![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I'm going to say this right up front:
Stephen King doesn't know shit about what makes a horror story great. His cover blurb, proclaiming Dan Simmons' sophomore effort, Carrion Comfort, "One of the three greatest horror novels of the 20th century," is frankly and flatly ignorant, in addition to being laughably inaccurate. This wouldn't even be a top-three book in King's own body of work, and nobody's going to mistake the guy for a grandmaster of anything but pulp (and I say this as someone who owns about five linear feet worth of King's books in hardcover and trade paperback; I read just about everything he wrote up through the turn of the century; I may be performing a hatchet job, but it's an informed hatchet job). Guillermo del Toro penned a similarly effusive and purple blurb, presumably in exchange for the other six shots of absinthe he'd been bribed with to write it.
Even the meta for this novel, released as a 20th anniversary special, where Simmons details the novel's journey to publication, is a steaming pile of overwrought hubris. It weighs in at thirty-two pages, most of which is Simmons' assertion that he's smarter than the publishing industry and, specifically, an editor he takes pains not to name, but describes unflatteringly (both physically and intellectually) who, eventually, I came to sympathize with... her eventual assertion that he scrap everything but the title was an opinion I shared about five hundred or so pages in, too.
So, to the text itself. There are, to its credit, very few typographical errors[1], though it's obvious Mr. Simmons (and whomever may or may not have edited this thing) doesn't know the first fucking thing about physics, firearms, sharks, or vampires. He's watched too many episodes of Starsky and Hutch to be able to write a decent action scene (frenetic, disjointed, implausible... it's almost painfully obvious that he wrote this book to end up as a movie, even including a Hollywood producer and a couple sexy starlets who serve almost no purpose but to be sexual objects).
Leaving aside the story's specific shortcomings, there's the small matter of craft, which can be most easily and kindly be summarized by saying that the author bit off way, way more than he could chew. This book wants to be a psychological monster horror story wrapped around some plucky discrimination victims interwoven with a political potboiler. It manages this trick with all the grace and elegance of a truck full of cheap beer going over a guardrail and rolling down an embankment made of lawn jockeys, rejected Tom Clancy novels, and Bram Stoker's spinning corpse.
The villains are supposed to be psychic vampires, and, early on, it's suggested that they draw power, sustenance, and longevity from using their power to compel people in their thrall to commit acts against their will, specifically murder and/or suicide. Unfortunately, the only one who appears to have resisted the ravages of time particularly well takes a mid-caliber bullet to the forehead before the end of the first act, and the author actively ignores the fact that one of the chief antagonists becomes exponentially more powerful, causing a substantial amount of sustenance-providing chaos, while remaining little more than a breathing corpse. Maybe this was Simmons' way of suggesting they don't draw power from exerting power.... or maybe it's just sloppy writing. But if this is the mechanism upon which the entire horror premise is built on, maybe you ought to think it through a little more comprehensively and pay attention to the rules of the world you build. (To this end, I'm currently giving the author of the book I'm editing a ration of shit over the logistics of her characters' commute and how a made-up drug might work with a made-up physiological condition, because they're introduced and need explaining to keep secondary things from unraveling.) When it's something as large and prominent as the mechanism by which your vampires vampire, you might want to not fuck that up or ignore it altogether.
Likewise, there are broad hints that the bad guys are a shadowy, world-controlling behind-the-scenes force, ensconced in the halls of quiet power (because that's never been a cliche).... but without ever actually doing much more than pulling some strings to fatally harass friends and family of the protagonists, and the protags themselves. Illustrative of petty tyrants, or just a cheap swipe at Washington, carried out by someone who thinks that J. Edgar Hoover was actually the most powerful man in the world during his formative years?
The topic of race, in a couple of dimensions, is slathered on this book so heavily that you'd think Al Jolson used it to wipe his face after a show. We have the young black woman whose father is killed teaming up with the Holocaust survivor, teaming up against a bunch of white people; all but two of which are old white guys in suits (one of whom is a former Nazi officer; another is a closeted televangelist); the other two are a young white guy who is a blatant sexual predator and an old white woman who is an overt, old-school Southern racist. Racial tensions were high in the late 70's, and there were plenty of cold war fears to go around, but, really, having the FBI used as puppets to go shooting up the Philadelphia slums, while not a finger is lifted by local police, and the Mossad being white-kinghted to aid the protagonists is laying it on a bit thick. What passes for moral ambiguity is almost immediately undermined by sermonizing on both sides, good and bad.
