Know Thyself?
GEORGE A. REISCH
The statistics are one in twenty-five. That means there’s a good chance that there was one among my elementary school classmates, two in my high-school student council (which explains a lot!) and about eighty at the last meeting of the American Philosophical Association. Yikes.
Sociopaths are everywhere—at least according to psychologist Martha Stout who, in her book The Sociopath Next Door, formulates the one-in-twenty-five (four percent) statistic. The sociopaths Stout has dedicated her life to studying have three defining traits: they are incapable of feeling ordinary human emotions, like compassion, empathy, and love; they have no moral conscience and simply don’t feel shame or guilt like the rest of us; and they easily hide this from those of us around them.
How do they do it? In large part, they don’t. We do it. We are so confident that we know what other people are about, we do the work for them. As Stout puts it, “since everyone simply assumes that conscience is universal among human beings, hiding the fact that you are conscience-free is nearly effortless.” When you’re one of the one-in-twenty-five, living, working, and bowling with your friends, “the icewater in your veins is so bizarre, so completely outside of their personal experience, that they seldom even guess at your condition.” (p. 1). The only good news is that most of these sociopaths are not vicious serial killers.
Hi, I’m Dexter. Welcome to Miami
Dexter, of course, is a sociopath and more—a serial killer with a complicated, tragic backstory that is progressively revealed to us, a killer who only kills other killers (Thank you, Harry!), and a serial killer who thinks, a lot. As his trademark inner monologues remind us every episode, Dexter reasons, analyzes, worries and—dear to any philosopher’s heart—questions his assumptions and motives. That photographer sure looks like a killer and a good candidate for the plastic-wrap table, but is he really? (Oops, Dexter got that one wrong). Sergeant Doakes is getting way too close, but how can I, ahem, take care of this problem without violating Harry’s Code? Now there’s an ethical quandary worthy of Jean-Paul Sartre . . . oh, look, here comes Lila!
See, I’m even identifying with Dexter as I write. At least for that one hour each week, his problems are my problems. His stressed out workdays and fast-approaching deadlines are like mine. He’s got his ominous flashbacks to his days in a shipping container; I’ve got recurring dreams about student council, or taking final exams in college classes I forgot to attend. Obviously, these involve different kinds of carnage and (vastly) different amounts of human blood, but Dexter remains a lot like us. Many have even had a Harry—a parent, teacher, or mentor who saw deeply into our youthful quirks, special talents, or tragic flaws and stepped in with some good advice, or some good rules to follow, that saved us from one or more of life’s available disasters. And who among us has no Dark Passenger, even if it’s just a thing for Dancing with the Stars or overlooking a couple of numbers on your 1040 form?
All this makes Dexter likeable. But, more than that, it makes Dexter—the show and the books—a welcome, comforting transfiguration of the real world of sociopaths described by Martha Stout. In the real world, we’d be like those in the cast—Debra, LaGuerta, Batista, or (speaking of Dark Passengers) Vince Masuka—all of whom neither have (nor want) to know the truth about Dexter. Their assumptions about him, reinforced by their daily perceptions and interactions with him, lock together into the veil, the cover, that he needs to thrive as a secret killer of killers and they need to get out of bed each morning in full confidence that the doughnut guy at work, Deb’s brother, is not really some John Wayne Gacy.
Though they don’t know it, these characters are living on the edge of a cliff. In fact, they fell off once receiving the news that their colleague Sergeant Doakes “was” the Bay Harbor Butcher (that Dexter—so good at managing the links between appearances and reality!). But I don’t think many of them, or the show, will survive long if they were ever to learn that that nice, hardworking guy over in forensics is in fact, at his core, as cruel, heartless, and selfish as any serial killer you can name. Of course we live at the edge of that cliff, especially if Stout is correct, and we too will take a big fall if someone close to us, or even that guy over in accounting with the ridiculous toupee and stupid jokes, turns out to be an illusion, a walking, talking shell of appearances, who felt nothing inside and wouldn’t think twice about killing you if it didn’t mean he’d probably lose his job and his freedom.
