Hate the Sinner But Love the Sin?

I find myself thinking way too much about the "Roseanne" reboot.  This morning, I posted a tongue in cheek comment to the effect that "Will & Grace" vs. "Roseanne" is the equivalent of Mets vs. Yankees: You can be a fan of one or the other, but not both.  This generated quite a bit of negative feedback, and not only, as one would expect, from Red Sox fans.

The position of those who took exception to my comment seems to be that both shows are, generally, high quality and can be appreciated by a diverse audience.  Fair enough.  I'm willing to accept that both shows have things to recommend them.  Indeed, I have every reason to think that "Roseanne" is, as far as these things go, a high-quality sitcom: I enjoyed the original run of the show (although I didn't watch the last 2-3 seasons).  And essentially the entire creative staff of the first run has returned for the reboot.  But I'll have to take people's word for its overall quality, as I flat out refuse to watch "Roseanne."

As you might have guessed, if you've paid attention to anything I've ever said or written, my boycott is inspired by Roseanne Barr's unapologetic embrace of the racist moron currently occupying the Oval Office.  And while I know I'm not alone in my feelings about this, I've been doing some soul-searching about whether I'm being exactly the kind of judgmental, intolerant elitist so frequently caricatured by the right. Should I not be willing to overlook any political "shortcomings" of the show's creator and appreciate the show (or not) on its merits?

Indeed, to return to the comparison I started out with, my guess is that "Roseanne" (as opposed to Roseanne) is probably more sympathetic to the opposing (liberal) viewpoint than "Will & Grace" is to conservatives.  Jackie, Laurie Metcalf's character, represents liberalism on "Roseanne," and she has always been a fully-developed character.  The right-wing viewpoint on "Will & Grace," however, is represented by Megan Mullaly's Karen Walker--Karen is frequently hilarious, but she is a total cartoon character, none of whose opinions are presented for anything other than laughter.

I freely acknowledge, then, that "Roseanne" may be an "objectively" good show--to the extent that any judgment on this kind of thing can be objective. I may be depriving myself of a rewarding aesthetic experience by my small act of cultural protest.  But in this era when good liberals are apparently no longer allowed to watch "House of Cards" or the films of Woody Allen or the comedy of Louis CK, why should I give a pass to Roseanne Barr?  I know, I know: What those icons of the left did was loathsome and creepy--if not illegal--whereas "all" Roseanne Barr has done is express some unpopular political opinions.  They are not equivalent.  But that doesn't make Roseanne Barr OK.

So, will I never support the artistic endeavors of ANYONE who support(ed) Trump?  I don't know; I think I might. The problem is not, simply, that Roseanne Barr voted for Trump. If she simply supported Trump because she believed he spoke for the "forgotten" working class--a false belief, in my opinion, but that's another story--but she was also willing to call him out for his racist/misogynistic/homophobic words and actions, then I could accept that.  But when a woman who, for example, has historically been an ally of the LGBTQ community refuses in a recent New York Times article to condemn or even criticize Trump's blatantly homophobic words and actions, then she deserves scorn.

Even a liberal icon like Jon Stewart criticized Obama over things like drone warfare and Guantanamo Bay, but Roseanne Barr is apparently unwilling to say anything bad about Trump.  And this blind devotion to an unbalanced, immature, divisive demagogue is tearing this country apart.  I cannot support a project of someone who wants to normalize or rehabilitate--or perhaps celebrate--someone as destructive to the social fabric as Donald Trump.

Meet the Mets...Later

Does it make sense to record sporting events? I ask this question as I sit here, typing, with the Mets game on--a Mets game that I assume ended several hours ago. I recorded the game because I like the Mets and, living in the Bay Area, I don't get to see them with any regularity. So, on those occasions when they ARE on national TV, I feel almost obligated to watch them--which generally means recording the games, as the games usually start (or in the case of day games like today's, start and end) while I'm at work. But does it make sense?

I mean, I fast forward through the commercials. But when I do that, I think, y'know, I could also fast forward to move more quickly from one batter to the next.  But if I'm going to do that, I could pretty much just skip to "interesting" moments: Maybe I could keep speeding through until I see runners on base.  But if I do that, why not just skip to the end to see who wins? Or just go to Nymets.com and check the score?  Because if I watch the whole game and they actually lost, am I not just setting myself up for disappointment? Leaving aside for the moment the reasonable question of whether being a Mets fan is, by definition, setting myself up for disappointment?  Is watching a recorded sporting event really nothing more than a sort of magical thinking?

Next Year: A Reality Show in The House of the Seven Gables

First, there was "The Following," which mangled Edgar Allan Poe.  Now this.

I suspect that "Sleepy Hollow," Fox's new action-horror program arose from a profound moment of cultural semi-literacy: "Hey, let's make a show based on that story. . . .by that Irving Washington guy. . . y'know, the one where Ichabod Crane falls asleep for two-hundred years and wakes up to fight the Headless Horseman."

Close enough.

Anyway, I've watched the show--it's not particularly terrible, but not overly good either.  In this version, Ichabod Crane is not a gangly schoolteacher, but rather a hunky (if lanky) Englishman, who switched sides in the Revolutionary War.  While battling his erstwhile redcoated comrades, Crane confronts a Hessian in a sort of Bane-mask who, after a minor decapitation, goes on to become the light-shouldered eqestrian we're all familiar with from our collective nightmares and/or Disney adaptations.  Crane himself, grievously wounded, falls unconscious, and, when next he wakes, finds himself in Sleepy Hollow in 2013.  He and a young sheriff's deputy then team up to battle the Horseman and assorted other supernatural baddies.

My question, though, is this: The show has now been on for about two months (minus a World-Series break), and Ichabod has been wandering the streets for what seems to be at least the same amount of time--but he's still wearing his Revolutionary War clothes!

  Can no one take the poor guy to Target?

Shoot the "Hostages"

I was watching the second episode of "Hostages," a "drama" starring Toni Collette and Dylan McDermott, and growing more and more irritated.  I couldn't quite figure out what was bothering me about the show, and I was determined not to throw the remote at the television until I had figured out just what was bothering me.  Finally, it hit me!  And now, one cracked TV screen later, I can share it with you.

