And if violence is “integral” to the superhero genre, it’s certainly integral to Dexter’s world too. He overpowers, kills, and chops up the criminals whom the authorities can’t catch. Dexter generally allows for no appeals concerning a criminal’s civil rights, either, though in the case of young Jeremy Downs, he grants the boy a second chance because he senses something kindred in him. (A potential “boy-wonder”-style side-kick, perhaps? One who “sees” the world as Dexter does?)
Dexter, like many superheroes, is permanently an outsider too, one “never integrated” into society. The superhero, according to Warren Smith, is “usually a troubled, marginal figure,”2 Ray Browne and Lawrence Kreiser agree that although superheroes “co-operate with and advance the causes of law enforcement institutions, they operate as outsiders without any legal authorization to use the force they exert.”3 This fits Dexter to a tee. Though he marries Rita in season three, his wife is eventually killed and Dexter returns—after that relatively brief interval of human companionship—to outsider status.
He periodically feeds clues to his sister, Deb, a recently promoted homicide detective in Miami, yet he never feels a part of the police despite his day job as a blood spatter analyst (“Normal people are so hostile,” he laments). Dexter perpetually remains an outsider, faking all human interactions. He notes that this unusual masquerade represents his “burden,” explicitly, but at the same time his gift, the thing that enables him to catch criminals. “The inability to feel has its advantages,” he notes in “Love, American Style.” At least “some of the time.”
This is a very Peter Parker way of looking at things. In Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man (2002), Parker (Toby Maguire) laments his responsibilities as a crime fighter, and refers to his duty and capabilities as, explicitly both a “gift” and a “curse.” Dexter’s outsider status and radar are similarly, both a “burden” and an “advantage,” as the dialogue points out. This is the crux of superhero-dom: the power to fight evil, and the fact that the power prevents real connection to those the hero protects.
Origin Stories: The Orphan Makes Good
Even Dexter’s very lineage seems to qualify him for superhero status. Many of the greatest superheroes are orphans. Superman loses his father Jor-El and mother, Lara, when the distant planet Krypton explodes. Bruce Wayne, Batman, is orphaned when his millionaire parents are murdered. Peter Parker, Spider-Man, is also an orphan, one who eventually loses even his adopted father, Uncle Ben Parker. In many cases, these famous superheroes heroes can interface with their parents only through flashbacks (in the case of Batman) or “stored memories” in the Fortress of Solitude (in the case of Superman). These father-son exchanges or tête-à-têtes appear frequently in superhero films, including Superman: The Movie (1978), Superman II (1981), Batman Forever (1995), Spider-Man 2 (2004), and Batman Begins (2005).
Dexter is also an orphan, an abandoned child adopted by a kindly father-figure, Harry Morgan, who’s also only accessible to Dexter in the present through memories and flashbacks. Specifically, Dexter was recovered by Harry at an egregiously bloody crime scene, and the traumatized boy had no sense of where he came from, or how he got there. He was a virtual amnesiac with no history or background, except that which Harry could imprint upon him. Many episodes feature flashbacks of Harry guiding Dexter to manhood, of “fathering” him in the ways of maturity and heroics.
In the article “Why Are There So Many Orphan Heroes and Superheroes?” Tracy Elli explains that a viewer or reader can
evaluate orphan heroes and superheroes as a means by which angst, loneliness, and independence are emphasized. The comic-book-type superhero is usually one who suffers always, or at least most of the time. Particularly when such a hero must deal with the death of murdered parents, his mission in life may be to create a world safe for other children. Loss of even one parent can be intensely traumatic and forever alter a child’s life, and superheroes may do all in their power to prevent this fate for other children. (
Taking this explanation as our cue, the origin story of an orphan boasts multiple purposes for the superhero, and thus for Dexter Morgan too. The story of a “tragic past” connects him to children—always a symbol of tomorrow, or our hope for the future in such dramas —and this is plain from the get-go with Dexter. When he confronts child-murderer Mike Donovan in the series premiere, Dexter immediately sets himself apart from such scum. “I’m not like you,” Dexter insists. “I have standards.”