Look at What You’ve Been Thinking!
While one of Dexter’s rewards is letting us escape from that unpleasant thought about modern life (at least by letting Deb, La Guerta and the others shoulder the burden for a while), another is the front-row seat we get on all the psychological and philosophical complexity involved. While his true, hidden nature threatens to turn Miami Metro on its ear, and upend the lives of all the good, moral people (well, except for Quinn) who work there, it often feels like philosophy itself is strapped to Dexter’s table, surrounded by competing theories of ethics, epistemology, and human existence, his knives about to slice into the assumptions underlying philosophy and its history.
If Dexter is so unlike us, why do we like him so much? Is this just a trick of the Hollywood light, or as the chapters in this book suggest, is Dexter’s story a revealing window into our own world of Dark Assumptions about sex, death, aggression, and race? Or is Dexter best understood very differently as a historical monster, a man out of time, like a Roman warrior in downtown Miami or a brutal, punishing King thrown five centuries into the future?
What kind of ethics do Dexter and his assiduous devotion to Harry’s Code really amount to? Good question. Some insist that Dex is a monster, no matter how good his doughnuts are. For other’s he’s a model ethical actor (except for all the blood, of course) who might be admired, if not quite emulated, by Immanuel Kant, himself. Yet others think all the blood Dexter spills is, all things considered, a good thing, and that our philosophers of law, ethics, and society could use a field trip to Miami and take very careful notes.
For others, the real Dexter is something else entirely. For all his self-criticism and search for understanding, he’s not ultimately about ethics, justice, and morality. He’s about aesthetics: Killing and looking really good when you do it—literally. There’s a reason Dexter makes his killers see photographs of his victims before we cut to black. Dexter represents a way of life and can be seen as a superhero. In other chapters, Dexter emerges as a kind of artist, a Jackson Pollock addicted to red, or as a philosophical psychologist who shows us the real relationship between emotions and thought.
Perhaps the greatest significance of Dexter is the suggestion that the entire history of philosophy has been ignoring something very, very important. Socrates got the ball rolling with his famous quest for a person who truly possessed knowledge and his resulting injunction to “Know thyself.” Of course, that’s important. But it may be even more important for us to point our curiosity, or skepticism, and our philosophical tools in other directions—over at that guy in forensics, or maybe your logic teacher, your auto mechanic, your swim coach. You know, your yoga teacher may even look a bit like Dexter.
Unless, of course, you’re one of the one-in-twenty-five. In that case, Socrates was spot on.
BODY PART I
Maiming and Necessity
1
The Killing Joke
JOHN KENNETH MUIR
Dexter Morgan, the unconventional protagonist portrayed by Michael C. Hall on Showtime’s hit TV series Dexter, has frequently been cited by media outlets as the television heir to such notorious pop-culture serial killers and cinematic bogeymen as Hannibal Lecter (Silence of the Lambs) and Patrick Bateman (American Psycho).
In its original review of the series, Daily Variety noted that Dexter answers “the puzzling question of what Hannibal Lecter might do in his quieter moments.” And, in an early first-season episode of the series originally aired in 2006, entitled “Return to Sender,
” Dexter actually adopts the name Patrick Bateman, M.D. as an alias; a deliberate homage to Morgan’s colorful, anti-social predecessor.
However, if we look closer, Dexter’s unique personality traits and special qualities may actually originate from a different literary and pop-culture tradition altogether.
Yes, Dexter Morgan is a serial killer, without question. But in every substantive way imaginable, he’s also a superhero: a guardian who protects his turf, the city of Miami, from grave-and-gathering threats as assiduously as Batman patrols Gotham, Superman defends Metropolis, or Hercules upholds the honor of Thebes.
What Is a Superhero?