"Hostages" tells the story of Dr. Ellen Sanders (Collette), a surgeon selected to operate on the President of the United States, who comes home the day before the surgery to discover that her family has been taken--you guessed it-- hostage by an elite team of--well, I would say "terrorists," but since they're led by the somewhat engaging Duncan Carlisle (McDermott), I'm not entirely sure that they're, exactly, bad guys.  I suppose if I were to keep watching, all would eventually become clear.  But that's not going to happen.  To continue::

OK, so Carlisle and his crew are holding Sanders' family hostage.  Their demand?  That she take a dive in the eighth--or, rather, that she intentionally botch the President's otherwise routine surgery so that he dies on the operating table.  What is Sanders to do?  What choice does she have?  In order to save her family, she must go against everything she believes!  The angst!  The drama!  The first episode builds to its climax as Sanders heads to the hospital to perform the surgery.  We watch, along with the hostage-takers and the Sanders clan, as the television interrupts its regularly scheduled programming with a breaking story from the President's hospital--

--THE SURGERY HAS BEEN DELAYED!

It seems that someone "accidentally" administered a blood thinner to the President, so Dr. Sanders has no choice but to postpone the surgery.  Wouldn't want anything to happen to the President, of course.  As the episode ends, we see Toni Collette, on TV, explain that of course the surgery will proceed as soon as possible.  She looks straight into the camera and says something to the effect of "I don't give up that easily."  A grudging smile crosses the face of Dylan McDermott: We can almost hear the subtext: "Oho!  Clever girl!  You've won THIS battle!  But will you win the war?"

OK, yeah, I'm surprised I made it through another half an episode, too.

But here's what ruins the whole thing for me.  In episode one, when she first sees the hostage takers in her home, Ellen activates a security device to call for help.  Duncan sees this, so he tells Ellen that she'd best be contacting the security company to tell them not to send anyone.  Ellen calls, but the company--while glad to hear that it's a "false alarm"--insists on sending someone over to the house to check: Company policy!  When the security guard shows up, though, it turns out that he's in on the whole thing!  He knows Dylan McDermott and his merry band of miscreants!  You see, Ellen: They're everywhere!  You can't get away from them!  You'd better just do what we say!

And when I say they're everywhere, I mean, EVERYWHERE!  Because in episode two, Ellen is being interviewed by the Secret Service about the mishap with the President's meds.  At one point, the head honcho steps out, and another Secret Service agent leans over and asks Ellen, quietly, whether her son is "enjoying spending time with her new houseguests"!  OH MY GOD!  THEY'VE EVEN INFILTRATED THE SECRET SERVICE!

You see the plot problem here?  If this shadowy cabal that wants to kill the President is so thorough that it can ensconce agents not only at the private security firm that watches over Dr. Sanders' home but also IN THE FREAKIN' SECRET SERVICE, then WHY do they need to count on the services of a reluctant doctor--who is also just maybe smart enough to figure out a way to thwart their plans?  Why wouldn't they just find a different doctor who would be willing, say, to do exactly what they wanted in exchange for something simple, like a tidy cash payout?  If they can get to the Secret Service, they could presumably get to anybody, right?

So one of two things is happening here: Either Duncan Carlisle chose Sanders to be the instrument of the President's doom BECAUSE OF her reluctance, because Carlisle--being Dylan McDermott, after all--is actually NOT a bad guy and actually wants to thwart the murderous plans of the actual bad guys; or, on the other hand, the writers have no idea what they're doing.  Either way, "Hostages" is not worth the ransom, i.e., the precious hours of my life I would never get back for watching it.

Macmeth: A Tragedy in Five Seasons

I saw a couple of Facebook postings today from people imploring the interwebs to stop spoilering the finale of "Breaking Bad," as they had only gotten up to, like, season three on Netflix.  I have no sympathy!  If people had started watching the show back when we all told them to, then they wouldn't find themselves in this predicament now would they?  Still, good luck with that whole internet shutdown.  Maybe you can get Republicans to attach a defund Obamacare rider to every website. . . .

I don't even know what that means.

Anyway, on to the post: A final consideration/tribute to "Breaking Bad," the indisputably best show on television over at least the last three years or so, and short-listed candidate for best drama of all time.  Last night, of course, was the series finale, and the show went out in a blaze of glory.  I must admit that the opening, while entertaining, was kind of pointless: Why open with a "suspenseful" moment before Walter White leaves New Hampshire on his final trip to New Mexico?  By this time, we know he gets away from the Granite State: We've seen him back home in the flash-forward!

After that point, however, the finale teems with memorable and highly satisfying moments.  Walt's final farewell to Skyler brought a tear to these cynical eyes, especially Walt's confession, arguably his most honest moment in the series, that everything he had done he did, ultimately, because he wanted to: "I liked it.  I was good at it.  I was alive."  The massacre of Uncle Jack and his merry band of Nazis, the ricining of Lydia, and Jesse's revenge on Creepy Todd satisfied on a visceral level.  And of course, Walt's death, surrounded by the tools of his trade, a slight smile on his lips, as "Baby Blue" (which I thought was an Aimee Mann song but which turns out to be by Badfinger--she covered it) played over the soundtrack was just. . . .MWAH (I just put my fingers to my lips and then opened my fingers in a kiss-blowing motion).  The perfect ending to the perfect show.  (And a sort of redemption for executive producer/creator Vince Gilligan, who had a hand in what was probably the worst series finale of all time, "The X-Files.")

The best part of the finale, though, was actually one of the less important moments: the meeting between Walt and his erstwhile partners, the Schwartzes.  This scene presented us with one of the last examples of Walt figuring his way out of an insoluble problem: how to get his money--nearly ten million dollars--to his family without it being confiscated by the DEA.  Not only does he enlist the Schwartzes as his reluctant bagmen, he also manages to put the fear of God--or of Heisenberg, which is probably worse--into these people who foolishly disparaged his abilities--and on national television no less!  Long after he is dead, he will continue to haunt his former friends.

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So what's the big deal about "Breaking Bad," anyway?  I've been thinking about this, and the best answer I can give is that "BB" is nothing less than a classical tragedy set in modern America.  As with the finest tragedies, the ending is preordained at the beginning, as a tragic hero--one "like ourselves or better" in the Aristotelian formulation--hurtles headlong to a doom of his own making.  We watch Walter White, confronted with his own mortality, not only rage against the dying of the light, but seize every opportunity to transcend the destiny assigned to him.  We love Walter because he represents something we all wish we could be: a brilliant, invincible commander of his own fate.  That he does this by becoming a conscienceless methamphetamine kingpin only complicates our feelings--it does not diminish them.

