Duma Key by Stephen King (2008)

 

Mark and I discussed Duma Key over at Goodreads.  Here's the transcript of our monumental conversation.

M. Buozis:  So, let me get this big criticism out of the way. I really enjoyed about 75% of this novel. King has a way of creating believable, likable middle class characters, seamlessly incorporating their thoughts and actions and all sorts of pop culture references. For the most part he leaves the supernatural elements in the background. For 75% of most of his novels these elements seems more psychological than other-worldy. And then King explains everything for you, leading up to the climax, and the supernatural elements are so much harder to swallow because he's done such a great job of creating believable characters in a rich setting.

So, here, he ruins the novel with pirate ghosts. Edgar's wonderfully strange powers are shucked off as the corruption of an ancient sea witch. His love for his daughter and his fear for her going out in the world, which are the emotional touchstones of the novel, are given short shrift to a fleet of zombies.

I don't like it. He's done this in most of his other novels, and usually fails for me, with a few important exceptions like The Shining.

But I guess he's got to give the people what they're after so...

Mark Rooster:  I'm going to agree with you here, although I think I probably liked the book a little more than you did.

This one is written in a slightly different style than I've come to expect from King--would you agree on that? It has almost more of a . . . I don't know, old-fashioned sort of style to it? I don't think that's quite the word I'm looking for. But it's definitely got less of his creative grammar and style, with half-sentences in parentheses and italics all throughout. It seems like he was going for something a little different with this one.

I enjoyed that, and the story hit me pretty well, until the last two hundred pages or so. But all the explanation about the ghost ship and the old lady's family got tiring after a while, and I found that I just didn't care too much what was really going on.

I'd have been fine with the story sticking to those elements you mentioned, even if no explanation was ever given regarding Edgar's new artistic ability.

M.B.:  I guess the important distinction I'd make between King's novels and stories that I like a lot and the ones that are ruined by the endings, is that the supernatural elements in the good ones always seem completely vital and character-driven. In The Shining for instance, the supernatural elements are so linked with Jack Torrance's alcoholism that the problems become almost indistinguishable. The same could be said about Carrie. We know from the beginning this girl has some strange powers and it is vital to the story that she use them to get back at all the kids who are screwing with her. Here in Duma Key, and in a few other King novels I've read, most notably 'Salem's Lot, the supernatural element doesn't even seem necessary. It almost seems like an afterthought he contractually has to include so his publishers can rest assured that they've got another best seller on their hands.

As far as the style is concerned, I didn't notice much of a deviation from what I've come to expect from King. I think he did a bit of the cutting off sentences and using weird indefinite perspectives, especially in the sections that were all italics. I love how he references pop culture all the time. Most writers can not pull this off, but he seamlessly interjects rock lyrics into conversation through the chummy rapport of Edgar and Wireman.

He's a master of making likable characters. I thought Wireman and Edgar's shrink Kamen were particularly likable. This seems like almost an archetype for King characters. Most of his books include a person who is benevolent to the main character, almost a father figure that guides both the main character and the reader through some crazy stuff.

M.R.:  Your last sentence immediately reminded me of the old guy in Pet Sematary (I can't remember his name at the moment). I think you're right about that, he does use that kind of character a lot in his books. Kamen was a great sidekick for Edgar in this one.

I tend to like King's books more often than not. There are a few of his I haven't thought were all that great, but of his more recent ones that I've read (and though I'm catching up, I'm still not that up on his stuff from the last fifteen years), this was one of the best. But I agree that the supernatural stuff was handled less artfully than in some of his other novels.

M.B.:  One thing I really did enjoy was King's handling of Edgar's new found talent for painting. The way he describes the paintings, the odd juxtapositions and surreal descriptions, is convincing and believable. While non-supernatural art does not have the power that Edgar's paintings seem to have, the idea that a painting can affect people in some way is intriguing. Some questions every artist asks himself are, 'how does my art actually affect people?' or 'does my art make a difference?' Here Edgar gets an answer to these questions, but not in a favorable one at all. He would've been better off painting pictures that were less powerful both as valuable art and conduits for negative energy.

The whole art scene in this small Florida city is also rendered really well. The small time curators and art critics who take themselves very seriously and who know how to turn a profit come off as genuine.

Kamen and Wireman both reminded me a bit of the cook from The Shining. They all seem to have some connection to some other realm (which is all probably explained in some other King book) and use that connection to protect the lead characters.