To see why Dexter Morgan might be a superhero—Miami’s own Dark Knight—let’s consider what a superhero really is. Without thinking about Dexter, I once gave the following definition of a superhero:
a character of extraordinary capabilities or powers who has a propensity to fight evil in all its forms, whether criminal, terrorist or demonic. For the most part, superheroes also wear unique or recognizable costumes that separate them from normal heroes, but even that distinction is not always the case. (John Kenneth Muir, The Encyclopedia of Superheroes on Film and Television, McFarland, 2008, pp. 7–8)
Consider how this broad definition applies to Dexter Morgan. At first blush it might be tempting to suppose that Dexter possesses no “super” powers at all; that he can’t fly, for instance. Yet, Batman also possesses no overt super powers—just a super-wallet and super intellect, which permit him to invent and build miraculous vehicles and gadgets. Ditto the Green Hornet.
And the Punisher, an ex-Federal agent working against organized crime, also boasts no overt super-human qualities, only what Erich Lichtenfeld calls “a super arsenal.”1
But a deeper inspection suggests that Dexter actually does possess an extraordinary capability, a “power.” Indoctrinated by his foster father (James Remar) into the informal discipline called the “The Code of Harry,” Dexter Morgan has honed the extraordinary ability to ferret out evil-doers, in this case, criminals.
This ability is a sort of “radar” beyond normal ken that permits Dexter to detect the black, monstrous truth roiling inside the hearts of murderers who, like Dexter himself, are able to successfully blend into mainstream society and escape legal sanction. Another way to describe this trait—Dexter’s criminal-detect radar—is to evoke the famous tag-line of the early, 1930s superhero created by William B. Gibson, known as “The Shadow:” “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” Answer: Dexter.
Another popular and long-lived superhero, Marvel’s Spider-Man, possesses similar radar. His “spider senses” alert Peter Parker to dangers and threats in close proximity. Dexter’s radar is also finely tuned. He can detect the truth about criminals hiding in plain sight, the shadowy truth behind monstrous men like Mike Donovan (“Dexter,” Season 1), Matt Chambers ( “Crocodile,” Season 1), Jeremy Downs, or even Harry’s Nurse ( “Popping Cherry,” Season 1). In “Popping Cherry,” Dexter refers to his peculiar power as “impeccable instincts,” but Dexter’s ability to utilize this power (this radar) to target only wrong-doers clearly fits into the super-hero tradition.
So two aspects of my superhero definition have been fulfilled in Dexter. Dexter fights evil, destroying murderers the law can’t touch, and he does so using a power that “mere” mortal men do not possess: the ability to see the truth of a man’s soul just by looking. Even Deb recognizes this unique aspect of Dexter, noting in the first episode the amazing accuracy of his “hunches” regarding murder suspects. So, while it’s abundantly true that Dexter cannot fly, spin webs, or telepathically communicate with sea-life (like DC’s Aquaman), this alone does not disqualify him for consideration as a superhero. Powers come in all shapes and sizes.
Another element of this superhero definition suggests that a superhero is differentiated from “normal heroes” by his very appearance, by the gear he adopts or uses in his just pursuits; by the uniform or costume he wears while combating evils. Again, this is not always true of superheroes. For instance, Buffy the Vampire Slayer does not suit up in a recognizable costume to fight her demonic enemies on the Hellmouth. Steve Austin, the “Six-Million Dollar Man,” similarly adorns no costume to battle his foes.
But oddly enough, Dexter Morgan does adhere to this quality of the super-heroic world, at least after a fashion. When he becomes, “The Dark Passenger” (his secret identity?), Dexter does adorn very specific gear, a costume of sorts. He dons latex gloves, so as not to leave fingerprints behind at a crime scene; he ties on an apron or smock to block blood spatter; and even, on many occasions, Dexter wears a helmet with a glass visor—a superhero’s “mask,” for lack of a better word.
Just as Batman battles criminals using an array of gadgets, from batarangs to bat-grappling hooks, Dexter, as Miami’s “Dark Passenger,” suits-up with a multitude of crime-fighting tools or instruments. In this case, those tools include plastic or rubber sheets, duct tape, hypodermic syringes, a scalpel, and rather disturbingly, a drill. To Dexter—much like Batman before him—these are “the necessary tools of the trade,” per the pilot episode’s dialogue.
