I’m planning to reread this later in the year, and will write more then, but for now, I love LOVED it – a stunning spin on ‘dark academia’ tropes, a sI’m planning to reread this later in the year, and will write more then, but for now, I love LOVED it – a stunning spin on ‘dark academia’ tropes, a story that turns itself upside down and shakes everything out. Not only is it a story about privilege and obsession and envy, it gets to the heart of something about why we are so endlessly fascinated by these stories. An instant favourite, to sit next to The Party, The Bellwether Revivals and Engleby....more
The synopsis of State of Paradise sums it up so well, there’s almost no need to write a review at all. This does indeed depict a funhouse of uncannineThe synopsis of State of Paradise sums it up so well, there’s almost no need to write a review at all. This does indeed depict a funhouse of uncanniness hidden in Florida’s underbelly and a sticky, rain-soaked reckoning with the elusive nature of storytelling. Its narrator, who works as a ghostwriter of popular-but-trashy thrillers, has recently returned to her home state of Florida. She’s living with her mother and next door to her sister, who’s become addicted to MIND’S EYE, a virtual reality headset that was handed out free during the pandemic. It’s a time of increasingly extreme weather, and during one particularly apocalyptic storm, her sister disappears.
When the story starts, its contours seem familiar; van den Berg relies on that precise assumption to wrongfoot the reader. You might think you know what the narrator’s referring to when she talks about ‘the pandemic’, but then she describes some of the lasting side effects – her bellybutton has changed shape, her sister’s eyes are a different colour – and suddenly you’re wondering if this story is taking place within our world at all. Unfamiliarity with the setting adds a further sheen of weirdness to the whole thing (I imagine this book reads very differently if you’ve ever lived in Florida). This sense of a slightly altered world is key to State of Paradise’s mission. It’s a slippery story about stories – about how we rewrite our histories to empower (or deny) ourselves.
For me, it was all strongly reminiscent of Alexandra Kleeman’s novels You Too Can Have a Body Like Mine and Something New Under the Sun. In fact, it’s as though someone spliced the two of them together: the surreal setting and mysterious disappearances from You Too, the overtones of climate disaster from Something New, the cult elements from both. This was slightly to State of Paradise’s detriment; I just love Kleeman’s writing so much, and this doesn’t quite hit the same heights. It’s also a lighter, less complex read compared to van den Berg’s last novel, The Third Hotel.
I liked it, though – the palpable humidity of the setting, the startling suggestions about our narrator’s account of her own past. Unsurprisingly, I would firmly recommend this book to fans of Alexandra Kleeman’s fiction. I’d also compare it to other tricky, hallucinatory narratives like The Scapegoat and Looking Glass Sound, and in its last act it reminded me of nothing so much as the wild twists of The Writing Retreat.
I received an advance review copy of State of Paradise from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
Having long been a fan of Mariana Enríquez’s short stories – especially the superb Things We Lost in the Fire, the first of her books to be translatedHaving long been a fan of Mariana Enríquez’s short stories – especially the superb Things We Lost in the Fire, the first of her books to be translated into English – I was excited to get stuck in to this brand-new collection. ‘Face of Disgrace’ is creepy and genuinely disturbing at points; ‘Different Colours Made of Tears’ has good character work and a strong voice; both of them are anchored by original concepts. ‘A Sunny Place for Shady People’ is unexpectedly poignant, ‘A Local Artist’ starts strong and has a well-realised setting. Unfortunately, most of the rest don’t get much better than merely ‘fine’. There’s little here that lives up to Things We Lost in the Fire, or even the earlier, less polished The Dangers of Smoking in Bed.
