I have a confession to make, and it makes me look like a bit of a hypocrite.
I love Dexter. I cannot get enough of it, actually. I think it’s one of the best shows I’ve seen in a long time.
At first, I was a little leery of it. I mean, serial killers freak me the hell out. I had nightmares after watching Zodiac, and that guy has been dead for, what, 20 years? At least? So the odds of him lurking under my bed are slim (made even slimmer, pardon the pun, but the fact that my box-spring sits right on the floor, poor-student fashion). So I had read about it, and was prepared to a) never see it and b) be okay with that, because I’d be able to sleep better.
I have a fairly strict no-gore policy when it comes to television. I stopped watching CSI because of an episode where they found someone’s face in a baggie, and I decided I didn’t really need that kind of negativity in my life. I also find the dialogue really hard to take, even though I think Marg Helgenberger rocks. (China Beach, anyone?) So I was ready to adhere to this policy with Dexter, no matter how good it might have been.
Then it came to our cable movie channel, and, truthfully, I can’t resist the powers of Michael C. Hall. I sat through the first fifteen minutes of an episode in which they found assorted body parts arranged in the goal of a hockey rink, and was fairly convinced I couldn’t watch it. And then, damn him, he hooked me. They all did. It’s a brilliantly written show, just like Six Feet Under was. I am still watching, a season later.
The other night the plot really thickened, and I realized how disappointed I am when it’s over each week. I want to find out what happens, no matter how gory and horrible it is. I want Dexter to win, even though he cuts people up. I want to see what lunacy Doakes will come up with. Even if it makes me a hypocrite.
It also makes me marvel at the people who come up with this stuff – at the guy who wrote the original novels, and the writers who make his characters live on the small screen each week. It makes me believe more than ever that they are getting a raw deal from the AMPTP, who should recognize that once again, without the writers, all they’d have to run each week is Dancing with the Stars.
Give me a choice between Dancing with the Stars and a serial killer, and the Bay Harbor Butcher will win every time. Apparently if you throw Michael C. Hall in, I’ll create a series recording before I know which end of his cleaver is up. I guess my policy against mindless reality television is stronger than my policy against blood and guts.
As long as Dester is on the loose, I guess I’m okay with that.