Studly Doright and I have been watching “Dexter” on Netflix. We’re just finishing season 2. The show is gory and sexy and yes, darkly amusing. Dexter is a serial killer, but he only kills serial killers. And he’s killed a bunch of them.
Michael C. Hall plays Dexter. He’s also a forensics specialist for the Miami police department. That makes his “hobby” as a serial killer both easier and more difficult. He has access to the inner workings of the police department, but he also has to watch every move he makes lest his off duty habits raise suspicion amongst his highly observant peers.
The supporting cast is great: Jennifer Carpenter as Debra Morgan, Dexter’s sister, Luna Lauren Vélez, as Maria LaGuerta, a tough and loyal department captain, the gorgeous, yet troubled Erik King, as Sgt. Doakes. The lovable David Zayas, as Angel Batista, and sweet Julie Benz, as Rita Bennett, Dexter’s girlfriend.
One would think that a serial killer wouldn’t engender feelings of sympathy. Honestly, we should be hoping that Dexter gets caught, but episode after episode we root for him, hoping he’ll evade the authorities and live to kill another day.
Maybe we don’t want him to continue killing, but we don’t want him to be discovered either. If Dexter dies, there’s no more series, and the series is so blooming good.
I don’t recommend “Dexter” unless you have a strong stomach, and a perverse sense of humor. Apparently, I have both.