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Stephen King has a new book coming out called Under the Dome, which sounds awesome. It’s about a small Maine town that suddenly finds itself completely cut off from the world by an airtight, impenetrable force field. King has always been at his best when dealing with supernatural horror – The Shining, The Thing, Pet Semetary – but he’s got a soft spot for torturing small towns, and sometimes that can lead to a really great read. The Tommyknockers is awesome, and I enjoyed the hell out of Desperation, even though the ending totally sucked. Other times, when he decides to destroy a place and all its people, it doesn’t work out so well. Needful Things, for instance, is kind of a waste of time.
But let’s face it. Stephen King hasn’t really been scary for a while. His powers as a compelling writer have declined steadily since he quite drinking, and even the Gunslinger series, which was supposed to be his masterpiece, falls flat after the fourth book. It’s a goddamn shame, because with the occasional exception of Peter Straub, and The House of Leaves, Stephen King is the only writer to ever really scare me. After I read The Thing, I didn’t even like going to the bathroom by myself in case something started whispering threats from the drain.
Still, Under the Dome is exactly the sort of story I’m a sucker for. The world watches through an impassable, transparent wall as a small town – “real America” if you will – tears itself apart. Rod Serling would narrate this story, his voice made husky by cigarette smoke and genuine pleasure at the monsters men become.
So I’ll read it, and I’ll probably be disappointed. But at least I know at least one person gets a hole drilled in his skull, and sometimes that’s enough.
But let’s face it. Stephen King hasn’t really been scary for a while. His powers as a compelling writer have declined steadily since he quite drinking, and even the Gunslinger series, which was supposed to be his masterpiece, falls flat after the fourth book. It’s a goddamn shame, because with the occasional exception of Peter Straub, and The House of Leaves, Stephen King is the only writer to ever really scare me. After I read The Thing, I didn’t even like going to the bathroom by myself in case something started whispering threats from the drain.
Still, Under the Dome is exactly the sort of story I’m a sucker for. The world watches through an impassable, transparent wall as a small town – “real America” if you will – tears itself apart. Rod Serling would narrate this story, his voice made husky by cigarette smoke and genuine pleasure at the monsters men become.
So I’ll read it, and I’ll probably be disappointed. But at least I know at least one person gets a hole drilled in his skull, and sometimes that’s enough.