Simmons admits in the foreword to more or less ripping off the collective gestalt of the child-monster horror trope that was big in theaters during the late 1970's. I'd love to say this is a complex and heady blend of body-snatcher paranoia with notes of victimization (two of the three main protagonists are preyed on ("Used" in the book's parlance) by the bad guys at various times, and the author isn't at all shy about calling it "mindrape" early and often, but that's a lot more credit than is due. This book has pretentions of moral philosophy, but it's flat and preachy and, frankly, Neal Stephenson does "here are several paragraphs of completely irrelevant and sanctimonious shit I think is interesting and am going to force you to read now" better.
There's also the matter of what is simply bad writing. We have a scene where we're told, "Natalie awoke to the sound of an explosion." She spends one sentence disoriented and getting dressed, and two sentences looking for the other people she was sharing accommodations with. She then steps outside to admire how nice and blue the sky and how pleasant the weather is "Natalie went downstairs and out the front door, marveling at the blue sky and warm air" (page 487 in the TPB edition). Then she spends a sentence checking out the landscaping. Then she walks around the yard to see where the noise is coming from. JESUS CHRIST IT'S AN EXPLOSION LET'S CHECK OUT THE SCENERY. This kind of inept action is endemic, even without Checkhov's gun masquerading as a bandolier of C-4.
In the book's favor, it kills off a love interest early and unapologetically, it doesn't flinch about depicting some touchy shit (even ineptly, at least Simmons is trying to make some social commentary), and is blissfully ignorant of the Bechdel test, which it skirts fairly thoroughly (since the aforementioned baddie is a mean old broad, she talks to both of the other main female characters, though they do spend most of this time discussing their plans, which generally revolve around doing harm to various men).
[1] As anyone who lived at the time knows, the personable gentleman who hosted Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom was named Marlin Perkins, not Martin. At the time, fucking this guy's name up would be the contemporary equivalent of saying "Darryl O'Reilly" or "Bob Stewart"; the man was the host of one of the most popular shows on television, and there were a lot fewer fucking channels back then.
Very little of the foregoing has probably gone unsaid by the folks at Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11286.Carrion_Comfort ; however, I'm not going to plow through all of those before hitting "post" and putting this thing behind me. I may, in fact, perform the act of near-sacrilege and tear out the page upon which the person who gave it to me penned an inscription before remaindering the book to my favorite used book store so that someone else can subject themselves to it.
One half of a reheated Clancy/King slashfic out of five.
Stephen King doesn't know shit about what makes a horror story great. His cover blurb, proclaiming Dan Simmons' sophomore effort, Carrion Comfort, "One of the three greatest horror novels of the 20th century," is frankly and flatly ignorant, in addition to being laughably inaccurate. This wouldn't even be a top-three book in King's own body of work, and nobody's going to mistake the guy for a grandmaster of anything but pulp (and I say this as someone who owns about five linear feet worth of King's books in hardcover and trade paperback; I read just about everything he wrote up through the turn of the century; I may be performing a hatchet job, but it's an informed hatchet job). Guillermo del Toro penned a similarly effusive and purple blurb, presumably in exchange for the other six shots of absinthe he'd been bribed with to write it.
Even the meta for this novel, released as a 20th anniversary special, where Simmons details the novel's journey to publication, is a steaming pile of overwrought hubris. It weighs in at thirty-two pages, most of which is Simmons' assertion that he's smarter than the publishing industry and, specifically, an editor he takes pains not to name, but describes unflatteringly (both physically and intellectually) who, eventually, I came to sympathize with... her eventual assertion that he scrap everything but the title was an opinion I shared about five hundred or so pages in, too.
So, to the text itself. There are, to its credit, very few typographical errors[1], though it's obvious Mr. Simmons (and whomever may or may not have edited this thing) doesn't know the first fucking thing about physics, firearms, sharks, or vampires. He's watched too many episodes of Starsky and Hutch to be able to write a decent action scene (frenetic, disjointed, implausible... it's almost painfully obvious that he wrote this book to end up as a movie, even including a Hollywood producer and a couple sexy starlets who serve almost no purpose but to be sexual objects).
Leaving aside the story's specific shortcomings, there's the small matter of craft, which can be most easily and kindly be summarized by saying that the author bit off way, way more than he could chew. This book wants to be a psychological monster horror story wrapped around some plucky discrimination victims interwoven with a political potboiler. It manages this trick with all the grace and elegance of a truck full of cheap beer going over a guardrail and rolling down an embankment made of lawn jockeys, rejected Tom Clancy novels, and Bram Stoker's spinning corpse.
