I have never had this kind of relationship with a television series in my life.
I watched the first three-plus seasons of Dexter on instant Netflix, then DVD, three at a time, then Video On Demand, which was far more gratifying than having to wait to watch the new one on Sundays, which is the boat I am in, as of last week, when I watched my first one on-air.
[At current posting, things are much worse: I am one of millions who suffer the nine-month wait for the next season's premiere in September! I'm using Tru Blood as a kind of methadone, but it doesn't quench my thirst like the brilliance of the Dexter premise and writing.]
At first, my husband Marty refused to get involved, finding my obsession with a serial killer repulsive and proof that I truly am a rage-aholic sicko. When we got a television and cable last week—we’d been on strike against tv since the end of The Sopranos, except for a brief time during the 2008 primaries—I graduated from DVDs and pirated video with earphones on my laptop to On Demand. Suddenly Dexter was life-size in the living room. That’s when Marty started to get interested.
The story and character of Dexter hook into a deep sense of impotence in the face of all range of injustice: I want to chop up the driver who nearly runs me down in the crosswalk, in a rush to make their turn. I have the right-of-way! I long to take out the principals of a government who took us into a wrong, wrong war and spent eight years lying to us; a banking industry which seems to be getting away with murder.
We need Dexter. I want to be Dexter.
Then there’s that existential thing: We humans share a sense that we are all alone, in hiding. We have secrets no one can hold. We are all monsters. If they knew who I really am, would I have friends, could I be loved?
I find a home in Dexter’s head and heart, and am deeply comforted and, at the same time, deeply disturbed.
The acting is terrific, in general. The phenomenal John Lithgow as the Trinity Killer made my heart pound. What a plunge: I will never see him in the same way again. But the writers are my heros. They are bold and brave. Sometimes there’s a gap or it gets cheesy, but they have bigger fish to fry, and I am completely infected, so I forgive them.
I won’t say anything here about that recent fourth season finale, because if you didn’t see it, you need to.
Tags: dexter, popular culture
