In the grand pantheon of stupid ideas, I would have thought a Psycho prequel that moves the action to 2013 would be chief among them but god help me I enjoyed the shit out of Bates Motel.
This TV season in particular is set to become the psycho-killerest in history with not only Bates Motel dusting off the Norman Bates saga for another go, but none other than Bryan Fuller tackling America’s favorite cannibal, Hannibal Lecter (and for network TV no less.) Then lest we forget, Kevin Bacon slumming it on Fox’s The Following, which in its first season has already set the bar for silly serial killering the likes of which Dexter could only darkly dream of. But I belabor a simple point, Bates Motel has mad potential to be both the most intense and silliest of these silly, horrible shows that I continue to watch in spite of myself. I am the problem, after all.
Yet, the strangest thing about the show has nothing to do with the psycho-killer-to-be, and everything to do with Norman’s instantaneous status in town as a total chick magnet.