Not for the first time, I wonder why the synopsis and marketing of a book doesn’t reflect the actual content of the book. Sunny Place is sold as a collection of macabre stories exploring ‘love, womanhood, LGBTQ counterculture, parenthood and Argentina’s brutal past’. I’m not sure I could locate some of these themes in the book if I tried (did I miss whatever the ‘LGBTQ counterculture’ part was supposed to be?) This is a collection that leans heavily on body horror; it’s really the main theme that runs through most of the stories, so it’s weird this isn’t mentioned anywhere. Body horror is a specific flavour of horror, and while it has been present in Enríquez’s stories before, it’s more prevalent here, and much blunter too. This results in the type of horror story I admire rather than like. I appreciate it takes skill to get under the reader’s skin, to provoke disgust, but I don’t feel pleasantly spooked by these kind of stories, just a bit nauseous.
I’m tempted to wonder if something was lost in translation here – and not just the title (which sounds bizarrely cheesy in English, and strikes entirely the wrong tone for the book). Two of the stories are based on urban legends that are so well-known as to border on cliche; I initially assumed these must be less well-known in Argentina... except I’ve been looking through the reviews in Spanish, and a recurring criticism there is that Enríquez is trying too hard to tailor her style for Western audiences. Finally, to go back to the body horror thing: honestly, I didn’t enjoy the way many of these stories use disability or disease to incite fear. Maybe this has always been a feature of Enríquez’s writing and I haven’t picked up on it enough; maybe there’s just a lot more of it in this book. Either way, I wasn’t comfortable with it.
I received an advance review copy of A Sunny Place for Shady People from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
(3.5) Despite a title that seems to be in conversation with Kunzru’s two previous novels, White Tears and Red Pill, this book dispenses with its p(3.5) Despite a title that seems to be in conversation with Kunzru’s two previous novels, White Tears and Red Pill, this book dispenses with its predecessors’ touches of surrealism (the uncanny song in White, the prophetic TV show in Red) and tells a more straightforward story. The three main characters, all aspiring artists, are in a love triangle as students; many years later, one of them – Jay, now so destitute he’s living in his car – washes up at the luxurious home of the other two, married couple Alice and Rob. It’s also a pandemic novel, with all the key scenes set in the late spring/early summer of 2020. Characters’ panic about the virus manifests in a variety of ways (and is arguably the engine of the plot, too).
Much of the first half consists of Jay reflecting on his short, messy relationship with Alice; these scenes are well-written, but inconsequential. While Kunzru sketches a neat portrait of the young Jay – his naivety and idealism, as well as the late-90s London art scene through which he moves – I wasn’t sure why I should care, or where this was all going. Meanwhile, whenever we return to 2020, the dialogue between Jay, Alice, Rob and another couple has a sheen of unreality. Maybe it was just the Covid references, but I felt like I was watching actors perform a scene, rather than eavesdropping on a real conversation.
And I questioned whether this artificiality is deliberate; we are, after all, encouraged to wonder what is true about Jay. (A sculpture made of multiple, spiralling mirrors – which Jay visits several times, and is even moved to tears by – seems significant here. As does the belief, shared by almost everyone and thus communicated to the reader, that Jay’s presence is too wild a coincidence to have happened purely by chance.) I found Jay’s account of himself unconvincing. Are we supposed to think he’s lying? Partly because he’s still hung up on Alice after so long, it’s hard to believe Jay has had the rich life experience he claims; it’s as though he’s jumped from being a student straight into middle age. Which, of course, for the purposes of the story, he has. But should it feel quite so much like that’s the case? Is it meant to be so noticeable?
As I read Blue Ruin, and especially throughout the climax and ending, I kept thinking of questions like this – about the characters, and about the book. I found myself inventing and discarding theories about what was really going on, and whether some of the vaguely frustrating narrative techniques were a tricksy manoeuvre on the part of the author and/or his narrator (as in something like Ottessa Moshfegh’s Death in Her Hands). Should we ask whether this whole story is part of Jay’s performance art, or is that stretching the metaphor too far, inventing an authorial intention that isn’t there? Is it better for fiction to be thought-provoking than a good story? Even if so, is it enough for it to be thought-provoking?
The closing lines put such a neat cap on the story that they make it all seem weightless. As if Rob, Alice et al have disappeared in a puff of smoke. While it takes particular talent to write something that feels that way, I’m not sure I want to read books where the characters leave no impression. I’m left with mixed feelings about Blue Ruin. It’s more interesting to think about than to read. But then, sometimes I really enjoy that.