Then perhaps the most important thing is the relationship between Edgar and his daughter Ilse.

M.R.:  I liked the stuff with Ilse quite a bit. Was sad to see her get killed. Although not as sad as if she'd been in the book a bit more. Though I don't have any suggestions as to how there could have been more material with her.

M.B.:  I think this father-daughter relationship is at the heart of the book. In a way, Edgar comes off as a bit of a materialistic jerk at the beginning of the novel. Through Ilse, we see that he is a caring father, if not a completely fair father (especially in his preference for Ilse over his other daughter). If Ilse wasn't so central to Edgar's recovery and his art, there'd almost be nothing the ghost could do to him that would hurt him. He'd lost everything else, his ex-wife, his physical capability.

The question is, what does Ilse really have to do with this ghost? Is she just the conduit through which the ghost attacks Edgar and then uses him to wreak havoc. And what gain does the ghost have in killing everyone it does? Is it protecting Duma Key? Is it collecting souls for a ghost ship armada? King doesn't make it clear.

M.R.:  I guess it could just be a pissed off ghost who enjoys causing trouble and havoc in Edgar's life?

M.B.:  But then it has no emotional resonance. It's just bad luck.

M.R.:  Yeah, I see what you're saying. I really think the last two hundred or so pages of this book are somewhat of a letdown. Not a letdown on the level of the mechanical spider at the end of the movie version of "IT," but still a letdown.

What did you think of the epilogue? I found it pretty satisfying. The way Wireman ended up dying kind of randomly, and Edgar was basically left by himself. Very much of a downer, but it worked great. I wonder if he recovered the other paintings.

M.B.:  Yeah, I liked the epilogue. The ending definitely needed to remain melancholy, but at least King didn't have everyone die. That might have been too much of a bummer, in a book that was pretty melancholy throughout.

M.R.:  It's definitely one of his saddest novels. I liked reading that in close time with Sarah Langan's "The Keeper." Two very sad ghost stories.

In the clip below, King discusses Duma Key.

Audrey's Door by Sarah Langan (2009)

Today's post will take the form of a conversation between me and Mark.

M. Buozis: I think one of Langan's biggest strengths is her ability to capture the real heart of her down-and-out characters. Audrey's stultifying life in New York City is one I witnessed many times. The 30-something who is chewed up and eaten by the city and aged by it is a theme not often broached in horror fiction.

Audrey's neuroses ring true and they never make her annoying, just more endearing. The back story involving Betty Lucas is never over-powering, but Langan provides just enough detail to make Audrey's journey to sanity emotional and rich.

Mark Rooster: I found her neighbor Jayne to be an even more, as you said, chewed-up, character. I don't think I could even take a story with her as the lead! When Audrey smashes the hula figurine and has that inner-vent about how Jayne's too dumb to realize how unhappy she is, followed by her shouting F you, Jayne! down the hallway, I felt pretty awful for her.

And there's that previous foreshadowing, the kind that sometimes works and is sometimes only annoying (works in this case), that line about "the next time either of them would see Jayne would be in much more unfortunate circumstances." That isn't the exact line, but it's something similar. I found myself thinking, Man, don't be right about that, let Jayne be OK.

M.B.: For me, the little bit of real obvious foreshadowing there was one of the only really weak moments in the book. It seemed somewhat out of place with the rest of the narrative. It's the only sentence in the entire novel where there's a sort of retrospective looking back. I thought it took away from the immediacy of the action. Why tell us something bad is going to happen and not just let us find out for ourselves?

I thought Langan's secondary characters were particularly strong. You're right about Jayne. Though she's intensely annoying, she is very real and very human. Saurab reminds me of a bunch of people I've met who are still holding onto this dream about making films, but living only on the kindness and wealth of their families.

The whole Chaotic Naturalist aspect reminded me of something Borges would do. Langan makes us believe the architecture and social aspects of this strange school of thought could be historical. As usual, I'd almost prefer it if Langan would've left out the supernatural elements and concentrated on the strange allure of the cult.

M.R.: I like how she lists her influences at the beginning of the book. I could definitely see elements of "The Tenant" and "Rosemary's Baby," as well as the others she listed.

