I began my sabbatical by watching the entire first season of Dexter, on the recommendation of my friend Stacey, a literature professor I trust to give good advice about things narrative. She told me that it was a "novel" like the Sopranos, with the focus of each season on a particular other serial killer. I'd avoided watching the show in part because we don't have Showtime. But now the first and second season of the show are streaming at Netflix. I'd also avoided it because I thought that a show with a serial killer protagonist would be both violent and decadent. It's neither.
Now, it does have a lot, and I mean like BUCKETS of blood, most of it aesthetically splattered about like the work of a grand guignol abstract expressionist. But very little slam-bang viciousness. In terms of gross visions of corpses, it's far less disturbing than any season of NCIS or CSI, two of my favorites. The violence in Dexter is like that in old fashioned horror films -- mostly hinted at.
As for decadence: though he is a serial killer, Dexter is a vigilante version thereof. He "takes out the trash." He is a "dark hero" along the lines of Dirty Harry, Batman, and a thousand other Hollywood and comic book characters. He is also self aware and mentally struggling with the conflict between the normality he desires and his difference. So the show is, in some ways, ferociously moral.
Dexter's struggle is part of what made the show interesting and enjoyable. He knows that he is a monster and he is doing his best to live by the code taught to him by his adoptive policeman Dad, Harry. Harry taught him the practice of looking normal. "Even if you don't want to smile, you should. It's what normal people do." This is the key, of course, to surviving in the bourgeois world. The rich can be monsters without cost because they have the power to make evil actions invisible. Those who live in absolute poverty have some of the same freedom because they don't have trackable connections. But to live in the middle class, one has to maintain an image of normality.
I believe that every bourgeois person in postmodern, information age society struggles with the challenge of balancing their "authentic self" with the need to "fit in" with their colleagues and friends. This is one reason why Americans report having very few friends. According to Social Isolation in America: Changes in Core Discussion Networks over Two Decades (Miller McPherson, Lynn Smith-Lovin, Matthew E. Brashears, American Sociological Review), our social networks have decreased dramatically in the past twenty years. Few of us have more than two or three people with whom we can "be ourselves." Many have only one or none. One of the reasons for this is that most Americans find their closest connections in the workplace and must, perforce, hide from their colleagues any aspect of their character that might put their colleagues or themselves at risk.
Dexter hides his monstrousness from his colleagues, his adoptive sister (he was adopted by the cop when he was 4), his girlfriend and her kids. The show suggests that most people have something to hide and I think that the shows viewers are probably people who experience this hiding in their own lives.
SPOILER ALERT
In the first season, the show has a mythic quality because the serial killer Dexter and his cop colleagues are investigating turns out to be his "real" brother, the other boy who sat in a cargo carrier two inches deep in blood. Through the season Dexter thinks of the Ice Truck Killer as a genius, a master class teacher, and a friend. When he discovers it is his brother, he is tempted in a very deep way. His brother is the only one who can possible understand him, who can accept him as he is. His brother wants him to kill his adoptive sister and Dexter has his hand on the knife, but can't do it.
I think this is the most powerful struggle anyone can face -- the struggle between our desire to feel loved for ourselves and our desire to follow a social code of conscience. It is the struggle of addicts. It is the struggle of anyone whose "true self" is experienced as unworkable. Most people in our overly regulated, surveilled, and measured society have something they want to keep private. Or perhaps something that they should keep private. Yet we have been taught, perhaps by our parents, perhaps by some teacher along the line, to just "be ourselves:" "I know I'm somebody, cause God don't make no junk," as the poster tells us. But what if the self is not acceptable to most if not all of the people surrounding one? The desire to release the constant control, to just be open, to flow as an animal flows without self-consciousness, to feel accepted and loved, to feel connection becomes more powerful as it faces constant thwarting.
In the show, we see Dexter go to a therapist (who he is about to murder) and say, "I'm a serial killer. Whoo! Wow! It feels great to say that out loud, finally!" We know how much Dexter wants to feel accepted, wants to have his monstrosity seen, recognized and celebrated. At the end, Dexter fantasizes about a crowd celebrating him. His desire to be accepted, however, is fulfilled only by the evil actions of his brother, a different kind of monster who has gone to great lengths (buying a freezer unit, chopping up hookers, etc) to bring Dexter to consciousness so that he can recognize his brother's love.
I think that, as viewers, this might be a hidden desire we all experience -- to have someone need us so much that they go to great lengths to help us realize ourselves. But at the end, this dark and evil "therapy" must end. Dexter kills his brother as every acolyte is taught to conquer or move past his teacher in order to become a master. "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him."
Somewhere there must be a Jungian analysis of this show.
Of course, Dexter's duality also gives the show plenty of dark humor. The lead actor, Michael C. Hall, manages to play Dexter with complexity and wit. The visuals are stunning and the ensemble cast is excellent, all of which add to my pleasure in the show. I think I'll go start season two.
