Eight months is a long time to wait for a fix of Southern Gothic exsanguinations. Especially after a sputtering end to a deliciously campy, promiscuously metamorphical season. Even longer when the bloodletter in question is a 1,000-year-old Nordic ice king with a deadpan delivery as cadaverous as his heart. With the third season of True Blood starting Sunday, our minds have fixed on what we’d like to see more (Eric) and less (Bill) of from Alan Ball’s backwater bayou theater. By the looks of the previews — werewolves, death wishes, and revenge sex, oh yes! — things are headed in the right direction. But it’s about time the show lives up to its William Eggleston–meets–Trent Reznor opening credits.