Whether you consider "Breaking Bad" the greatest television drama ever, or just one of a handful of flawlessly written, beautifully acted series, one thing is for certain: We are unlikely to see another show like this, or another character like Walter White, any time soon.  Rest in peace, Heisenberg.

Can a Government Shutdown Be Avoided?

Once again, in what by now seems like the political equivalent of "Groundhog Day," Republican extremists are threatening to drive the country over a fiscal cliff, holding serious budget negotiations hostage to unrealistic demands for ideological purity.  As has been pointed out in numerous outlets, even Republican stalwarts like John McCain and Lindsey Graham have grown weary of the theatrics, calling on their party colleagues to accept reality and negotiate seriously with their ideological adversaries, lest they condemn the Grand Old Party to permanent residency in the political wilderness.  Meanwhile, on the Democratic side of the aisle--

Oh, who am I kidding?  Who has time for political nonsense!  The "Breaking Bad" finale will premiere in a few short hours!  And I have to admit, I have no idea what's going to happen.  I mean, Walter pretty much has to die, right? But he has to take out Uncle Jack and Creepy Todd first!  Me, personally?  I'm guessing Jesse takes Walt out, but who knows?  And who's gonna get the ricin?

I'm so not ready for this.

Saturday Miscellany

WOS's Words of Wisdom:

"Do you talk like this in public, or is it just for my displeasure?"

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Did you know that today is National Drink Beer Day?  Did you know that not every day is National Drink Beer Day?

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The new season of "Masterchef" is a "Junior" edition: The competitors are children between the ages of 8 and 13.  I don't think it works too well: Part of the appeal of these shows is watching Gordon Ramsay go berserk on people who disappoint him, and somehow, I don't think the producers will give him the leeway to call a nine-year-old girl a donkey-fucking piece of owl-shite.

Well, That Was Awful

Earlier this year, I wrote about my disappointment in season 7 of "Dexter."  What had the writers done?  For six-plus seasons, we accepted Dexter Morgan (Michael C. Hall)--loved him, even--despite his somewhat substantial character flaws: extreme introversion, general social awkwardness, and his frequent tendency to wrap people up in plastic and kill them.  We accepted this murderousness because Dexter operated by a code--a code that called on him to channel his homicidal urges and to kill only those people who truly deserved it: primarily, murderers who had eluded the criminal justice system.  This code was unbreakable; indeed, at an earlier point in the series, Dexter, confronted with the decision of whether to kill an innocent in order to avoid arrest, seemed prepared to turn himself in rather than break the code.  At the end of the seventh season, though, all that seemed to go out the window, as Dexter prepared to kill his lieutenant--and then condoned (if not encouraged) her murder by his sister Deb--in order to escape justice.  The shark had been jumped.

Nevertheless, when I heard that this season of "Dexter"--the eighth--would mark the end of the series, I decided to tune in.  I had come this far.  I might as well see how the whole thing ends.  And I have to say, having just watched the series finale, that I wasn't disappointed: It was as bad as I thought it was going to be.

To get the spoilers out of the way: At the end of the series, Dexter fakes his own death in a hurricane and leaves Miami for what appears to be the Pacific Northwest.  He has traded in his police laboratory for a logging camp (?)--and gotten pretty paunchy, too, I must say--and the last image we have of Dexter Morgan is him sitting at a dining room table, staring vacantly into the camera.  I was expecting at least to hear a "Tonight's the night" in voiceover--a nice way of bringing the series full circle and assuring us that Dexter was at least back to his old, righteous serial killer ways--but we were denied even that.  Which is to say, I have no idea what the ending is supposed to mean.  Oh, and Deb (Jennifer Carpenter) is dead.  And Harrison (Jadon Wells), Dexter's son, has been sent off to Argentina to live with Hannah McKay (Yvonne Strahovski),  the beautiful serial poisoner that Dexter fell in love with in season seven.

Yeah.

The worst part of all this is that the writers had a perfectly good--or at any rate, infinitely better--way to end the series.  They set everything up so well in the middle of the season.  Dexter got himself a protégé, Zack Hamilton (Sam Underwood).  Zack struggled with the same murderous compulsions as Dexter, and Dexter was training Zack in "the code."  And Zack was doing well, too, chalking up his first kill of "one who got away."  How appropriate would it have been to end the series with Dexter passing the torch to the next generation?  Hell, if the writers were totally married to the idea of ending the show with "Yukon Dexter," they could have done that, too, but at least they could have left us with a better sense of where things go from here.  But no: Zack gets killed off about two-thirds of the way through season eight, so. . . . Yeah, I don't know.

So for anyone out there who has not yet watched "Dexter," here's the deal: Watch the first four seasons (masterpieces--especially season four with John Lithgow).  If you desperately feel the need to decompress, season five ("Lumen") is a fitting denouement.  But stop there: You'll only disappoint yourself if you go further.

The New Season: Marvel Agents of SHIELD--A Brief Review

I enjoyed "Marvel Agents of SHIELD."  Actually, I enjoyed watching it even more than I enjoyed it the first time I saw it, when it was called "Alphas."  I trust I am not alone in happily welcoming back Agent Coulson (Clark Gregg), who has recovered nicely from his slight case of, um, death.  But do we have to call it, "Marvel Agents of SHIELD"?  How corporate-conscious do we need to be?  It's like always referring to "Yahoo" as "Yahoo!"

Drunk Is the New Bacon

Your typical History Channel documentary may present an in-depth expose of J. Edgar Hoover's ongoing attempts to smear Martin Luther King, Jr., or perhaps a more uplifting story of the earnest do-gooder who used the "Superman" radio serial to humiliate the Ku Klux Klan.  On Comedy Central's "Drunk History," you can see the exact same stories, re-enacted by performers--often quite famous actors--who are acting out the historical events as described by highly educated narrators--who also happen to be utterly, hopelessly drunk.

Today, on the website Dangerousminds.net, I watched "Star Drunk," a short science-fiction--"film" seems too strong a word, but what the heck--about. . . . Well, honestly, it doesn't matter what it's about.  "Star Drunk" arose from an evening get-together among a group of writers, who decided to explore the effects of extreme drunkenness on their creative process.  When they completed the screenplay, they decided to film it. . .using all drunk actors.

