A Cursed Land

Many critics and online commentators, applying the high standards of the blogosphere, have expressed dismay and incredulity concerning the obscene language of the HBO western series

“Deadwood,” creator David Milch’s seamy saga of frontier democracy set in Deadwood, S.D., circa 1876. Surely, the real-life inhabitants of Deadwood never employed such foul language--pig herding, gold mining and whore mongering being known to attract only the best people.

Some critics argue that the series’ reliance on vulgarity is anachronistic, and, it’s true, the f-bomb wasn’t developed until the 20th century in a secret government program based in Los Alamos, N.M.

But now that HBO executives have decided to end the series prematurely--sock-cuffers! other-mudders!--I am wistful. “Deadwood” is the best writing that’s ever been on TV, and even that seems like shabby praise. Al Swearengen, E.B. Farnum, Calamity Jane . . . these are dramatic immortals, and anyone who says otherwise can meet me in the [bleep]-ing thoroughfare. Yet I worry that the show’s obituarists and TV historians will focus on its luxuriant obscenity and fail to appreciate just how gloriously rich and revealing, rampant and artful the dialogue is. Consider this snippet between the conscientiously amoral Swearengen and the gold baron George Hearst:

Hearst: “Shall I perceive you then as dangerous to my interests?”

Swearengen: “As capable of inconvenience and of some damage and debt to those that would act against my interests, I cannot [bleep]-ing argue with dangerous. Different from powerful though, which speaks to potency longer term. . . .”

Hearst: “Then I’ll hope that your insult is cured to spare the camp any danger of however brief a duration.”

That’s a lot of malice poured into a few short sentences. It’s dialogue with white knuckles.

Some have accused the script writing of being overstuffed and undramatic and too archly elegant to be believed. And, yes, there are times when “Deadwood” seems filled with illiterate whores and prospectors who scored 2400 on their SATs. But the truth is, ordinary spoken language of the 19th century was informed by an elevated diction and hypotaxis--which is to say, a more sophisticated word choice and grammatical structure--that would buffalo a modern linguist.

Now, anyone who gets paid by the word as I do is no great fan of plain speaking. But to watch “Deadwood” is to appreciate just how slipshod, banal and ground-skimming our everyday, 21st century exchanges are in comparison. Basically, modern Americans communicate by using a series of clicks, grunts and whistles. Do we even speak the same language of 19th century America?

So I thought that--as an experiment--I would imagine talking like a character from “Deadwood” for a day.

Tina (my wife): “Good morning, bunny.”

Me (snarling): “The disposition of my matins is evidently of no great consequence to you, since you, wrapped as you were in Morpheus’ [bleep]-ing pinfeathers last night, elected to snore like a Cornish well digger with a [bleep]-ing deviated septum.”

Tina: “Wha--? Hey, [bleep] you, you [bleep]-ing [bleep]-hole. Fix your own [bleep]-ing coffee!”

Wow. That sounded just like “Deadwood.”

Lady at dry cleaners: “These will be ready Friday.”

Me: “Friday, is it? Far be it from me to gainsay the [bleep]-ing calendar of the celestials, your people having perfected the keeping of days long before my rude kinsmen, but may I inquire why these simple blouses should require such lengthy ministrations? Is your [bleep]-ing rock broken?”

Lady: “Who’s ‘celestial?’ I’m from Santa Barbara.”

Hmmm. Clearly, talking like “Deadwood” strikes the modern ear as rude and confrontational. Perhaps that’s to be expected. After all, if there is one electric charge that runs through all of the dialogue on “Deadwood,” it’s complete frustration. Everyone is furiously thwarted at every turn. Nothing happens fast enough. The food is bad. Life is brutish and short. The most fastidiously groomed person in town--the widow Alma Garret--reeks like a sack full of dead otters.

The wellspring of all this eloquence is that everybody lives in the 19th century! Milch’s characters suffer with an itch for modernity that can’t be scratched, and that frustration helps propel every conversation into a profane and splenetic tizzy. This angst of the pre-modern, I think, is the greatest insight of Milch’s conception. Words are the only technology they have.

In Los Angeles today, such pointed fluency seems antagonistic.

Neighbor (laughing while giant chocolate Labrador pees on my motorcycle): “Don’t worry. He’s harmless.”

Me (running down driveway): “The [bleep] you say! Don’t allow your incontinent cur to irrigate on my Harley and then tell me it’s [bleep]-ing raining.”

Neighbor: “OK, OK . . . “ (walking away). “Jeez, what an [bleep]-hole.”

Me: “Hey, mister, wait! Come back. Are you from Deadwood too?”