I could be wrong about this, but I believe that modern horror is the only genre of popular literature that owes its existence to the invention of film. Yes, yes, I know Dracula and Frankenstein both predate the modern era, even predate generally available still photography, and ghost stories are as old as the first campfire. But I'm talking modern horror -- the stuff you see in the section marked HORROR at the local bookstore. The vast majority of those books -- both good and bad -- have a 'cinematic' quality to them that is unique.
I can't think of another genre or subgenre of fiction that tries to make the reader do exactly what a movie does. Mainstream fiction is far deeper; mysteries more complex and leisurely, science fiction -- until quite recently -- more extravagant and involved, even romances frequently more internalized that film. And none of them work so hard to trigger exactly the same reactions as film. Horror books-- just like horror movies -- try to make you JUMP in surprise, to shiver in anticipation or revulsion, to GASP! at something entirely unexpected. I think Stephen King became as impossibly successful as he did as early as he did because his books grow almost entirely from that cinematic tradition: reading almost any of them is exactly like watching a good horror movie,with comparable levels of depth, pacing, and imagery. (Which makes one wonder wy so few of King's horror novels have been made into decent films ... but that's a mystery for another day.)
Even now, even when we think we know precisely what to expect from SK, he can still pull of that cinematic effect like nobody else. We 're not talking about a scene that simply makes us feel icky, or creepy; we're not talking nameless dread or an overwhelming sense of foreboding. We're talking surprise, we're talking startlement, if there is such a word. We're talking GASP!
He does it right here, in the charmingly named section called Clustermug, by having a pacemaker blow up in a good man's chest -- just like that, KA-POW! He does it so quicklky, so unexpectedly, and so cinematically, that you -- I -- actually GASPED! and when "Jeeesus!"
How does he DO that?
Anyway, Clustermug moves us along a bit farther: Dale Barbera continues to explore the edges of the barrier, and we learn a bit more about him. He's not quite the hapless drifter we've been led to believe; seems he a fairly competent (and recent) ex-soldier with some connections. We meet Rusty Everett, a nurse, and Ron Haskell, a doctor at the one-and-only hospital inside the Dome. Decent guys. And now that Good Sherriff Perkins is dead (see KA-POW, above), his surly and bullyish second in command is now in charge. And we know how much King likes cops and those in positions of authority (just as we see Big Jim Rennie already shaping up into one of those highly dangerous tinpot smalltown dictatator types. 'Ware, 'ware!)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment