spent with them, and replay the last words you spoke to them. Were they loving words? Was it an argument? Every last word is reviewed and replayed. What happens then, on top of the shock and horror, when you find out a secret about your partner that suddenly means they weren’t the person you thought they were. That was the initial premise of this very tight, very good new three-parter, starring Sheridan Smith.