Here’s a question no one’s ever asked before: what do you get when you hire one of the minds behind Scrubs (Curtis Gwinn) and the creator of Fat Guy Stuck in Internet (Eric Weinberg) to create a TV show based on an idea by Powerman 5000 frontman Spider One? Well, you get the criminally underseen Death Valley, a short-lived MTV program about ordinary cops living in an extraordinary world. Ten years after its final episode, I’d like to shine a light on this overlooked gem and explore how it paved the way for contemporary hits like Wellington Paranormal and What We Do in the Shadows.
Taking place in an alternate version of the San Fernando Valley where zombies, vampires and werewolves are about as common as drug deals and armed robberies, Death Valley is a Cops-styled mockumentary show chronicling the misadventures of the Undead Task Force. With a single 12-episode season that aired throughout 2011, the show explored the daily struggles of law enforcement having to deal with absurd and horrific crimes, all the while being followed by a drama-hungry documentary crew.
While the show was never a certified hit, garnering only modest ratings and a small but dedicated cult following, I believe it was one of the best horror comedies to come out before the TV horror boom of the mid-2010s. With more than a little inspiration from that one episode of The X-Files where Mulder and Scully find themselves being hounded by a reality TV crew during an investigation (Season 7’s excellent X-Cops), Death Valley was a creative departure from your usual supernatural-based programming.
Unlike most shows featuring modern-day monster hunters, the heroes of Death Valley aren’t super-powered chosen ones or even members of a proper special forces unit, they’re just regular cops who happened to deal with the occasional man-eating creature of the night. They may pack UV flashlights and retractable wooden stakes (as well as the occasional baseball bat and grenade launcher), but this is still a down-to-earth romp about a world where society has had to adjust to the existence of the supernatural.
How do you arrest a dead suspect?
The show’s nonchalant approach to world-building is actually part of its charm, with characters claiming that the undead has been plaguing society for about a year now, with no real explanation as to how it happened or why. Werewolf attacks and zombie infections have become so common that they’re treated like a nuisance, more akin to public intoxication and disorderly conduct than a threat to civilization. This setup is meant to be comedic, but it also makes the show feel like a more realistic take on how most people would react (or refuse to react) to real-world monsters.
The clever scene transitions are a great example of this, showing brief glimpses of the undead wreaking havoc across town as citizens go about their day. These moments really help with the atmosphere, further elucidating how the undead have become just another quirk of life in California. The documentary-style presentation also keeps things believable as we accompany these police officers on their quest to break up vampire parties and reprimand werewolves that aren’t abiding to the mandatory curfew.
The show even gets a little serious at times, often using the undead menace as clear analogues for real-world issues like HIV, drunk driving and even the opioid epidemic. Hell, one episode even introduces us to vampire prostitutes who sell themselves for a taste of blood, showing the grittier side of a world where people have to deal with Vampiric curses alongside traditional STDs. While these situations are mostly presented as tongue-in-cheek satire, there’s no denying that some of it hits close to home.
Of course, the real backbone of Death Valley is comprised by the officers themselves and their quirky personalities. Featuring cops like the over-enthusiastic John-John (Texas Battle), the honorable everyman Joe Stubeck (Charlie Sanders) and the secretly bad-ass rookie Kirsten (Caity Lotz), the show’s unique character dynamics had enough potential for several more seasons, with some moments being reminiscent of a more horror-centric Brooklyn 99. Personally, my favorite character was the batshit-crazy Captain Dashell (played to perfection by Bryan Callen), though his constant sexual remarks were a bit too much even for 2011 standards.
A bit more action-packed than your average workplace comedy.
Curiously, the documentary crew is often dragged into the action as well, with sound technicians and cameramen finding themselves in constant peril as they attempt to record the action. With most mockumentary productions opting for a “fly-on-the-wall” approach to justify the aesthetic, it’s fun to see a show embrace the crew as a part of the narrative, even if it makes some of the inconsistent camera setups and impossible angles a little more noticeable (though that’s a nitpick I have with almost all mockumentary shows).
Unfortunately, that’s not Death Valley‘s only shortcoming, as some of the humor is a bit hit-and-miss, with quite a few dated references and some arguably offensive stereotyping. Some of the action sequences are also a little lacking, though that has more to do with the limited budget than anything else. Even so, I think it’s safe to say that most of these issues would have been addressed in future seasons had the showrunners been given the opportunity. As it stands, the show is still worth a watch for genre fans, especially with its smorgasbord of practical gore and monster effects, but I can’t help but wonder where these stories could have gone next.
While there’s little chance of a series revival at this point, I really appreciate what the show did for televised horror comedies and wish we could have seen more. That’s why I’d argue that Death Valley is still worth checking out a decade later despite ending on a demonic cliff-hanger. The show might have been aiming for comedy, but I think there’s something truly frightening about the idea that, even if vampires, werewolves and zombies were real, regular people would still have to get up and go to work in the morning.
