As the last season of True Detective taught us: time is a flat circle. TV shows will end, and TV shows will return - for better or worse. This season is the difficult second album, and it's a lot harder to impress when you keep the band name, but change
TV review: Edgy series suffering second album blues

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Rachel McAdams and Colin Farrell are among the new band members in season two of True Detective.
Ani Bezzerides (Rachel McAdams) is dripping in bitterness, and unfortunately defined by her "daddy issues". Her name is short for Antigone. Joining the trio is Paul Woodrugh, played by Taylor Kitsch, a highway cop with a penchant for speeding and exchanging sex acts for pardons. They aren't a lovable bunch, but I'll admit that seeing them coalesce in the final minutes of the episode gave me a flicker of hope.
I won't go too much into the plot, but it is more dense than season one. There are double the amount of lead characters involved in a far more complicated case than "spooky serial killer on the loose". It's about money, corruption and fragile relationships holding up a town on the brink of collapse. The unsolved murder that brings our antiheroes together is no John Doe. True Detective has buried the bogeyman visions, and is driving the story 100 miles an hour down the freeway away from its predecessor.
The unique style of the show remains, deftly executed with some truly breathtaking moments. The washed out palette of browns and greys is peppered with reds, warning of the violence to come. There's a recognisable and unnerving aura that settles over every scene: angles are off, shots dwell for too many beats and jarring editing upsets the protracted pace. You're invited to peer into the shadows and let the pauses speak volumes. Frank Semyon advises his associate, "never do anything out of hunger - not even eating". After the premiere, I'm not going to admit that I'm starved for the next episode of True Detective like I was the first time round. Perhaps just a little peckish.