The villains are supposed to be psychic vampires, and, early on, it's suggested that they draw power, sustenance, and longevity from using their power to compel people in their thrall to commit acts against their will, specifically murder and/or suicide. Unfortunately, the only one who appears to have resisted the ravages of time particularly well takes a mid-caliber bullet to the forehead before the end of the first act, and the author actively ignores the fact that one of the chief antagonists becomes exponentially more powerful, causing a substantial amount of sustenance-providing chaos, while remaining little more than a breathing corpse. Maybe this was Simmons' way of suggesting they don't draw power from exerting power.... or maybe it's just sloppy writing. But if this is the mechanism upon which the entire horror premise is built on, maybe you ought to think it through a little more comprehensively and pay attention to the rules of the world you build. (To this end, I'm currently giving the author of the book I'm editing a ration of shit over the logistics of her characters' commute and how a made-up drug might work with a made-up physiological condition, because they're introduced and need explaining to keep secondary things from unraveling.) When it's something as large and prominent as the mechanism by which your vampires vampire, you might want to not fuck that up or ignore it altogether.
Likewise, there are broad hints that the bad guys are a shadowy, world-controlling behind-the-scenes force, ensconced in the halls of quiet power (because that's never been a cliche).... but without ever actually doing much more than pulling some strings to fatally harass friends and family of the protagonists, and the protags themselves. Illustrative of petty tyrants, or just a cheap swipe at Washington, carried out by someone who thinks that J. Edgar Hoover was actually the most powerful man in the world during his formative years?
The topic of race, in a couple of dimensions, is slathered on this book so heavily that you'd think Al Jolson used it to wipe his face after a show. We have the young black woman whose father is killed teaming up with the Holocaust survivor, teaming up against a bunch of white people; all but two of which are old white guys in suits (one of whom is a former Nazi officer; another is a closeted televangelist); the other two are a young white guy who is a blatant sexual predator and an old white woman who is an overt, old-school Southern racist. Racial tensions were high in the late 70's, and there were plenty of cold war fears to go around, but, really, having the FBI used as puppets to go shooting up the Philadelphia slums, while not a finger is lifted by local police, and the Mossad being white-kinghted to aid the protagonists is laying it on a bit thick. What passes for moral ambiguity is almost immediately undermined by sermonizing on both sides, good and bad.
Simmons admits in the foreword to more or less ripping off the collective gestalt of the child-monster horror trope that was big in theaters during the late 1970's. I'd love to say this is a complex and heady blend of body-snatcher paranoia with notes of victimization (two of the three main protagonists are preyed on ("Used" in the book's parlance) by the bad guys at various times, and the author isn't at all shy about calling it "mindrape" early and often, but that's a lot more credit than is due. This book has pretentions of moral philosophy, but it's flat and preachy and, frankly, Neal Stephenson does "here are several paragraphs of completely irrelevant and sanctimonious shit I think is interesting and am going to force you to read now" better.
There's also the matter of what is simply bad writing. We have a scene where we're told, "Natalie awoke to the sound of an explosion." She spends one sentence disoriented and getting dressed, and two sentences looking for the other people she was sharing accommodations with. She then steps outside to admire how nice and blue the sky and how pleasant the weather is "Natalie went downstairs and out the front door, marveling at the blue sky and warm air" (page 487 in the TPB edition). Then she spends a sentence checking out the landscaping. Then she walks around the yard to see where the noise is coming from. JESUS CHRIST IT'S AN EXPLOSION LET'S CHECK OUT THE SCENERY. This kind of inept action is endemic, even without Checkhov's gun masquerading as a bandolier of C-4.
In the book's favor, it kills off a love interest early and unapologetically, it doesn't flinch about depicting some touchy shit (even ineptly, at least Simmons is trying to make some social commentary), and is blissfully ignorant of the Bechdel test, which it skirts fairly thoroughly (since the aforementioned baddie is a mean old broad, she talks to both of the other main female characters, though they do spend most of this time discussing their plans, which generally revolve around doing harm to various men).
[1] As anyone who lived at the time knows, the personable gentleman who hosted Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom was named Marlin Perkins, not Martin. At the time, fucking this guy's name up would be the contemporary equivalent of saying "Darryl O'Reilly" or "Bob Stewart"; the man was the host of one of the most popular shows on television, and there were a lot fewer fucking channels back then.
Very little of the foregoing has probably gone unsaid by the folks at Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11286.Carrion_Comfort ; however, I'm not going to plow through all of those before hitting "post" and putting this thing behind me. I may, in fact, perform the act of near-sacrilege and tear out the page upon which the person who gave it to me penned an inscription before remaindering the book to my favorite used book store so that someone else can subject themselves to it.
One half of a reheated Clancy/King slashfic out of five.
