Ahh, Dexter, you naughty little boy. Harry told you to be careful about cutting those people up. If you've seen Showtime's Dexter, you've got all the information you need to decide whether or not to read this book. It is, after all, the book upon which the first season is based. What's more, the producers of the television series managed to capture, and even surpass Lindsay's dry wit, and protagonist Dexter Morgan's relentlessly likable monologue.
The series is actually better than the book in this regard. Season one, covering about the same time period as this book, has more interaction with characters like Angel Batista, Detective La Guerta, and Dexter's sister, Deborah. All of these were enjoyable characters on screen, but none of them were really explored in the book. Even the main antagonist, the Ice Truck Killer, was only marginally developed in the book.
Still, this is a cool, funny book that bears reading. It makes me really look forward to Dexter Season Three, if there ever will be such a thing. It also makes me think about searching out the other Dexter books, which are mentioned on the back cover text.
Oh, Harry Potter, you sly, precocious rascal. How I thrill to the adventures you have, and hiss whenever Messrs. Malfoy and Snape ooze across the page. Hmph. The third book of the series is less boring than the first two, and somewhat longer. It also includes a word or two that wasn't in the movie, which makes this the first of the series to qualify as "worth reading".
It is not really a bad book, but when you've just read the previous two books in rapid succession, you'll notice a certain formula developing. Namely, not enough sex. Not that it's promised by the garish and childlike cover, or the complete lack of sexual identity among the characters. There was only the mildest hint that Harry even notices chicks, with the allusion to Chang Choi Hoi or whatever her name was, the little Chinese maiden, being somewhat pretty, and causing a lump in Harry's throat. But Harry's thirteen in this book. When I was that age, even the smell of a girl's pencil box caused a lump in my pants. Harry doesn't even look up her skirt when she's riding a broom. Why? Because Harry is a homo. He would rather play sports and eat chocolate than whack it to the eight-minute reel of upskirts and keyhole peep-shots that loops permanently through the mind of any normal thirteen year old boy.
I also liked the movie much more than the previous two. I enjoy any movie with Gary Oldman, no matter how bad it is. Even Batman, where Oldman was Worst Commissioner Gorden Evar. In Prisoner of Azkaban, he was on the screen for a grand total of 47 seconds, but I still enjoyed his performance. I still think he could've brought a bit more of the Sid and Nancy vibe to the screen, though.
Tell me that wouldn't have been sweet! Now, though, I've got some serious reading to do. In the time it took to lay this book aside and write this here review, I'm already halfway through the Sixth Book of the Year, and looking anxiously forward to the Seventh. Tallyho!