When did creative types decide that adding drunkenness to everything made it better?  Oh, certainly, artistic types have been hitting the sauce since the advent of art--or the advent of sauce, whichever came last.  But traditionally alcohol has been a behind-the-scenes handmaiden to artistic production, not a front-and-center component of the finished product (except perhaps in the oeuvre of Dudley Moore or some of your better-known Beats).  It's like drunkenness is the new bacon, a tasty condiment sprinkled liberally on any and everything to give it an added salty zing!

One can't help but wonder where this will end?  "Dancing with the Drunks"?  "Gordon Ramsay's Drunken Kitchen"?  "Drinking Game of Thrones"?  "Drunk Monday Night Football""?  (OK, I would totally watch that one.) And why stop at alcohol?  There are any number of ways to spice up standard television fare by adding an innovative degree of difficulty: "The Epileptic Housewives of Staten Island," anyone?

The New Season

Several television shows have premiered over the last couple of weeks.  Herewith, some thoughts:

Crossing Lines (NBC): Basically "Criminal Minds" with an international flavor, "Crossing Lines" focuses on an elite group of crimefighters recruited from across Europe (plus one disillusioned New York City detective).  This task force functions as an investigative arm of the International Criminal Court, pursuing criminals who cannot otherwise be pursued, due to the cross-border nature of their crimes.  (Personally, I always thought that was what Interpol was for.  Of course, I've also never been quite sure whether Interpol was a real thing: It sounds far too cool to be real.  Where was I?)

Unlike most new TV shows, "Crossing Lines" is refreshingly non-continuous; that is, each episode functions as a stand-alone story.  There is an ongoing subplot featuring a shadowy Russian criminal mastermind who is responsible for the murder of the young son of one of the team members, but one doesn't need to know much about this plotline to follow the events of any individual episode.  The question is, Will this subplot be enough to keep people coming back week after week?  The answer, for me at least, is No.

Under the Dome (CBS): I was looking forward to this one.  Based on the Stephen King tome of the same name, "Under the Dome" tells the story of Chester's Mill, a pleasant New England town whose residents one day find themselves trapped under a transparent but unbreakable dome.  While the basic concept and main characters are familiar from the novel, the producers have taken some liberties with the plot--changing some details, adding and deleting others--presumably to give themselves the option of exploring further storylines depending on how successful the show is.

The show's not bad, but I have one quibble with what has been done with one of the major characters, James "Big Jim" Rennie, the show's primary villain.  In the book, he is the "Second Selectman" of Chester's Mill, but he effectively runs the town, including several shady enterprises in and around Chester's Mill.  For the show, the producers have changed Rennie's title to councilman--a wise move, in my opinion: I read all 1,000-plus pages of Under the Dome, and I STILL have no clear idea what a "second selectman" is.  I assume it's some position of authority unique to Maine--the kind of title that probably comes with a free chicken and unlimited use of the town snowplow.  Another choice made by the producers, however, is far less satisfying.

Rennie is played by Dean Norris.  Now, I have nothing against Dean Norris as an actor; indeed, as a member of the "Breaking Bad" ensemble, Norris (who plays Walt's brother-in-law, Hank Schrader) has my utmost respect.  But while Dean Norris may be any number of things, he is most definitely not "Big."  Big Jim Rennie needs to be an imposing physical presence--the part fairly screams for John Goodman--and Norris just does not convey any sense of physical menace.  Maybe he'll grow into the role--but he'll need to have quite a growth spurt.

Ray Donovan (Showtime): Remember "Pulp Fiction"?  Remember Harvey Keitel's character, "The Wolf," the guy who cleans up other people's messes?  Well, Ray Donovan  (Liev Schreiber) is basically "The Wolf," only not quite so amusing. By far the best of these new shows, "Ray Donovan" revolves around an all-purpose fixer, the guy you call if you're a Hollywood A-lister, and you wake up with a naked dead woman in your bed.  Ray's family consists of his brothers Terry (Eddie Marsan), who is suffering from Parkinson's, and Bunchy (Dash Mihok), who is dealing with alcoholism, drug addiction, and other long-term repercussions of having been molested by the family priest; Ray's father (Jon Voight), who has just been paroled for unspecified crimes, and whose reappearance in Ray's life is less than welcome; and Ray's wife Abby (Paula Malcomson), who is desperate for a more mainstream version of the Hollywood dream than that provided by Ray's shady profession.  As "Dexter" (which it follows on Sunday nights) staggers to an end--none too soon, if the season premiere is any indication--"Ray Donovan" provides a nice palate cleanser.

This IS Your Father's "Hannibal"

Anthony Hopkins did not originate the role of Hannibal Lecter on film.  That distinction belongs to Ronny Cox, who played Hannibal in "Manhunter" (1986), Michael Mann's adaptation of Thomas Harris's novel, Red Dragon (1981).  Ronny Cox is quite good, and the film is quite nifty overall, but it didn't take off to the same extent as "The Silence of the Lambs" (1991), the film version of Thomas Harris's Red Dragon sequel.  That film, of course, is a modern classic, sweeping the Academy Awards and establishing Hopkins' incarnation of Hannibal Lecter as a nightmare figure for the ages, right up there with Dracula, Darth Vader, and any number of recent Republican celebrities.  After "Silence," though, things started to go downhill.

I have no idea whether Thomas Harris always intended to write some sort of Hannibal trilogy.  In both Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal is a supporting (albeit fascinating) character.  He is imprisoned, having been captured earlier by Special Agent Will Graham (William Petersen in "Manhunter," Edward Norton in "Red Dragon" [2002], and Hugh Dancy in the current TV series "Hannibal"--more on that to come).  In both novels and films, Lecter is consulted by FBI agents--first Graham, then Clarice Starling--who seek his unique insights into cases they are investigating.  In Silence, Lecter escapes from custody, so we can imagine that Thomas Harris wanted to give himself the option of writing another book that would, presumably, focus on the hunt for Hannibal.  Still, there was not necessarily a huge demand for such a book; we all could have happily gone on with our lives knowing that Hannibal was "out there" somewhere, ready to murder us horrifically (but with a certain panache) and eat our livers.

Once the film version of "Silence" went blockbuster, though, one can only imagine the amounts of money being thrown at Thomas Harris by both publishers and studios to finish the third installment, appropriately titled, Hannibal (2000); indeed, I for one am impressed he was able to hold all these people off for eight years while he finished writing the thing.  Overall, though, the book and subsequent film have to be seen as disappointments.

