Thirteen years after its abrupt cancellation, HBO's finally put the band back together for a proper conclusion to Deadwood, its unfinished Shakespearean western. The result fits like an old pair of boots. Perhaps a bit dustier than before, withered and cracked and worn, but no less familiar.

It's pleasant to occupy this world again, to see all the familiar faces rubbing elbows and butting heads, but the limits of a two-hour movie are far more pervasive than those of a twelve-hour season. Particularly so when applied to a show like this one, which has always made good use of television’s episodic format by employing lengthy exposition, carefully distributed plot points and a whole mess of exceptionally well-developed secondary characters. I wanted more time with Doc, with Dan, with Wu, but instead the supporting cast only pops in for the occasional cameo, then fades back into the woodwork in the name of a big-players-only featured narrative. And even that feels a hair on the light side, with an armload of unnecessary flashbacks and a rather easy, under-thought resolution. Al gets a big speech or two, Bullock is given the chance to grit his teeth and stare daggers, Hearst acts smug and operates in underhanded ways, and then... we're done, and it's goodbye forever.

I understand why it had to be this way, and I'm grateful for the long-awaited chance at closure, but I'm also disappointed it couldn't have been three or four times longer. In a way, I'm even hungrier for a fourth season than I was before.