Every now and then, a meme—a poll?—will make the rounds on Twitter: what’s the theme song that automatically plays in your head after you hear the staticky, synthy notes to HBO’s network logo? Beloved Sex and the City is a very common answer, as is the glorious, titanic The Sopranos.

But for me, the answer has always been Deadwood. David Milch’s magnificent, lyrical drama ran for three seasons, from 2004-2006. It’s a hypnotic, immersive, sprawling, addictive series—maddeningly slow at times, shattering and violent at others. The show is set in the gold-rush boomtown of Deadwood, located in what was then called Dakota Territory (now South Dakota) in the 1870s, as the population skyrocketed and an illegal mining camp turned into a crowded hamlet. It’s the type of historical fiction that yanks the viewer into the past—the mud in the streets, the dirt on everyone’s faces, the hog’s blood dripping off the butcher’s block. Its characters speak in flowery Victorian syntax, punctuated with inventive, pungent profanity. It’s an anti-nostalgic Western, both utterly fascinating and shudderingly repulsive; here, the Wild West does not seem quite so fun after all.

Deadwood did not get a chance to end on its own terms in 2006: HBO abruptly canceled the show after its third season. That left the characters, the town, and the viewer dangling in the midst of a violent takeover by ruthless capitalist George Hearst (Gerald McRaney) and the odd, not exactly unwelcome but never quite explained invasion of a traveling theater troupe spouting Shakespeare at Deadwood’s series regulars. It was an undignified, chopped-off ending to a poetic show, a conclusion that never quite fit what preceded it.

Deadwood: The Movie was a project so long-rumored that when it turned out HBO really was going to produce the film—13 years later—it took on the air of a mirage. Milch, it was revealed, is suffering from Alzheimer’s, adding a tragic poignancy to this Hail Mary of a finale. In our era of peak content, so many niche stories have been rebooted, revived, or sequelized that it’s hard to be optimistic about the return of another much-adored story; I’ve seen my affection for certain star-crossed paranormal detectives and a wealthy family who lost everything fade away, as incessant efforts to recapture old magic have sucked all the joy out of their stories.

Deadwood: The Movie—which premieres, at long last, May 31 on HBO—is not as expansive as the series was; at one hour and 50 minutes, it’s only as long as two regular episodes. Certain beloved characters are only lightly handled, leaving the story of their last decade for the viewer to imagine. The wildness around Deadwood itself seems more tame than ever, as telephone poles are erected to march up and down the wooded mountains. No one is on their knees in the dirt, eking out survival with a hoe or a gold pan. The characters gather once more in this hard, cruel, beautiful place ten years later, ostensibly to mark South Dakota’s statehood, but mostly so the audience can get a good hard look at them—their graying hair and stooped backs, the wrinkles radiating from the corners of their eyes. As ever—and thank goodness—there is no gloss treatment on Deadwood, only dust and time.