I received an advance review copy of Blue Ruin from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
I was interested in this book as I’ve read and enjoyed some of the author’s horror comics via Instagram. While those are typically adaptations of otheI was interested in this book as I’ve read and enjoyed some of the author’s horror comics via Instagram. While those are typically adaptations of other people’s stories, usually from reddit posts and Twitter threads, the eleven stories here are all original. (Aside from one, a riff on the 19th-century story best known as ‘The Green Ribbon’ and recently reinterpreted by Carmen Maria Machado in ‘The Husband Stitch’.)
Highlights include the urban legend vibes of ‘Bus Stop’; the moody, Junji Ito-lite ‘Butter Corn Ramen’; and the punchy modern ghost story ‘Viola Bloom’. The longer comics work best, and I also found them more effective when framed as a personal experience of the narrator, which takes the edge off anything that seems inconclusive. Shorter pieces like ‘Forest Fruit’ and ‘Hangnail’ hinge on visual punchlines; I’d call these dark jokes more than ‘horror stories’. Others have great setups – ‘Better Kate Than Never’, ‘Murder Party’ – but don’t do anything truly unexpected with them.
My main problem with Bad Dreams in the Night – and I realise this may sound nitpicky to some – is that little knowledge or appreciation of contemporary horror seems to have gone into it. Instead, it’s inspired more by a combination of old children’s books and the sort of ‘this really happened to me!’ stories people post online in the hope of creating a viral creepypasta. This is reflected in the author’s notes accompanying each story, some of which take away from the effect. Reading the explanation for ‘Green Ribbon’, you’d think Ellis was the first person to conceive of telling this story from the woman’s perspective. One note starts with the words ‘not too much to say about this one’ – in which case, surely it’s better not to have a note at all.
So, I liked this perfectly well but it’s all quite insubstantial. I’d perhaps consider buying it as a gift for someone who doesn’t usually read horror – and to be fair, I think that’s probably who it’s aimed at anyway! If you enjoyed this and are looking for more short horror stories in graphic novel format, I’d recommend Emily Carroll’s Through the Woods.
I received an advance review copy of Bad Dreams in the Night from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
The premise of The Other Valley is high-concept, yet so simple it seems amazing no-one’s written this book before now. There’s a community in a valleyThe premise of The Other Valley is high-concept, yet so simple it seems amazing no-one’s written this book before now. There’s a community in a valley. Some distance either side lie duplicate valleys – exactly the same, except one is twenty years in the past, the other twenty years into the future. Movement between valleys is both physically taxing and strictly controlled: requests must be approved or denied by a special council, the Conseil (and they are almost always denied).
Our protagonist and narrator, Odile Ozanne, is a 16-year-old schoolgirl who hopes to join the Conseil. At the same time as she enters the competitive ‘vetting’ process to win an apprenticeship, she accidentally witnesses a visit from residents of the future valley. She recognises them as the parents of her classmate Edme, and realises what this must mean: in the near future, Edme will die. Odile is drawn to him; they become friends; she begins to fall in love. In the second half of the story, we meet Odile as an adult and see how the events of her youth have affected her life.
This is a beautifully written book. One of the most impressive things about it is the clear distinction between its two parts. In the first half of the book, the valley is wistful, nostalgic and magical. The elegant prose, the evocative settings, the sense of potential surrounding both Odile’s future career and her putative relationship with Edme – all combine to create an impression of a place that feels at once familiar and entirely otherworldly. In the second half, however, that pretty facade is ripped away. We’re clearly in the same place, just seeing behind the curtain, being shown the details of the dirty work that makes this idyll possible for the lucky few. It’s such an effective way to illustrate different facets of a fictional world.
