Medium: Method to His Madness

I'm trying to imagine being in Allison Dubois' shoes, trying to feel what she would feel. If my husband thought me a danger to my own children. If I came home disconnected from reality, having let my groceries melt in the back seat as I smoked, watching a girl, seeing her through the eyes of the killer. If my children were whisked away one night to friends' and relatives' houses, out of fear I might injure them. If I, so entranced, spent hours writing over and over again on a pad of paper, It was ME. It was ME.

The fact that I can see this so clearly is testament to the continuing spell that Medium has me under. That I never saw the ending to the story, until the very ending, is testament to the writers' skill and creativity. That I couldn't watch some of the scenes, though, is worrisome. Medium has such a strong audience, it's clear, in my demographic - the 25- to 55-year-old women, or some such. Must the show also appeal to the men in that age group, and then reach out to the younger demo, with all that blood, gore and horror?

This week Allison descends deep, deep into the mind of a killer who carves his victims with a scalpel, delightedly chatting with them about their "legacy" as he plans his gory human art. Allison stands in for the killer, in butcher's apron, in her dreams, talking coolly with the terrified women he targets. She's so deep that she does what he does, smoking, stalking, drinking bourbon for breakfast. Even though he's dead.

Why is a dead killer taking over her mind? Joe's terrified, and does what any good dad would do: protects the girls first, and wife second. When she spends hours sitting in front of a woman's apartment, watching her, the line has been crossed. He's just as terrified as the victims of the dead killer... he is one of the victims.

Allison eventually decides the scalpel artist must not have killed one of his supposed victims, and he's getting her inside his mind to learn why, and who really killed the fourth victim. It was ME, It was ME, contradicts his handwriting on Allison's notepad after a late night. And then there's the DNA found under the victim's fingernails. It matches perfectly.

When the medical examiner finally confesses, it's with a grace and forthrightness even I - a hardened watcher of crime dramas - never remember seeing. She's not angry, or scared of her fate. She just wants to tell her story. And chills run down my spine.

Later, as Allison is reunited with her children, I'm happy just as she is. But more than that, I'm fearful of the next mind-bending escapade. One day, will the writers see fit to make her truly endanger her children? I hope not. That, I think, would destroy the delicate balance between the realism of the very human Allison Dubois and the fantasy of the crime-fighting, killer-channeling psychic.