Umut Hal Hal থেকে Pilu, Pakistan
Look at me, being seduced by a deadpan delivery, a pretty face, and a little illiteration. The show hooked me. It works, the show. Micheal C. Hall is my kinda killer, all tortured, sexy and channeling his impulses in the most positive way that a man driven to slice and dice, can. The show, it works. The book, not so much. It just seems to contrived, silly, to take-yourself-far-too-seriously, like the poetry we all wrote as teens, all doom and gloom before we knew what doom and gloom was. Yes, that's it. In the books Dexter reads like a teenage dead-inside drama queen, the kind that writes late into the night about how his feelings are so dark, so deep, that they almost don't exist -- nobody has ever felt like me before he writes in his fancified clarigophy. It gets tiresome and a little embarrassing. There's a certain skill in writing a readable book that is narrated by a character in the book, especially when the character is a douche. I'm not sure Jeff Lindsay has fully developed that skill, at least the readable part. Keep in mind, this is the book, not the show. Micheal C. Hall's Dexter is likable, not douch-y at all. And did I mention sexy? Uh huh. In the end, Darkly Dreaming Dexter was more like Disappointingly Dry Dexter the Douche.