I normally don't like the foreshadowing, but in this case, it added to the dread and foreboding I was already feeling, and it didn't throw me off too much. I figured Jayne was an innocent, anyway, and likely wouldn't make it to the final pages.

The Chaotic Naturalism was very intriguing. I even found myself gooogling it--not that I didn't believe Langan had made it up, but it just sounded so strange and yet nearly-possible, that I had to check, to make sure.

M.B.: Oh, yeah. I had to google it too. I think she throws in some references to real architects, like Gaudi, who used non-traditional forms taken from nature in their buildings. I love when authors flirt with the line between reality and fantasy. It draws me into a story much more than a strictly made up universe.

I found a lot of similarities to The Shining here, especially in the way the building uses people's weaknesses against them to make them go crazy. The Breviary, like the lodge in The Shining becomes a character by the end of the novel, and a character with an extremely powerful will.

M.R.: I loved the character of Shermerhorn (I know I got that wrong; I don't have the book right in front of me), in particular the scene in which his demonic figure approaches Audrey; the description of his arms being as long as his legs, and crawling like a spider, was very effective. Rather creepy, for sure.

M.B.: I definitely liked how Schermerhorn ended up being the man in the three piece suit from Audrey's nightmares.

Another aspect of Audrey's character that I particularly enjoyed was the way she could not leave anything to her imagination. She must read every website that pops up on the first page of her google search for The Breviary. She must check under Betty's sheets. She is afraid of what her imagination might create, how the unknown might haunt her.

Oh, and the old people at The Breviary. I can't remember such an effective exploitation of the creepiness of the elderly, particularly the wealthy elderly with their plastic surgery and fancy clothing. The tenants of The Breviary were the most horrifying aspect of this novel.

M.R.: I loved the way one of the chapters about two-thirds of the way in ended with all of the tenants stepping out of their rooms and clapping at once. Freakin scary! There was a lot of excellent imagery in this book. I'm looking forward to reading her other novels.

And you know, you mention the extent of Audrey's OCD--it really is remarkable that Langan could write such a character without her ever getting on the reader's nerves. You can see where she gets to Saurab with some of this stuff, and how it must be absolutely agonizing to live with, but she never gets boring or annoying to read about.

M.B.: The key is Langan only ever mentioned the OCD as it related to the action of the novel. There was no big long exposition about all of Audrey's ticks and obsessions. They all come out while she's battling with The Breviary.

In this respect, Audrey's Door is similar to Jonathan Lethem's Motherless Brooklyn in which the narrator suffers from Tourette's Sydrome, but the verbal ticks and twitching never overrides the engrossing plot.

M.R.: I suppose if the author only mentions it here and there, as it pertains directly to the rest of the action, it works to give a sense of what this person's like without beating the reader over the head with it.

I find the same technique used sometimes with a writer including a stuttering character. Stephen King's written stutter is pretty creative (for example, "Wuh-wuh-what?" instead of "Wh-wh-what?").

Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux (1910)

One of the things that separates this book very much from its film and stage adaptations is the amount of detail Leroux provides about the Opera's cellars. Some of the details almost seem like fantasy, or at least science fiction, even for current readers. A lake under a functional building? Five cellars in a 19th century urban building? A torture chamber? A 'siren' in the lake protect a fancy house stockpiled with gun powder? Trap doors and fake walls and revolving mirrors? It all seems almost impossible, but Leroux writes it like it's a matter of fact. I haven't watched any of the film or theater adaptations in quite a while, but I remember Erik's layer being more of just a creepy basement. Here it's turned into a magnificent symbol of Erik's almost superhuman abilities and knowledge of physics and illusions. Great stuff.

Erik himself is also made much more of a super-villain here than a tragic monster. Of course, we still get the tragedy in his relationship with Christine, but he's also a mastermind of deception and a bit of sadist. When the Persian relates the story of how Erik grew up in the East, we get a great glimpse of how Erik learned this amazing things. Leroux, of course, makes Erik more than a comic book character by telling us exactly why Erik might be so sadistic and angry at the human race. His mother rejected him, refused to give him any affection unless he wore a mask. No wonder he's such a bastard.

I've noticed with a lot of late-19th century and early-20th century fantastic fiction, authors often used this method, shifting points of view to establish a believable narrative. Dracula is a perfect example. Instead of presenting the story of a vampire as a legend, Stoker manages to create a believable account of what it might be like for a group of people to really encounter a vampire. Here Leroux gives us newspaper accounts and different perspectives from people in the opera and makes his narrator almost a secondary source, a reporter convincing us of the existence of the 'ghost'.