The main problem with Hannibal is that, once Lecter becomes a central (as opposed to supporting) figure, he can no longer truly be a monster.  Oh, sure, he's still a murderer, but his killings now seem justified.  He butchers a Florentine detective, but, while we feel somewhat bad for the policeman, and while his graphic demise is disproportionate to his "crime" (i.e., trying to capture Hannibal and hand him over to someone who wants to kill him), we can also chalk Hannibal's actions up to a sort of self-defense.  All Lecter's other victims in this novel seem in one way or another thoroughly deserving of their fates: They themselves are mostly criminals and murderers--or at least thoroughly distasteful and sleazy individuals.  Hannibal Lecter has been transformed from monstrous sociopath into avenging angel.  And even with Anthony Hopkins' continued revelry in this juiciest of roles, the character becomes decidedly less interesting.  The low point comes in Hannibal Rising (2002, film version, 2007), a sort of Lecterian origin story, wherein we learn that Hannibal was driven over the edge during his childhood, when he witnessed his baby sister being cannibalized during the waning days of World War II.  See, folks?  Society is to blame for Hannibal's depravities!

Thank God for "Hannibal," which just completed its first season on NBC.  (And thank God that NBC was apparently so desperate for ratings that they took a chance and put this on the air.  This show is, to say the least, not your typical network drama.)  This series takes place in what I can only assume is a sort of "parallel universe" to the Thomas Harris novels: Hannibal has not yet been captured, and he is still a respected psychiatrist in Baltimore.  He still serves as a consultant to the FBI, particularly to Will Graham (who has obviously not yet figured out that Lecter is a serial killer).  And, of course, he still engages in highly artistic murders and in culinary tours de force (just don't ask about the ingredients).

The best part, though, is that Hannibal, played by Danish actor Mads Mikkelsen, is once again thoroughly and unrepentantly evil.  Presumably he still has the same back-story as the Hannibal we've all come to know and fear from the earlier books and movies, but we hear nothing of his sister's murder or of any other mitigating factors.  This Hannibal, like the Hannibal of Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, is a pure genius, a pure sociopath, and an addictively watchable character.  I'm not saying that Mikkelsen is a better actor than Anthony Hopkins--I'll leave that argument for others--but this version of the now-iconic character is much closer to the original conception than anything that has been seen since "Silence of the Lambs."  It's kind of like seeing Dracula as "Dracula" (1931) again, after having spent the last ten years watching "Love at First Bite" (1979).

Why Weep for Theon?

After watching last night's season finale of "Game of Thrones," I started to wonder about my own moral compass--my ideas about right and wrong and about what constitutes "just" punishment.  For one thing--

(DIGRESSION: Should I say "spoiler alert"?  Probably not necessary.  If you watch "GoT," this is old news, and, if you don't you probably don't care anyway.  In fact, you might as well check back tomorrow for whatever I decide to blather about then.  Or perhaps I can interest you in this post about pandas? EOD)

For one thing, I could never have imagined that I would experience such a cathartic sense of joy--such a fist-pump worthy feeling of euphoria over a little girl repeatedly stabbing a man in the neck.  Yes, the man had it coming, and, yes, the little girl in question, Arya Stark (Maisie Williams) has more than earned the right to inflict payback on those who have wronged her and her family.  But what does it say about my sense of morality that I (and, I suspect, tens of thousands of viewers across the country) let out a silent (or not so silent) cheer at this moment when a child has irrevocably embarked down a path of bloody vengeance. 

(DIGRESSION: I ASSUME this is merely a starting point:

The Hound (Rory McCann): Is that the first man you've killed?

Arya: Yes.  The first man.

Emphasis in the original!  The "YES!!!" heard 'round the world! We're not good people! EOD)

But then there are the more complicated emotions around another character, Theon Greyjoy (Alfie Allen), who literally spent the entire season being tortured ever-more horrifically at the hands of a mysterious psychopath whose identity we only learned last night: crucified, beaten, broken, and ultimately castrated.  So, of course, by the end, we feel bad for Theon--but should we?  True, his suffering seems disproportionate punishment for any crime we could think of.  I mean, it's not like he betrayed his family and murdered helpless old men, women, and children!  Except. . . that's exactly what he did.  So maybe he deserves whatever is happening to him?

One of the great qualities of "GoT" is its absence of black and white characters.  There are no unambiguously good or bad people.  Except King Joffrey (Jack Gleeson), perhaps, who is truly irredeemable, but even he has the somewhat mitigating factor of being (A) a child and (B) the poster child for the dangers of inbreeding.  Even the ostensible main villain--Tywin Lannister (Charles Dance)-- inspires admiration because of his obvious intelligence and the fact that his primary motivation is to advance his family's well-being--albeit through war, murder, and treachery: He's basically Walter White without the knowledge of chemistry and the porkpie hat. 

Because we cannot easily categorize people into good or bad, we also cannot draw easy conclusions about what constitutes right and wrong: Murder for the sake of revenge is good; torture for the sake of punishment is bad.  Or maybe not.  The complexity of the characters leads a viewer to question his own sympathies--his own desires.  I have no idea who, ultimately, will win the "game of thrones," and for the sake of a "satisfying" narrative conclusion, I don't even know who should win.  What would the "happy ending" be?  Is one even possible?  In a fictional landscape devoid of clear heroes and villains, where the quest for power is the overriding concern, a consistent set of morals--a desire to be the "good guy"-seems an unaffordable luxury.  The one group of people in the story who have displayed  any concern with acting "ethically" are the Starks--a concern that so far, consistently, has just gotten them killed.

Why Am I Bothering?

With the New York Knicks back in the playoffs--in more than just a token appearance--for the first time in ages, and with most of the East Coast games occurring--or at least starting--before I get home from work, I've taken to recording these contests.  Recording provides me with any number of advantages, including the ability to watch the game at my convenience and to fast forward through commercials.  But when I watch these recording after the games have already ended, I find myself wrestling with a philosophical quandary: Why, exactly, am I even bothering?  I mean, never, mind zipping through commercials, I could just fast forward to the end of the game--or, better yet, look up the result online.  There's something utterly pointless in rooting for a team to win a game that is already in the books at the moment of my rooting.  Of course, many of my friends would point out that rooting for a sports team is, in general, pointless.  But why subject myself to pointlessness squared?

