Dangerously, Darkly Dexter

It is refreshing to find a TV series that actually has some discernible ending in the underlying storyline, particularly in this day and age where plots are as watered down as a martini in a dive bar and stretched out like nude, bronzed geriatrics on the Riviera – far longer than they should’ve been. I have often found myself silently wishing for an atomic explosion to conclude Tim Kring’s Heroes, or a quick yet violent shoot-out to hurry Prison Break to a final pointless end.

Dexter breaks the current unimaginative mold.  Aside from the television series’ “groundbreaking twist,” there is an obvious depth to the story and characters, which is indicative of it having some root in the literary world. Based on the series of novels by Jeff Lindsay, it was adapted for the screen by James Manos, Jr., an Emmy award winner in his own right. It makes one almost want to take up reading again.

Michael C. Hall shines as Dexter’s psychopathic star. He is a rather brilliant portrayal of an empty shell, meshing the faked facade of common human frailty to a mere veneer to true intent. He finds empathy a foreign, awkward lump, purposely seeking the affections of a woman that is unlikely to encroach on his boundaries of unapproachability.  His only pleasure is in the veiled justification of a vigilante killing, carefully collecting clues to prove the guilt of those untouchable by law – a directive from the cop that found him in a blood flooded cargo container, Harry Morgan.

Even the title sequence is imbued with the heavy hand of subtle mastery. “Splat!” goes the mosquito. “Sizzle!” goes the bacon. Who doesn’t hate mosquitoes? Who doesn’t like bacon? This poor fellow bleeds from a nick whilst shaving – he’s normal – he’s a guy just like me. The sequence ends as the door closes– off to work, smiling, harmless, good old Dexter.

Contrasting the everydayness of the opening sequence, you soon find yourself in the cool, calculating surrounds of Dexter’s murderous rationale – and the exhilaration is palpable. He is the werewolf waiting for the moon before letting his ravenous nature free to savagely cure the cancer that is killing society. It is this crusade that defines the moral acceptability of Dexter to his audience – our thirst for “justice.”

While the true morality of Dexter’s actions is questionable, it is not necessarily a major consideration in the realms of entertainment. Briskly rushing past the prickly point, one can happily amuse oneself with poor, good old Dexter’s conundrums in dealing with the blossoming yet unwanted intimacy of his relationship, the unwanted attentions of the untrusting, dogged Doakes, his fascination with his death art and finally, family. This all as we see the thin outline of normality bleed through the screen.

Definitely delightful Dexter.

Gordon Ramsay: My fu*king hero

 

As an avid follower of the show “Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares” – a reality program exploring the cold, stark realities facing numerous mid-level restaurants – I find myself greatly impressed by this titan of the restaurant industry.

Despite the air, tempers, crudeness and sensationalism, there are core elements that hit home, obliterating the negatives. It is a dissection of respect (don’t expect that from Ramsay unless you earn it in action), integrity, commitment and a passionate belief in what you are doing. Unlike some filmed charities, this program is not about providing fish, but showing people how to fish once again – people that have lost their way, their spirit, their sense of reality.

Ramsay is an imposing figure in reputation and stature, a hard man with a hard face. This kitchen crusader has made a single word into a jack-hammer, slamming sense into unbudging blockheads, demolishing arrogance and habitual incompetence along the way. His wafty mane reminds one of a lion, with a poised presence ready to strike a disciplining blow to the cubs playing before him, messing about in whatever they might be consider to be worthwhile. “You’re fu*king lions.  Act like it!”

He’s a pusher and a breaker. He puts you on edge like a razor blade scraping along your scrotum and considers social finesse as necessary as a cactus rammed up your buttocks. He holds no punches, there is no relenting in any confrontation. If you are on the edge, he will push you over the brink. If you bend backward, he will not let go until you break.

Is there method in his madness? Is it not in times of true turmoil that we show our colours? How does one remove the superficial sheen if not by abrasively scrubbing at pride? How does one mould clay if not by pounding it flat and shapeless to remove impurity and imperfection? If you shape a pot to find it an affront to sense and sensibility, but your pride prevents starting again, you need an external agent to force renewal. You need Gordon Ramsay.

The thumb of criticism digs deep into his chin before the lash cracks and even the mightiest whimper. He does not subscribe to the weak willed notion of flattery – there’s nothing to achieve by sugar coating sh*t. A critical eye misses nothing and the vitriol of an unfettered tongue spares none. His blatant insults are shocks to the system, stunning his poor prey into relenting – just long enough so they give in to another way.

Now I have never cared much for arrogance, but when there is substance to one’s self awareness bound to merit, when confidence is not tainted with posturing, then it is admirable and inspiring. To be sure, this chef is an inspiration. Undeniably a master of cutting to the chase, his brisk manner smacks efficiency, his constant cursing testament to a hunger for success and a passion for food that seems to permeate from every pore, infusing those around him.

From the look of him you’d think him to be a clubfoot ballerina, yet the elegance and exactness of his execution is unquestioned. His approach is considered and clinical. Surely, not all of his own conception – but great men are great by surrounding themselves by others of greatness.

Every mannerism is swift and final. Yet, even against the odds he does not give in. Even when people do not believe in themselves,  he is able to reverse sentiment and doubt – or at least suspend it. He is a nemesis to self-deception, a cold shower to emotive delusions, impetus to the stagnant. He is passionate, striving for perfection and seeking no less in others.

An arsehole? An arrogant prick? No, a fu*king example.