Carla

The narrative structure really distracted me, the breaking of the fourth wall—at one point, the narrator, who joined with the reader as a we, had “us” slip under a door “like a telegram”. I suspect that was Straub’s work.

Also, the complete deification of Lily (Lily Cavanaugh Sawyer, if you please) in this second novel bothered me. I remember Lily from the first part of The Talisman being a neglectful and kind of obnoxious mother, to my mind, and Jack’s father being the kind and gentle one. Here, Phil is barely remembered (this is explicitly stated near the end) and Lily is nigh perfect. Her movie career is elevated as well to the point that her movies are playing on a random tv at least twice, and someone recognizes her name (which was a complaint of hers in The Talisman, that no one did). There is an odd twining as well of Jack’s love interest and Queen Mom that felt Oedipal in one love scene; I felt really uncomfortable.

I could feel when King was at the helm and when Straub was. The difference and transition was a jolt. The women felt more flawed in King’s hands, more three-dimensional; they felt worshipped in Straub’s. For example, Jack immediately fell in love/worship, and within minutes of meeting this woman, admired her “beautiful knees”—and they were presented to us by the narrator as beautiful, not as such in Jack’s mind. Another woman was described as so petite that a man could balance her feet on one of his hands. That all just felt gross.

I have never felt discomfort like described with King’s works before, and I started reading them a long time ago. I’m older than I look.

Finally, the dialect of a certain character was written so…oddly that I had trouble parsing it. Again, never seen that before in King’s works.

I left the rating at four stars because the story itself was fabulous, and I love how the Tower lore tied into this series, and how King’s other characters with abilities might serve the Beam. Fascinating.

Extremely well-researched account by an accomplished and experienced reporter. He included several compassionate, simple moments about certain people, a couple of which we don’t even learn their name, that teared me up in their loveliness. They contrasted beautifully with the brutality—and these murders were absolutely brutal. They weren’t traditional axe murders, they were also piqueristic in nature, and that seemed to be the goal, the axe being used to subdue so that the killer could stab at will. Be warned about graphic content; the author is clinical and respectful but thorough and honest.

Sensitive, thoughtful, and careful journalism. I can see why the author was awarded for his coverage of the case.

If reading about others’ trauma (I tried to be as helpful in the trigger warnings as I could) would be a problem for you in any way, do not read this book thinking it would be an interesting exploration of women in horror. It is an autobiography of mental illness and dysfunction, and that is putting it carefully and mildly.

I wanted to rate this one higher. At points I deeply enjoyed it; this shows at the speed at which I listened to it. But the author doesn’t do the best job of explaining why her history of mental illness, domestic violence, and childhood abuse is relevant to share within this topic of female neuroses in horror films. And does she share—to a detailed extent that could be called grotesque. I feel exhausted now, almost like I have witnessed something deeply traumatic happen. I didn’t need to know everything she has thought, felt, and experienced ever that could relate to female hysteria, abuse, and neurosis as portrayed in horror, but I received it anyway in painful, sometimes excruciating detail. There is catharsis in reading and watching horror, there was none here, and I am left feeling like I need a hug or a nap. This should not be.

Remember: I say all this as someone with advanced degrees in psychology and counseling, and post-grad work in Forensic Anthropology and Sex Crimes. So, if I am uncomfortable, it might be a warning. Just something to mull over.

I also have to mention that, a good 80-90 percent into the book, it got worse, because the author casually used the r-word, as in referring to an adult behaving like an r-word child. I should have stopped reading. I regret not doing so.

This is the second supposedly-seminal book about the horror genre that has been painful to read, the first being Carol J. Clover’s Men, Women, and Chainsaws—I DNF that one. Both this year. I’ll just reread Kim Newman’s Nightmare Movies, Alexandra West’s books on French extremity and 90’s teen horror, and Stephen King’s Danse Macabre if I feel the urge for this type of book again. No slurs, no trauma, and no misuse of Freud (Clover—trust me, it became gross).

I think I need to go outside and get some vitamin D.