Game of Accents

Tonight, "Game of Thrones" (probably the second best show on television) returns.  The show features something truly unique in the realm of modern television.  I speak neither of dragons nor of gratuitous nudity, but rather of the truly unique sight of an American actor cast in the role of an Englishman!  (Well, OK, strictly speaking a Westerosian, but same difference, really.)  Ever since Hugh Laurie first brayed his way across the screen in "House," American television has been inundated by Brits with the uncanny ability to do perfect American accents.  Did you know all of these performers are Brits or Aussies: Damian Lewis ("Homeland"), Andrew Lincoln ("The Walking Dead"), Rose Byrne and Anastasia Griffith ("Damages"), Joseph Fiennes ("American Horror Story").  Why isn't Congress taking up the cause of American actors displaced from juicy roles by classically-trained British interlopers?

At any rate, thank God for Peter Dinklage, who appears to be the one American actor deemed worthy enough to make the reverse trans-Atlantic crossing.  And it's not just some token role, either.  How good is Dinklage, who plays the Machiavellian dwarf, Tyrion Lannister (also probably the second best character on television)?  He's actually seven feet tall!  You go, Peter!  USA!  USA!

Norman's Not Himself Today

I watched the premiere of "Bates Motel" last night.  An interesting experience, as I hadn't read anything about the show beforehand. The general premise, though, seemed obvious enough, based on the title and the fact that the main characters are Norman Bates (Freddie Highmore) and his mother, Norma (Vera Farmiga).

The show opens with the death of Norman's father.  Six months later, the remaining Bateses hop into a vintage car and relocate from Arizona to a coastal town (not sure whether it's California or Oregon), where Norma has purchased a run-down motel and the oh-so-familiar mansion on the hill behind it.  Norma strikes a pin-up pose on the hood of her car for Norman to take a picture commemorating their arrival.  The pair enter the mansion, filled with early century furniture covered in drop-cloths.  Norma explains that here they will make a new start.

OK.  So far, so good: It's a prequel.  Through this show, we will learn how nice, polite Norman becomes a Hitchcockian shower-slasher.  When the show comes back from commercial, though, things go. . .sideways: Norman is sitting outside fiddling with what look like iPod earbuds.  Suddenly, a group of girls drives up in an unmistakably modern-day BMW convertible.  In other words, we are no longer in the 1950's; turns out, we never were.  While the main characters are clearly the iconic figures from "Psycho," the show itself is set in 2013.  It's not a prequel; it's a "reboot."

The show is enjoyable, as far as it goes. Vera Farmiga's a good actress, and Norma is an interesting character: strong-willed, humorous, devoted to Norman, but with the incipient overbearingness that we can imagine inevitably leading to psychopathology.  Freddie Highmore plays Norman with the expected amount of teenage awkwardness, while investing him with a likable degree of wit and, yes, humanity.  The rest of the cast fills the Bateses' new seaside home with a degree of eccentricity reminiscent of "Twin Peaks."

So why the modern-day setting?  Ultimately, this affords the viewer a modicum of hope.  Sure, Norman could become a serial-killer, but maybe he won't.  There is no inevitable Janet Leigh waiting a few short years in the future.  Only as the series unfolds will we learn whether Norman's story is the tragedy we have come to expect.

Breaking Worse

A popular meme making the rounds on YouTube re-imagines some of today's most popular television shows--"Game of Thrones," "The Walking Dead"--as if they were produced in 1995.  To me, the results are more reminiscent of the 1980's--I don't remember the '90's being quite so cheesy--but they are amusing nonetheless.

One remix presents "Breaking Bad" as an "Eight Is Enough"-style family dramedy.  Instead of the familiar image of chemical symbols rising through toxic meth-fumes, the show's "opening" features a cheery up-tempo pop tune over clips of the show's stars smiling, joking, and loving each other unconditionally.  The ncongruity of "Breaking Bad"'s unremitting gothic darkness transposed into the land of warm fuzzies makes for great comedy.

The problem arises when somebody at a major network--or in this case, ABC--decides that this parody would actually make for a good drama.  Such seems to be the case with "Red Widow."

I watched the pilot the other night--I have a lot of old stuff on my DVR.  The show is about a woman, Marta Walraven (Radha Mitchell), whose husband is murdered after he and his partners steal a cocaine shipment from a powerful gangster named Schiller (Goran Visnjic).  In order to settle her husband's debt--and ensure no further harm comes to her family--Marta agrees to work for Schiller.  Although she is awkward at first, I can already see where this is heading: If the show lasts, Marta will undoubtedly display a Walter-White-worthy capacity for violence.  As the daughter of a gangster herself, Marta already has the criminal instincts she will need to thrive in this business.

Unlike "Breaking Bad," though, where the corruption of a basically decent soul is treated with the seriousness befitting such a theme (although not without a generous helping of black humor), "Red Widow" cannot be taken seriously.

One ostensibly minor moment gives the idea: The plot of the pilot revolves around Marta trying to obtain the cooperation of a port supervisor, who will make sure that, when the time comes, a shipment of drugs will be placed on the "right" truck.  When she first approaches this supervisor, she is hopelessly awkward.  She is advised by her partner that she should use her "assets": "At least you're hot."  We next see Marta walking down the stairs in her house, wearing a micro-mini-skirt and heels in which, for some reason, she is stumbling.  She then accidentally sets off her newly installed security system when she opens her door, and frantically, haplessly, tries to turn it off.  Her son comes to the rescue and questions her wardrobe choices.  She brushes him off and proceeds to begin her seduction of the unsuspecting longshoreman.

I suppose the slapstick is meant to be funny, or at least to show us how ill-prepared Marta is for these dangerous undertakings.  But the bit with the alarm system just felt gratutitous, and I find it hard to believe that a thirty-something blond bombshell has never walked in heels before, especially since we earlier saw her dancing at her sister's wedding--and I don't think she was wearing sneakers.

Nitpicky?  Well, yes, but still, it's little things like this that make me wonder what this show wants to be--how seriously it means to be taken.  I realize that the major broadcast networks have an imperative to reach the broadest possible audience, and obvious gags are a good way to lighten the mood and assure the masses that this is a character they can relate to.  But if this is what is going to pass for long-form drama on the broadcast giants, they might be better off just sticking with ever-more installments of "The Bachelor" and "Dancing with the Stars."

F**k 'Em If They Can't Take a Joke

I am really pissed off about Seth MacFarlane's performance as Oscars host.  To be specific, I am pissed off about the response to Seth MacFarlane's performance, which has put me in the unwanted position of having to defend Seth MacFarlane.