Dexter’s interactions with Cody and Astor reinforce his connection to children. He preserves their innocence as much as he can, and seems to relate to them better than to adults, perhaps because they don’t wear the deceitful emotional “masks” that other adults often do. Children are exactly what they seem, innocent. Dexter does not have to navigate hidden emotions in dealing with them.
The proverbial heroic origin story and status as orphan also provides an important mystery or puzzle for the hero to solve: where did he or she come from? In Dexter, this mystery is enunciated in a season-long, multi-part story-arc, as Dexter Morgan discovers, step by step, the identity of his biological parents, and then the fact that he has a biological brother who shares his murderous predilections, though not Dexter’s moral “Code” or sense of standards. In this case, that brother is the evil Ice Truck Killer who has been taunting him since the first episode began.
We already know that Dexter is a loner, but Dexter Morgan’s status as an orphan deepens his angst and sense of loneliness. After he dispatches his villainous sibling, he arrives at a point where he has no one kindred in his life that he can really identify with. The Ice Truck Killer, his nemesis and his brother, has thus realized what author Katherine A Fowkes calls “the shadow potential of all superheroes ,”4 the capacity to use their extraordinary power for evil rather than good.
“Superhero stories,” writes Sharon Packer, “show that a character can be a hero or a socially-phobic coward. They also show that heroes can direct righteous anger towards the social good or can misdirect it for the sake of evil, and become villains.”5 That’s Rudy’s journey, and it’s amusing to note how the first featured Dexter “villain” is an amalgam of characteristics from Batman’s famous rogue’s gallery. Like the Riddler, the Ice Truck Killer leaves behind puzzles (photographs, actually) for Dexter to use as clues in apprehending him. And like Mr. Freeze, the Ice Truck Killer uses a “cold” conveyance (an ice truck), freeze-dries his enemies, and even leaves clues (like painted finger-nails) in blocks of ice.
The hero-villain relationship of Dexter and the Ice Truck Killer recalls the superhero genre in another fashion. It’s the “I Made You / You Made Me” syndrome, or the “two-sides of the same coin” dynamic. Both Dexter and Rudy are sociopaths, and both are powerful or extraordinary, but Dexter—via the Code of Harry—“controls the chaos” inside himself, harnessing it to catch villains.
Rudy, on the other hand, uses his abilities with no sense of restraint and no sense of direction towards any social good. He kills innocents (prostitutes) and constructs a devilish game to draw out his sibling, Dexter. He just wants a playmate who shares his “hobby,” and for a while it seems Dexter is actually tempted. But ultimately, in learning about his past as an “orphan,” Dexter finds that there is no biological connection that can bring him peace. His family of origin is only the fulcrum for more pain and suffering, and Dexter ultimately chooses to destroy Rudy and rescue Deb. Metaphorically, Dexter selects Harry’s family—and by extension, Harry’s Code—over his biological family.
The Superhero Syndrome
Some people may look at Dexter Morgan and conclude that he’s simply a very damaged human being, a very sick man who has found a socially-valuable (if illegal) outlet for his sickness. Those same people may be surprised to learn that there’s also a narcissistic disorder or “superhero syndrome” in the DSM IV. Among the symptoms are a lack of empathy, a preoccupation with fantasies of power, a belief in one’s “uniqueness” and a dependence on int
erpersonal exploitation.
Once more, Dexter fits the definition. He often notes that he can’t love or feel empathy, but if he did, it would be aimed at Deb, Cody, and Astor. Also, Dexter occasionally fantasizes that the world knows of his exploits and champions him and frequently speaks of the fact that he doesn’t fit in with “normal people,” that he’s “different.” And as much as we may like Dexter, he’s certainly exploitative on an interpersonal level. When Deb comes up with a behavioral profile that would target Dexter as the Ice Truck Killer, Dexter knowingly sends her in an opposite direction, playing on her insecurity and threatening her status on the job.
The Only Truly Decent Man Left on the Planet
In 1988, DC Comics published a tale called Batman: The Killing Joke, by Alan Moore. Today, gazing at Dexter with its splendid sense of humor and subversive social commentary, you must wonder if the series’ producers are also telling us a kind of “killing joke.”
