Terror Transmission

“And to think… I hesitated.”

That is one of my favorite lines in film, as delivered by Dr. Channard (Kenneth Cranham) in Hellbound: Hellraiser 2, and serves as an accurate appraisal of my apprehensive dread and overdue appreciation for the cult phenomenon, “Dexter.” When something sends shock waves through the pop culture universe as pervasively as this television series did, I tend to run in the other direction and stick my head in the sand, like a misanthropically overstimulated ostrich. My leanings usually sound something like this, “If so many halfwits and hipsters love it, it must appeal to the lowest common denominator and will, almost certainly, revile me and confirm my decidedly anti-television, anti-human being stance.”

Hmm… well, 99.99% of the time this assessment saves me a great deal of monies on headache medication and keeps me out of unflattering prison stripes, which is nice, but this rather fantastic Showtime series falls neatly into that .01% category and had me hooked like a coked up Patti Hearst after about 10 minutes. Stockholm Syndrome, you ask? Nope. Just damn fine television.

The show is based upon an ongoing series of novels by Jeff Lindsey (which began in 2004 with Darkly Dreaming Dexter) and follows the wonderfully amusing exploits of Dexter Morgan, sociopath and serial killer, played to absolute perfection by Michael C. Hall. Dexter’s daily grind involves perfecting his mask of social “normalcy” by doing blood pattern forensics for the Miami Metro Police Department, keeping his damaged girlfriend and family in his orbit but at a safe distance (lest they get a look behind his mask), all while tracking down his future kills to feed his own psychosis, or, as he calls it, his “Dark Passenger.” The most delightful twist is that his prey is made up of others like him, psychopaths that is, who due to a miscarriage of justice are free to roam the streets with the potential to kill again. His quarry is chosen, not so much out of any redemptive obligations of social responsibility, but because of a “code” instilled in Dexter by his adoptive father, a dearly departed police officer played by James Remar, who saw through the mask and helped little Dex perfect his mannerisms and techniques to avoid the possibility of capture or other such unpleasantness.

The mysterious motivations of Dexter’s protective papa and the colorfully misanthropic narrations by Michael C. Hall are just two of the more prominent assets of this inspired series. The rest of the cast is made up of highly talented character actors who add a perfectly measured pinch of humanity to their rather trite human archetypes, the scripts are uproariously funny in just the right places and at just the right times to both engage and entertain by acting as a foil to all of the onscreen horrors, blood splatters and disembodied limbs. The story is set and filmed in sunny, vapid Florida, which works as a wonderful contrast to the inner turmoils, human filth, and corrosive darkness that surrounds the cast in their day-to-day lives and makes dear Dexter what he, in essence, is — the best kind of monster… one we can root for.

Dexter Morgan is like a new-age Batman, with hypodermic needle and bone-saw in place of batarang and bat-belt, skillful aping of the human condition in place of cape and cowl, but the essence of both characters bubbles to reality from the very same wellspring. Both suffer a traumatic incident in childhood which shapes their psychosis and sets them on the path to justify their decidedly anti-social activities by cleaning the streets of human garbage. Both Bruce Wayne and Dexter Morgan have a firm foundation in quasi-morality molded into being by strong parental figures whose guidance gives them a strong sense of social justice which each uses to convince themselves, at least on the surface, of the merits of their extracurricular activities. Both characters are inexorably drawn down their shadowed paths by their own “Dark Passengers,” inevitably pursuing the impossible exorcism of their demons by exercising them in a controlled manner with the prime directive always being to spare the innocent and to avoid capture… at all costs. And both, when it comes down to brass tacks, are the true victims of their own sociopathic tendencies, haunted by the inevitability of the nightmare they live in.

But that familiarity of archetype just scratches the surface of what makes this show so brilliant and so popular across the board. So just what, under all the TV glitz and glamor, makes this show so addictive and involving? I think, perhaps, it is simply because we, deep down, are a nation of sociopaths who recognize one of our own on the screen who allows us to peer behind his carefully constructed mask and vicariously revel in his freedom from the burdens of conscience and responsibility. We are a self-serving and utterly hypocritical people who have had our masks so rigidly affixed by inculcation and assimilation that we are almost convinced of the reality of our posturing. Almost convinced. The only outright conviction we have is for the sorry necessity of our societal masks, which enable us to lubricate our way into the American dream and keep us from falling upon each other in blood-drenched cathartic chaos. What we see in Dexter is who we, given opportunity, could be if we could divorce ourselves from the mitigations of societal restraint.

But until the shit comes down and blood rains from the sky (2012?) we have the amusing antics of Dexter Morgan to attenuate our growing alienation from each other and from our true selves. I watched the first 12 episodes in 2 weeks(!), and at the expense of relationships, sex (egad!), personal hygiene, and my own tenuous grip on societal obligation. I may be a pariah with my friends, horny, hairy, and behind in some outside expectations, but I learned something which will serve me invaluably in the coming years… chloroform is outmoded and leaves trace toxins. Etorphine hydrochloride is the only way to go!

Jason’s Grade: A+