Was MacFarlane crude?  Sure.  Were some of his jokes tasteless?  Yes.  At the same time, though, after reading many critiques of his performance, I can't help but think some people are taking the whole thing way too seriously and ratcheting up their indignation to protestething-too-much levels.

First, what were people expecting?  It's Seth MacFarlane, for God's sake!  The man's major claim to fame is "Family Guy," which--love it or hate it--is one of the most consistently offensive (fans will say "irreverent") shows on television. Indeed, MacFarlane's reputation preceded him to such an extent that, unless he had stepped totally out of character and comported himself as the second coming of Cary Grant, he was all but doomed to receive the very condemnatory reviews he has, in fact, received.  But looking at what actually transpired last night, I have to say that, really, MacFarlane was if anything too well behaved.  Indeed, his major problem may have been self-imposed restraints that did nothing to mollify his critics while having the effect of essentially divesting him of potential sources of jokes.

Let's start at the beginning: One of the, shall we say, memorable moments occured during MacFarlane's opening shtick.  He is visited from the future by none other than Captain Kirk, who warns him that, unless he quickly reconsiders his plans, he will go down in history as the worst Oscars host ever.  What "will" he do that is so bad?  Well, for starters, he will perform an elaborate song and dance number entitled "We Saw Your Boobs," in which he rhapsodizes over all the times major actresses have appeared topless.

Now, much has been made of the fact that, in several of the movies named in the song, the women appear topless during rape scenes; I admit to cringing slightly when he name-checked Jodie Foster in "The Accused."  But the song itself does not mention the context of the toplessness, and the main targets of the joke are not the women but the sort of adolescent simpletons who get all geeked out over seeing boobies.  (Stop looking at me!)  I would also point out that the whole set-up of the bit was that this song was supposed to be outrageously tasteless.  I admit that even if something is intentionally tasteless it is still tasteless, but we should at least acknowledge that part of what makes the joke "work" (to whatever extent it does work) is MacFarlane's attempt at self-deprecation: "I'm such a clueless, immature jerk that I would actually have thought this was a good idea."

A joke he made about Kim Kardashian's facial hair also sparked outrage.  To which I say, Seriously?  People are seriously offended on behalf of Kim Kardashian?  This is a woman who, born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth, chose not to do something worthwhile with her life, but to cash in to the tune of several million dollars by releasing a videotape of herself having sex with a semi-famous singer.  She's off-limits?  An attack on Kardashian is not misogyny: It's common sense!

One of the most indignant critiques about MacFarlane's misogynistic performance stated, "MacFarlane loves women! As he said about Salma Hayek, it doesn’t matter if we can’t understand a word the native Spanish-speaking actress is saying — we’re just staring at her sweater puppies anyway."  Except here's the whole joke (paraphrasing):  "We've reached the point in the show where usually Javier Bardem or Penelope Cruz or Salma Hayek comes out and says something that we can't understand a word of, but it doesn't matter because they're just so damn good looking!"  Is that misogynist?  Kinda racist, maybe, but not misogynist.

Then there was the infamous Rihanna joke.  By way of introducing "Django Unchained," MacFarlane quipped, "This is the story of a man fighting to get back his woman, who's been subjected to unthinkable violence. Or as Chris Brown and Rihanna call it, a date movie."  Tasteless?  Well, yes, but from a comedy standpoint, I would argue that the bigger problem is the joke doesn't really make sense.  Better would have been something like this: "This is Quentin Tarantino's movie about a man fighting to get back his woman, who's been subjected to unthinkable violence.  Oh, and Quentin? Chris Brown's lawyers are backstage.  They want to talk to you about unlicensed use of his image."

MacFarlane also drew boos for this one (paraphrasing): "You know, Daniel Day-Lewis is not the first actor to get a nomination for playing Abraham Lincoln.  Raymond Massey was nominated for 'Abe Lincoln in Illinois.' But I think the actor who most successfully got into Lincoln's head was John Wilkes Booth."  Now, I would argue that that is a perfectly well-constructed joke.  Not only that, but any number of comedians have probably made similar jokes and/or could/would have made the joke at last night's ceremony.  You think Robin Williams wouldn't have said that?  Or even the much-venerated Billy Crystal?  If Crystal had made the joke, though, everyone would have called it edgy.

What other sacred cows did MacFarlane attack?  The fact that there are many Jews in Hollywood?  Gasp!  The fact that musical theater has a somewhat "gay" image?  Shocked, shocked!  I recall Neil Patrick Harris doing a whole (hilarious) song and dance number at the Tony's about how Broadway is "not just for gay people anymore!"

And what about the jokes he DIDN'T make?  There was ample material: He had a nine-year-old Best Actress nominee, but the most edgy thing he said about her was that her first name (Quvenzhane) looks like something you'd see on an eye-test; yes, he did say it would be "sixteen years until she's too old for Clooney," but that was at Clooney's expense, not hers.  I don't recall him saying anything remotely tasteless about the other clear target among the leading ladies, Emmanuelle Riva, the oldest nominee ever.  And, come on, if he wanted to go for pure over-the-top crudity, here's a fastball down the middle that he just let sail by: Adele's last name is Atkins?  Guess the diet is named after someone else.

Yeah, same to you!

The bottom line?  Last night's ceremony wasn't a Papal installation. It wasn't a 9/11 memorial service.  It was the freakin' Oscars!  And consider this: Everybody in that theater went absolutely apeshit during a performance from "Les Miserable" when a group of gorgeous millionaires decked out in tuxedos, evening gowns, and probably a million dollars worth of borrowed jewelry, sang a song glorifying the impending revolution of the lower classes.  And people were offended by Seth MacFarlane's boobie jokes?

Strange Bedfellows

Netflix has come a long way since its red-envelope days.  Having invested heavily in the realm of streaming video, Netflix has begun to create original programming.  Their first effort, which premiered last week, is "House of Cards," a political drama starring Kevin Spacey.

"The West Wing" and, more recently, "Lincoln" have proven that parliamentary procedure can make for gripping entertainment, at least when written by the likes of Aaron Sorkin or Tony Kushner, and when starring such talents as Martin Sheen, Bradley Whitford, Daniel Day-Lewis, etc.  "House of Cards" continues the tradition.