Dexter feels no emotions. He kills people. He also breaks the law. Dexter even admires a good, clean kill on occasion (even of innocent people; in the case of the Ice Truck Killer’s handiwork). And yet, he is undeniably the series protagonist, the “hero” of this particular tale. As viewers, we root for him each and every week.
What message are the makers of this series attempting to transmit here? Why have they elevated Dexter to the role of a superhero when his behavior is so anti-social? Susan Amper starts to get at this point:
Our empathy for Dexter goes deeper than merely hoping he does not get caught. As Dexter grapples with life, we witness his struggle and sympathize. We can see ourselves in Dexter: his feelings of alienation, his wry take on the people around him and their incomprehensible behavior. But this is scary. If I identify with a serial killer, what does that say about me? (In Sara Waller, Serial Killers, Wiley-Blackwell, 2010, p. 105)
A way to ameliorate that lurking fear in the audience and foster deeper identification with Dexter, is to associate him with the greatest of the great, the paragon of the heroic form: the superhero.
By providing Dexter a costume of sorts; by showcasing Dexter’s unusual “serial killer sense” or radar for pinpointing evil-doers, by gifting Dexter a personal history as an orphan in keeping with much of superhero lore and tradition, the writers and producers of this clever TV drama allow the viewer to relax a little and see that, in a certain context and from a certain viewpoint, Dexter is a laudable, even admirable figure, despite his narcissistic, anti-social tendencies. So there’s no need to feel bad or afraid of the feelings of “connection” Dexter’s plight engenders in us.
There’s also some extreme irony here, that so-called killing joke. Dexter showcases us a world in which rampant, overwrought, out-of-control emotion has caused the downfall or isolation of many, many good people. The dramatis personae who orbit Dexter are all psychologically damaged to one degree or another. Dexter recognizes this most clearly in Rita, in the first episode of Series 1, but Deb is seen to be damaged too. She is so lonely and has such low self-esteem that she ends up constantly pursuing the wrong man. This almost gets her killed. She’s the walking-wounded, perhaps because she feels Harry always preferred Dex.
Likewise, LaGuerta is so driven by the emotion of ambition that she can’t see straight; she can’t connect to other people in a meaningful fashion. Another detective, Angel feels things so passionately that he cheats on his wife and loses the most important relationship in his life. And Doakes—J. Jonah Jameson to Dexter’s Peter Parker—is an abrasive, hostile, closed-off personality who breaks the rules, and denigrates others. He’s suspicious and almost paranoid.
It’s no wonder that these men and women can’t solve crimes, or mete out justice. Dexter’s capacity to be separated from his emotions literally makes him a superhero in such company. Where the others are prone to emotional outbursts, Dexter is pretty stable by comparison. He alone can see dispassionately the way things are, and “who” people really are under their masks, under their veneers.
Because he lacks emotionality, but boasts a moral code, Harry’s Code, Dexter truly is the last decent man in Miami, one who understands something important about life; something that America has forgotten in its post-911 rage and anxiety: Justice is blind. Justice is impartial.
The pursuit of justice is not about passions; that’s merely vengeance. On the contrary, the “killing joke” is that Dexter, a sociopath who feels nothing beyond “the surface,” is ideally suited to mete out justice because he doesn’t feel love or hate, amity or enmity. Unclouded by the human concerns and passions of those around him, Dexter is an impartial moral arbiter. Where others are clouded by their passion, Dexter’s lack of emotionality, lack of belonging allows him to be reasonable, rational and, like Star Trek’s Mr. Spock (another outsider), even logical.
Perhaps Dexter is indeed the Superman for our day and age: an outsider to humanity who can comment objectively upon it, and act in its best interest. No, he can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound, but he’s definitively immune to the toxic passions that infect our national discourse, divide us into Red States and Blue States, and celebrate uncontrolled emotions and unreasoned, vitriolic arguments and soundbites. In his unique way, Dexter is a champion for truth and justice—even if his clinical approach to punishing evil is not precisely the American way.
