Drops of Dexter

This will probably only be of interest to the people who've watched Dexter. And if you're not one of those people, you should busy yourself becoming one.

Also: HERE THERE BE SPOILERS

I've just finished Jeff Lindsey's Darkly Dreaming Dexter, the book that birthed the wonderful Showtime series named after the protagonist. It's the only book I've read that spawned a television adaptation rather than film, and it's been a troubling experience. Typically, watching an adapted film for which you're familiar with the source material, you'll notice missing scenes, ask yourself why that character changed as much as she did, or wonder where other people disappeared to, ask yourself if this works without that. And that's because you've watched your three-hundred or four-hundred page novel get crammed into two-hours of screen time and a hundred pages of screenplay.

But with Dexter, it's three-hundred pages of novel in twelve hours of screen time and six-hundred pages of script. The exact opposite happens - I was left wondering where characters and circumstances from the television show disappeared to, was left feeling like the book had cheated me out of something more substantial. That's only the third time I've been more interested in the adaptation than the source (the other two were Silence of the Lambs and Fight Club, both of which are excellent books, but were brilliantly adapted).

Lindsey's book is a fascinating character study, fast-paced and occasionally lyrical, the alliterative imagery that marks Dexter's "Dark Passenger" engaging and almost beautiful, but the supporting cast are flat, soulless cartoons. LaGuerta is an idiot, Doakes, Angel, and Rita are practically non-existent, and Deborah's annoying and monotone. And the ending (changed from the series, in that Brian escapes, LaGuerta dies, and Deborah discovers Dexter's secret life), feels completely over-the-top and contrived. Dexter spends much of the novel contending with the idea that he, himself, is committing the Ice Truck Murders while he sleeps, an idea so patently ridiculous that the lengthy passages of doubtful introspection we get from the narration serve as nothing so much as frequent speedbumps.

And the series adds quite a bit - Dexter commits at least a half-dozen murders over the course of the series, but only two in the novel. Paul, Rita's abusive husband, is completely absent in the novel, while playing an important part in the series. Because Rita, Doakes, and Angel are marginalized, their very interesting backstories and home lives are ignored, while fleshed and engaging in the show. Rudy, the Prosthesist (Brian's alter ego, and Deb's boyfriend) doesn't exist in the book, while he plays a hugely important role in the show, giving us context for both Deborah and Dexter.

My verdict: while it's not an awful book, your time would be better spent watching rather than reading.