Kevin Spacey, of course, is the main draw.  He plays Congressman Francis Underwood, a South Carolina Democrat and the majority whip (yes, in this universe, Democrats control the House of Representatives).  After the newly-elected President reneges on a campaign promise to appoint him Secretary of State, Underwood, aided by his wife Claire (Robin Wright) and an ambitious young reporter (Kate Mara) commences a plot to thwart the new administration.

Underwood is a character straight out of Tennessee Williams.  Alone among the cast, he breaks the fourth wall, addressing the audience in flowery monologues, explicating his Machiavellian plots.  How good an actor is Spacey?  Well, let me put it this way: I've seen many an actor cry on cue.  In an episode of "House of Cards" wherein Underwood suddenly finds himself on the defensive during a debate, Spacey--in extreme close-up--begins to sweat on cue, and not just, like, a trickle down the side of his face; rather, his entire face suddenly glistens as he stumbles over his prepared remarks.

Another member of the cast worth mentioning is Corey Stoll, who plays Pennsylvania Congressman Peter Russo.  Russo is an pportunistic, weak-willed, womanizing alcoholic and drug addict--and yet, for some reason I can't quite put my finger on, he's downright likable.  Probably because, while we find ourselves in awe of Underwood's silky-smooth operations, the flawed Russo is someone we can actually identify with.

Sharkjump Alert: "Dexter"

I just finished watching the most recent season of "Dexter" (season 7), and it pains me to report that this once-great show has officially and irreversibly jumped the shark.  For those of you who watch the show and have not yet caught up, you may want to skip today's spoiler-filled post.  Or read it: It will save you a lot of time and misplaced energy.

"Dexter" maintained exceptional quality for many seasons.  For years, we thrilled to the exploits of Dexter Morgan (Michael C. Hall), a seemingly mild-mannered blood-spatter analyst for Miami Metro Homicide, who lives a secret life as a serial killer.  What makes Dexter sympathetic, in addition to his acute intelligence and his compassion for friends and family, is the fact that he abides by a code: He preys only on those who deserve to die, mainly killers who have escaped justice.

The series itself improved year by year, reaching a high-point in season four, which featured John LIthgow as the "special guest killer," Trinity.  Lithgow was perfectly cast as the "Claudius" figure to Dexter's "Hamlet," in a storyline that revolved around Dexter's inability to decide whether or when to kill his antagonist.  The season ended with one of the great shock images in recent television history: Dexter's wife Rita (Julie Benz)--his "Ophelia"--dead in a blood-filled bathtub, Trinity's final victim.

That would have been a good place to end the series.  Season five, though, managed to maintain a fairly high-degree of quality.  The main storyline of that season featured Dexter helping Lumen Pierce (Julia Stiles) exact vengeance on a group of men who had raped and tortured her (as well as having killed several other women).  Dexter falls in love with Lumen, the first woman who accepts Dexter for what he truly is (Rita never having known about Dexter's murderous tendencies).  After finishing off the last of her tormentors, though, Lumen leaves Dexter, hoping to reclaim some semblance of her normal life.

Season six was relatively unremarkable, revolving around the hunt for a pair of religiously motivated psychopaths who see themselves as divine messengers.  Indeed, the entire point of season six, in retrospect, was simply to get us to the season's final moment: Dexter's adoptive sister, Deb (Jennifer Carpenter)--a lieutenant at Miami Metro--having resolved to tell Dexter of her feelings for him, walks in on Dexter just as he is putting the coup de grace to his latest victim.

How will he ever get out of this one?

Which brings us to season seven.  As the season begins, Dexter attempts to explain away what Deb has just seen him do.  "What me, serial killer?"  Thankfully, the writers remembered that Deb is not an idiot, so she quickly figures out what Dexter is.  She is torn between her love for Dexter (familial or otherwise) and her sworn duty to uphold the law.  Deb resolves, uneasily, to accept the fact that Dexter kills only the worst of the worst and to do her best to protect him accordingly.  So far, so good, but then things get complicated.

One of the strengths of "Dexter" has always been the focused nature of the storytelling.  Each of the preceding six seasons clearly revolves around one central storyline: Dexter and the Trinity killer, Dexter and Lumen, Dexter and the hunt for the Doomsday killers.  This season, though seemed to bounce among too many storylines: Dexter and Deb; Dexter and Isaak Sirko, a Ukrainian mobster seeking to avenge Dexter's murder of his (Isaak's) lover; Dexter and Hannah (Yvonne Strahovski), a beautiful serial killer with whom Dexter falls in love.  Additionally, this season featured a subplot wherein Dexter's and Deb's boss, Capt. Maria LaGuerta (Lauren Velez), discovers Dexter's secret.  While every season has featured an entertaining number of plotlines, the lack of a clear overall storyline for this season weakened the show tremendously.  And then came the finale.

In the final episode, Dexter realizes that LaGuerta has figured out not only the truth about him, but
also that Deb has been helping him.  What is to be done?  Well, Dexter decides he has no choice but to kill LaGuerta.

Look out, Shark!

Remember that the whole point of "Dexter"--the thing that makes Dexter Morgan sympathetic--is that he ONLY kills people who deserve it, primarily those who have gotten away with murder.  Even when he has broken from his code in the past, he has still generally killed criminals, if not always murderers.  For him to decide to kill someone who is not only innocent but who is, indeed, a police officer and a friend goes against everything we have come to expect from this character: The Dexter we know and love just wouldn't do that! He would run.

As if this weren't bad enough, here's how the season ends: Dexter lures LaGuerta to the Miami docks.  He plans to make her death look like the result of a shootout with a known criminal.  He drugs LaGuerta so that he can properly prepare the scene.  And then Deb shows up.  She pulls her gun on Dexter.  She tells him not to kill LaGuerta.  LaGuerta wakes up.  She implores Deb to shoot Dexter.  Dexter himself tells Deb it's OK: She's a good person, she SHOULD shoot him. AND THEN SHE SHOOTS LAGUERTA!!!!

Even if we accept that Dexter, an experienced killer, would choose--despite everything he believes in--to kill an innocent, there is NO WAY that Deb would shoot an unarmed, helpless woman.  None.  She would have shot Dexter first or, more likely, would have convinced him to run away with her. 

A cardinal rule of storytelling is that you shouldn't fuck with the basic nature of the main character.  ("Breaking Bad" is one of the few shows that successfully breaks that rule.  Then again, the whole plot of that show is ABOUT the central character's transformation.)  "Dexter" has now asked us to continue liking TWO main characters who have now compromised everything that made them likable.  That may be just too much to ask.