2
Dexter’s Pointy Ears
ABROL FAIRWEATHER
Dexter’s a perfect case study in emotion precisely because he doesn’t have any. This may not be exactly the right way to put it. Lots of things don’t have emotions, but are not for that reason great resources for understanding them. Consider your coffee maker, the book in your hand, perhaps your favorite pet, though the latter may be an interesting borderline case depending on your pet preferences. These non-emotional items are not as fruitful case studies because they are so unlike us in so many other ways that the differences we see in them and ourselves could be due to the fact that they are made of plastic or paper, as much as their lack of emotion.
But Dexter, aside from killing lots of killers (let’s call this meta-killing ), is a pretty normal guy. He drinks beer, has a job, gets laid; the stuff of life, the kind of life typical of members of our species in the twenty-first century. It’s these two facts together that make Dexter a particularly interesting case study in emotion. He appears to have in place all the things that give rise to emotions in regular folk like us; he just doesn’t have the emotions. This is clearly true of the ‘early Dexter’, which will be the Dexter of interest here, though things get more complicated in Season 5, and are maybe even getting emotional! So, the differences we see between him and ourselves are most likely explained by his lack of what we have: emotion.
You may not know many actual people who’re quite like Dexter, but you probably know at least one Vulcan that is: Spock. Yes, the guy from Star Trek with pointy ears. Just like Dexter, Spock reasons quite well, he is able to make decisions concerning what matters and what ought to be done in light of his values. But he does all of this without having the emotional feelings that humans like Captain Kirk or you and me would have if we were doing what Spock does. Moreover, it appears that Spock is quite successful as Kirk’s advisor precisely because of his lack of emotion. That is what allows him, like Dexter, to do his thing and do it so well.
There are differences between Spock and Dexter. Being Vulcan rather than human, Spock’s pointy ears make him look a good bit different than Kirk and Bones, and not just in the way that Dexter looks anatomically different from Maria LaGuerta, Deb, and Rita (because they are girls), or Vince Masuka, for that matter. Spock also did a lot less serial-killing! But, these differences need not stand in the way of fruitful comparison. Ironically, we will see that much can be learned about us good ol’ emotional types—assuming you will continue to have any emotions by the time you’re done reading this chapter—by looking further into these two unemotional types.
Dexter’s Loss Is Our Gain
Dexter’s
traumatic past is our philosophical opportunity. Because young Dexter sat in a large pool of his mother’s blood watching her being mutilated and destroyed by a chainsaw wielding drug dealer, he doesn’t have emotions. Sad though this may be, it presents a nice philosophical opportunity. Because Dexter is still so much like the rest of us, we can see what effects emotions themselves, rather than other aspects of our being, have in us by seeing what effects are lost when they are absent in Dexter.
John Stuart Mill would approve of our philosophical methodology. From a moral point of view, Mill would examine the consequences of Dexter’s meta-killing. As a Utilitarian, he would ask whether Dexter’s meta-killing is improving the balance of pleasure over pain for the citizens of Miami, and perhaps for the world as a whole. This is a very interesting moral question—is Dexter making the world a happier place? Of course, his victims will feel considerable pain as they sit neatly wrapped and prepared on their death table viewing pictures of their own victims while looking up at Dexter’s stubbly, smiling face, and receive that little slice on their cheek right before the knife plunges into their chest. But, their pain just counts as one factor, and the preservation of their future would-be victim’s lives would certainly balance that out, and then some. On the other hand, the homicide division of Miami Metro will have a lot of unsolved murders if Dexter keeps murdering their murderers. And we have to consider the raw pleasure Dexter himself gets from the killing as well.
While this is an interesting approach, we’re going to steer clear of morals and use a different approach to understand emotion through Dexter, one based on Mill’s Method of Difference. Roughly, this tells us that if we want to understand the cause of a certain phenomenon E, we look for two kinds of cases. One where E is present and a number of other factors (A, B, C, D) are also present, and second where one of these other factors (A, B, C, or D) is not present and neither is E. We can figure out the causal effects of some phenomenon by deleting only it from a situation and then seeing what else is deleted, because this tells us what is present due to the presence of that factor itself, rather than other variables in the situation as a whole.
Dexter and Philosophy Page 3