I was worried, early on, that this would be one of those books in which the course of someone’s entire life is dominated by a brief, youthful infatuation – a common plot point and one I dislike. But Howard is clearly aware this is a cliche. There’s a good balance between the obvious fact that the story’s world is unlike ours (time travel is possible here; regrets can be fixed, at a cost) and Odile’s own acknowledgement that she barely knew Edme. It’s a refreshingly unsentimental take on the trope, one that still allows for pathos and emotional heft.
The Other Valley is my favourite kind of speculative fiction, mastering the formula of compelling genre hook + stunning writing. So interesting, accomplished and such a smart idea, it’s not the type of book that immediately strikes you as a debut. I’d go out and get all the author’s other books if I could.
I received an advance review copy of The Other Valley from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
Still working out how I felt about this. The effect of one of Levy’s stories on its own is like a short sharp shock but collectively it can be the oppStill working out how I felt about this. The effect of one of Levy’s stories on its own is like a short sharp shock but collectively it can be the opposite: deadening. Not necessarily a bad thing; I think that effect fits in well with the style and themes of the collection, the numbness of a life lived online, the desensitisation of exposure, the assertion that ‘nothing is stable, especially not the self’. But I also can’t help thinking the stories work better as I originally encountered (some of) them – in isolation, on websites – than they do collected in a book. Because of that (?) I still think the ones I read that way (‘Cancel Me’, ‘Good Boys’, ‘Internet Girl’) are the best. There’s an insanely good run in the middle, though, with ‘Cancel Me’ followed by ‘Shoebox World’ and ‘Z was for Zoomer’, like three shots of adrenaline in a row.
I received an advance review copy of My First Book from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
This was one of my most anticipated debuts of the year. Gabriel is a writer in his twenties whose father has passed away; his mother is in a care homeThis was one of my most anticipated debuts of the year. Gabriel is a writer in his twenties whose father has passed away; his mother is in a care home. When he moves into his parents’ old house, Gabriel retreats further into himself. Are the strange things he describes – a manuscript that keeps changing, the house crumbling, his own skin peeling off – all in his head? It’s a great concept that’s held back by frustratingly childish language and humour. At many points you’d think the narrator was meant to be about 12. I enjoyed various inserts into the main narrative (some stories ostensibly written by Gabriel’s ex; a somewhat metafictional script) much more than that narrative itself. I liked the way the ending brings everything together, poignantly framing the way Gabriel finally shucks off the shroud of grief, but it doesn’t fully offset the unevenness of the rest. As imperfect as first novels sometimes can be, though with sparks of interesting style. I’ve enjoyed other short stories by Smith, and think that’s perhaps where his strengths as a writer lie, at least at this point.
I received an advance review copy of BRAT: A Ghost Story from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
Tons of fun! Imagine Aesthetica or The Odyssey but actually sharp and funny, with a sprinkling of the anarchic energy possessed by something lTons of fun! Imagine Aesthetica or The Odyssey but actually sharp and funny, with a sprinkling of the anarchic energy possessed by something like Come Join Our Disease. A good balance of humour that can bite, and not always by punching up, but also has a soft core. At times feels like an experiment in letting a female character behave like male characters once did (benefitting from the status of ‘artist’ despite repeatedly failing to create anything meaningful, chasing a succession of younger partners) – and you could argue the impact of that trope is blunted by the sheer amount of books about ‘messy women’ we’re drowning in nowadays but this is more acute I think, maybe because its concept (washed-up novelist gets obsessed with the work and philosophy of Ayn Rand, tries to apply it to her life and art) is hyperspecific, so there’s a hook to hang things on that doesn’t relate to a relationship/sex/being single/having or not having kids. Or... at least not entirely. Also endlessly quotable; Freiman can write an observation that cuts like a knife.
