Directed by: Daniel Minahan
Runtime: 110 minutes
In my estimation, Deadwood (2003–6) is one of the greatest achievements in television. A period piece set in the late 19th century American West, Deadwood doesn’t stake its claim on historical accuracy as much as a historical argument: that the American West was not founded by conquest or redemptive violence, but by small enterprise—by people coming together in a heap of mud and shit to pursue their interests and build a viable existence. Heroism, for Deadwood, is not having the quickest draw or the most moral outlook; heroism is understanding the needs of the burgeoning town, a fragile ecosystem of small businesses that can only grow when people band together to protect their interests in the hopes of forging something more.
Above all, this premise works because of the show’s commitment to texture and detail, conjuring its archaic setting and characters more vividly than most contemporary television. Aesthetically, the show leans into the chaos of a growing, sprawling mess of a town, its beauty arising honestly amongst the grit of frontier life. Characters speak in equal parts poetry and profanity, at once snapshots of historical figures or archetypes and breathing, feeling, conniving goddamn humans.
In short, Deadwood is a good fuckin’ show. And it happens to make a good fuckin’ film as well.
The film picks up with Deadwood’s inhabitants in 1889 as they prepare to celebrate the new statehood of South Dakota. After leaving the town in the series’ finale, George Hearst—a gold magnate who trades in violence and social disorder, the embodiment of unfettered capitalism and now pointedly a U.S. senator—has returned to Deadwood with an interest in a piece of land. The land is of great import to its owner, but to Hearst it is a cog in a larger machine that stops for no man. And so, Deadwood falls into a new stand-off with its old foe—and though times they are a-changing, it feels almost as if we’d never left.
It’s something of a wonder that nearly every character gets some form of reckoning in the film’s 110-minute runtime. Thankfully, it doesn’t feel like a balancing act as much as a feature of the world David Milch and crew have created. The town of Deadwood has always been an interconnected web of individuals exerting their influence on each other whether they know it or not, and the large ensemble naturally cycles in and out of view with the story’s rhythms.
And these rhythms feel fitting for the series’ final act, disproportionate in length though it might be. The film relishes in returning to the people and places of the series, but it doesn’t linger or try to fit in too much. The story is simple but inscribed with the same level of detail that makes the show such a pleasure to watch, so every moment feels like enough.
Though much of the film naturally grapples with the past, it’s not overly driven by nostalgia. The focus is more squarely on what has changed since we were last privy to Deadwood’s goings-on. New children, telephone lines, and statehood are just as important as the many reunions and rivalries. The film’s one large concession to the show’s past is its repeated use of flashbacks to past scenes, conjured in the memory of its characters. These can at times seem disruptive to a viewer who remembers the scenes clearly, but for the most part, they are handled with enough good judgement and restraint that they add more to the scenes than they detract.
It’s a bittersweet ending in many ways—not least of which because it is likely David Milch’s last work after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. But it is an apt ending to the series, made possible by a brilliant script from Milch and a cast and crew committed to his vision. It’s not often we get to experience a television series of this quality conclude on its own terms, even if it is thirteen years late. And Deadwood: The Movie is just as spirited and insightful in its final hours as it was in its television prime.
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