In “Crocodile,” the association between Dexter’s accoutrements and the traditional iconography of the comic-book superhero is established visually, though without explicit comment, when a sheet of plastic billows like a roiling wave before him, not at all unlike Superman’s majestic red cape. The wind, we must assume, is at both their backs.
On a much more metaphorical level, the series Dexter obsesses on the important superhero concept of the mask, a commonly featured wardrobe touch in the milieu of superheroes. Batman, Spider-Man, Daredevil, Captain America, Robin, Green Lantern, the Green Hornet, Hawkman, the Flash, Batgirl, and other popular examples of the superhero all wear masks that cloak their true identity from the public. But in the unusual case of Dexter, the “Dark Passenger” represents Morgan’s true identity, and in day-to-day contact with his sister, Deb, and with his superiors and co-workers on the Miami police force, Dexter wears a mask of normalcy; hiding his secret identity, the Dark Passenger, from view.
In various episodes of the series, Dexter refers to the “face” or “mask” he must put on to hide his identity as a superhero/serial killer and function normally in society-at-large. Dexter calls this cloak “the invisible mask of sympathy” in “Crocodile” and notes that he enjoys Halloween in “Let’s Give the Boy a Hand” because it is the time of year that “everyone wears a mask, not just me.”
And when he must broach “normal” people (like Rita) in that episode, Dexter notes that “it’s time to put on my mask.” After that . . . to the batmobile, Old Chum?
Deeds Not Words
The roots of the popular superhero myth can be pinpointed in America’s long-standing fascination with a much older genre: the Western. George Slosser, curator of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Collection at the University of California, Riverside, opined in the year 2002 that superheroes, like frontier cowboys before them, symbolize “the embodiment of the American myth of the lone, rugged individual who comes into society and cleans it up. We all want to do it, but we don’t know how to do it. We live our everyday lives that don’t allow for this kind of simplistic vision. So we cheer for it” (Christian Science Monitor, May 3rd, 2002, p. 13).
Roger Jewett and John Shelton Lawrence dig a little deeper in their work, Captain America and the Crusade Against Evil: The Dilemma of Zealous Nationalism. They explain that in “the modern superhero story of the American monomyth . . . helpless communities are redeemed by lone saviors who are never integrated into their societies and never marry at the story’s end. In effect, like the Gods, they are permanent outsiders to the human community.” These two descriptors get us closer to understanding Dexter in the terms of superhero lore. It’s easy to view his illegal night-time work as the Dark Passenger as being that of a “lone, rugged individual” who cleans up a dirty society, in this case, Miami. And, since law enforcement in Miami can’t
kill monsters like the Ice Truck Killer without Dexter’s aid, it is indeed relatively “helpless” before such rampaging criminals. Just look at all LaGuerta’s ill-fated press-conferences and busts, forever pinpointing the wrong perp (like Tony Tucci) for evidence that the world needs superheroes, and specifically that Miami needs Dexter.
This aspect of Dexter’s world is part and parcel of the superhero myth, the idea that a vigilante (like Batman) must be the one to save the imperiled town or city. As Pramod Nayar explains,
The superhero vigilante represents a symbolic escape-route for law enforcers; it is only by stepping out of the bounds of the law that the law can be upheld. Where the police, the judiciary, and the State cannot bring criminals to justice, the superhero steps in to do so by extra legal means, and violence. Violence is in fact so integral to the super-hero comic book, and—there is blatant disregard for civil rights and a flirtation with fascism in Batman and other superhero books.” (Reading Culture, Sage, 2006, p. 108)
In Dexter, Harry’s Code is an explicit validation of this vigilante approach to justice; the approach of superheroes just like Bob Kane’s Caped Crusader. During a flashback in the premiere episode, Harry informs a young Dexter that the “police can’t catch all” the criminals, that there are some villains who always escape justice and yet must still be dealt with. He trains Dexter to be that man; the agent, outside the law, who can “balance the books” (per “Crocodile,”) and bring about a sense of true justice. And, like the Dark Knight, Dexter prowls the night, closing—vigilante-style—unsolved cases.
Dexter and Philosophy Page 2