Oh “Dexter.” “Dexter,” “Dexter,” “Dexter.” I loved you, then I liked you, then I didn’t like you, then I hated you, then I forgot about you, and now, with “Dexter: New Blood,” I don’t like you all over again.
This Sunday, the new season of the Showtime series comes to an end, and I’m quite ready to say “buh-bye.” I’ve seen all the episodes except the finale, and I’ve spent too much of that viewing time rolling my eyes. It has all just gotten too silly, in terms of plotting and character inconsistencies, and relatively humorless, too.
It’s hard to watch Dexter, once so loyal to the code, once so extremely careful about his kills, sliding into such sloppy behavior. His first murder this season, of Kurt’s entitled son, Matt, was not really in line with his standards, and from that point on, he has been just another creepy killer instead of the superhero-tinged vigilante he was originally meant to be. Maybe that’s the point of “New Blood,” to show us that he’s never been a moral challenge about justice and the death penalty so much as a deluded psychopath?
I’ve also cringed at the frequent sight of Deb, who is supposed to be the personification of his conscience or something like that. Her carping is redundant, her standards are random, and her intensity is annoying; the scenes of Deb and Dexter are like the worst kind of black box theater. Everything that was once subtext on the show has become painfully spelled out, by Deb, by Dexter’s voiceover, and by Dexter’s explanations to his son, Harrison (played by Jack Alcott, the best thing about the revival).
So what will happen in the finale? Will Harrison kill Dexter before Angela, Dexter’s police chief girlfriend, can nab him? Will Angela see that secret room of preserved corpses, decide Dexter is a hero, and let him off? Whatever. It probably all comes down to whether there are more seasons of “Dexter” planned.