I received an advance review copy of The Book of Ayn from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
Whisper it, but I actually enjoyed this a lot more than The Haunting of Hill House. It uses the setting of Shirley Jackson’s novel beautifully, while Whisper it, but I actually enjoyed this a lot more than The Haunting of Hill House. It uses the setting of Shirley Jackson’s novel beautifully, while also playing to Elizabeth Hand’s own strengths, and established style, as a horror writer. Stumbling across Hill House on a drive in the country, playwright Holly thinks she’s found the perfect venue in which to rehearse and workshop what she hopes will be her breakthrough play, Witching Night. Holly is joined by the cast – her talented yet capricious younger girlfriend, Nisa, and a pair of actors, has-been Amanda and never-was Stevie – and at first, rehearsals go wonderfully: the house’s atmosphere perfectly complements the play’s tale of witchcraft. But there’s the matter of the staff who refuse to stay overnight, the hostile woman who lives in a neighbouring trailer, and the terrifyingly huge black hares Holly keeps glimpsing (a brilliant addition). As tensions increase, Hill House’s influence begins to feel less like an illumination of Witching Night’s themes and more like an infection. Everyone in the book has their own ghosts, cleverly feeding into their own personal hauntings. I was frequently reminded of Hand’s previous, equally good (if not better) novel Wylding Hall; clearly, sticking a bunch of creatives in a haunted house makes for a foolproof horror formula in her hands.
I received an advance review copy of A Haunting on the Hill from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
(3.5) After a tumultuous childhood, Rose has settled into a sensible job and steady relationship. Her flighty sister Cecilia has done no such thing: s(3.5) After a tumultuous childhood, Rose has settled into a sensible job and steady relationship. Her flighty sister Cecilia has done no such thing: she’s never truly grown up and has spent her life bouncing from place to place, obsession to obsession, taking up with eccentric new friends or lovers only to quickly discard them. When Cecilia vanishes while Rose is planning her wedding, it seems pretty typical. Then Rose uncovers her involvement with a cult-like group, Avalon, and becomes concerned. So she joins Avalon herself. Soon Rose is in way too deep – lying to her fiancé, having secret meetings with Cecilia’s estranged husband, entranced by Avalon’s charismatic followers...
I liked but didn’t love Here in Avalon, and I feel bad about it, if only because Tara Isabella Burton’s previous novels are both among my favourites of all time. There’s an odd tension in this book, and I struggled with it: while everything deliberately feels fantastical, it emphatically isn’t, the point being that Avalon purposely manufactures this atmosphere, creating the impression – only the impression – of an escape from real life. Even away from Avalon, though, the characters seem as exaggerated as figures in a fable. This is especially true of Cecilia, who it is impossible to picture as a real person. She’s reminiscent of Ava in Mona Awad’s Bunny (and if you’ve read Bunny, you might understand why that’s a problem). Her wimpy husband is barely more credible.
In her non-fiction book Strange Rites, Burton writes about the obsessive fandom surrounding immersive theatre, her own involvement in that scene, and her theory that such performances are (one example of) the modern equivalent to a religious ritual. It’s easy to see how this has fed into Here in Avalon, but I wonder if the author’s enchantment with the idea is the reason it lacks an essential spark on the page. I suppose it’s easier to imagine being bewitched by an interactive cabaret if you’ve got personal experience of that. I’m afraid to say that for me, nothing about Avalon seemed particularly interesting or beguiling. Instead I just felt utter frustration that Rose was risking her career and relationship to dance on a boat with a few people in costumes. Maybe that means I’m not open enough to the suggestion of magic or something, and that’s probably part of the problem here: I couldn’t meet the world of the story halfway. It’s just... if I’m reading a novel about a seductive cult, I want to feel that I too could be seduced. I don’t want to have to try too hard to see how it might happen.
You know when you watch a film and the production values are amazing, sets and costumes all stunning, yet there’s no chemistry between the actors? That’s what this book is like. The plot flows smoothly and Burton’s prose is as gorgeous as ever; it just doesn’t quite click. An engaging story, for sure, with moments worth revisiting, but I’d recommend both Social Creature (more compelling) and The World Cannot Give (more emotionally resonant) over this.
I must say, though: I loved the little Easter egg-style details in Here in Avalon that confirm all Burton’s novels take place within the same universe.