I haven't read much steampunk, but I did pick up a copy of Alan Moore's The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen about a year ago. Steampunk seems to be a cross between fantastic Victorian literature and science fiction, where 19th century settings are exaggerated in their technology (steam engines and dirigibles are very prominent) and the exoticism of people from the east is very exaggerated. The Phantom of the Opera, in a way, is a proto-steampunk book, in that Erik employs amazing technologies that almost seem magical, and the treatment and inclusion of the Persian is somewhat exceptional for literature of the time.

I certainly like the fact that we don't get too much information about Erik early in the novel. I've been thinking about this, watching some of the old Friday the 13th movies. What made those movies so frightening to me is that you rarely actually see the monster except for a few brief moments and then finally at the end, with the climactic battle. I feel like most horror movies these days show their villains in full light, from the beginning of the picture. While this might be more fun for filmmakers, I think it detracts strongly from the horror value of most new horror films.

That being said, at the end of the first Friday the 13th I think you get a similar reveal, where his mother explains everything that happened to him and why she's killing everyone.

You can check out a nice fan page detailing the film adaptations of the novel here.

The Turn of the Screw by Henry James (1898)

One of the masters of the subtle, quiet horror Charles L. Grant championed through the 1980s, wrote his most famous ghost story almost one-hundred years before Grant started publishing his anthologies. Henry James's The Turn of the Screw, perhaps due to its quiet and ambiguous nature, stands as a monolithic tale, perhaps the most literary of ghost stories. Most of James's novels and stories, other than perhaps Daisy Miller are read today almost exclusively by academics and lit-snobs, but The Turn of the Screw, a novella-length tale, has been popularly adapted for the stage and screen and remains a well-read classic.

As with many other Victorian stories and novels, especially those dealing with ambiguous supernatural events, The Turn of the Screw starts with a framing device integral to the believability, or at least the suspension of disbelief, necessary for such an otherworldly tale. The reader experiences the story of a young governess on an English countryside estate through the lens of a man listening to a friend's tale in an old house on Christmas Eve, beside a roaring fire, in the tenuous comfort of both temporal and physical distance from the tale itself. Unfortunately, James drops this frame completely when the friend starts reading the governess's journal to his audience. The governess, new to her position, at first admires her charges, a ten-year-old boy named Miles and a somewhat younger girl named Flora, for their intelligence and affection. Through a series of minor transgressions the children begin showing themselves as masters of the crumbling estate, visiting with what the governess thinks are ghosts. The children deny the existence of the ghosts, and no one sees them but the governess. Somehow, James creates such startling scenes of haunting, completely motionless almost, the reader does not question the power of the governess's experiences. The first ghost, the estate's dead young chauffeur, appears atop one of the mansion's tall asymetrical towers and stares down upon the governess. The simple expressionless figure creates such a huge sense of tension, the presence of a stranger on the estate becomes an iconic image of horror and invasion the way Fred Walton's When a Stranger Calls (1979) uses the phrase 'Have you checked the children?' as an opaque, yet chilling incitement to panic. The remainder of the tale deals with the governess fighting with the stone-faced, far too intelligent children about the existence of the ghosts and their strange sense of rebellion. Miles especially shows himself to be a sociopath in his dealings with the outside world. Of course, the reader receives all of this information from the governess's perspective, so the question of an unreliable narrator is always present in all characterizations.

The Turn of the Screw's influence on subsequent horror stories is less evident in ghost tales and more apparent in novels and films of childhood evil and deviance. James's portrayal of Miles and Flora as eerily perfect, intelligent yet wholly sinister children found a home in a more overtly supernatural novel, John Wyndham's The Midwich Cuckoos (1957) which was adapted for film as Village of Damned in 1960 and 1995. There's something inherently creepy about a child who has the bearing and manipulative powers of an adult and the self-awareness to place him or herself in the larger world and the vocabulary to explain all of this to his or her keeper. James mastered this without resorting to any definite supernatural elements, but his depiction of children spills over into such occult masterpieces as Ira Levin's Rosemary's Baby (1967) and William Peter Blatty's The Exorcist (1971).

Here's a fun comparison of four filmed versions of Quint at the window.