I received an advance review copy of Here in Avalon from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
A little girl goes missing, and we explore the ensuing search and investigation through the perspectives of her mother and a police officer. While it’A little girl goes missing, and we explore the ensuing search and investigation through the perspectives of her mother and a police officer. While it’s a standard premise for crime fiction, this is no ordinary family and no ordinary child: six-year-old Kimmy Diore is the daughter of a hugely popular family influencer who’s been broadcasting her kids’ lives on YouTube since they were born. Throughout, Kids Run the Show is a smart combination of social commentary and pacy, character-driven mystery – but it’s the concluding part of the book, unexpectedly jumping forward ten years, that really elevated this for me. De Vigan almost enters speculative fiction territory here, and it’s a risk that pays off, making the novel both more thought-provoking and more thrilling. De Vigan has explored themes of the tyranny of parents and helplessness of children throughout so much of her writing, but this is perhaps her most successful and exciting treatment of the theme yet. (This is despite a translation that occasionally threatens to become clunky; it’s a personal thing, but I will just never get used to European novels being translated into American English.)
I received an advance review copy of Kids Run the Show from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
Barely a day goes by that I don’t think about Jen Silverman’s We Play Ourselves, so this was easily one of my most highly anticipated books of the yeaBarely a day goes by that I don’t think about Jen Silverman’s We Play Ourselves, so this was easily one of my most highly anticipated books of the year. Like Cass in Play, Minerva (known by the nickname Minnow) is a woman fleeing scandal. All but fired from her teaching job, she seizes the chance to take up a role in Paris, where she starts a relationship with a colleague 15 years her junior. Charles is the son of a wealthy and influential family, but he’s also a passionate activist who’s become embroiled in the gilets jaunes movement alongside his mercurial friend Luc. Unbeknownst to her, Minnow’s choices have parallels to those of her father, Christopher, long before she was born. In a parallel storyline, set 50 years earlier, we follow a young Christopher as he’s swept up in student protests at Harvard and falls in love with firebrand campaigner Olya.
This premise isn’t necessarily something that would have got my attention on its own, but with Silverman’s name attached, I was interested – and I’m so glad I was, because this is a masterfully crafted novel. The author’s background as a playwright seems to influence her writing in the best way: her ear for dialogue is matched only by her ability to write a perfect setpiece. So we get great, plausible debates between the characters; smart, snappy, but also believable as things people would actually say. Silverman has a gift for making something new and startling out of a cliche (it’s a tiny detail, but this book has possibly the best ‘parent meeting their new baby’ scene I’ve ever read). At times, the book is unexpectedly open – the mystery of what sent Minnow to Paris is dealt with swiftly, rather than being held back and used as a plot twist. The characters act in frustrating ways, and both central relationships seem obviously doomed to fail, but I don’t think we’re meant to be rooting for anyone here; this is a story about making mistakes and what happens afterwards, whatever that means.
I received an advance review copy of There’s Going to Be Trouble from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
The first third of this book, maybe even as much as the first half, is superb. Luke Dumas is just incredibly good at writing atmosphere, and this storThe first third of this book, maybe even as much as the first half, is superb. Luke Dumas is just incredibly good at writing atmosphere, and this story drips with it: protagonist Simon’s return to the small town he grew up in; the decrepit museum where he takes up a new job; the local eccentrics he meets along the way. I thought The Paleontologist was on track to be an instant five-star favourite, just like the author’s brilliant debut A History of Fear. Ultimately, however, the supernatural elements just became too much for me – my suspension of disbelief collapsed and I simply couldn’t buy the characters’ swift acceptance of some deeply bizarre, out-there hauntings. The dialogue stumbles at points too: its heart is in the right place, but a book built around outlandish horrors and the protagonist’s traumatic childhood perhaps shouldn’t also be a pandemic novel and a dissection of white male privilege. It feels like this book was a passion project for the author, which perhaps explains why it seems overly packed with themes that don’t quite slot together. It still has a lot of charm and I’ll still read future work from Dumas, but I missed the subtler, more ambiguous approach taken in A History of Fear.
I received an advance review copy of The Paleontologist from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
So, I have had some time to let this settle and I have very mixed feelings here. I love Janice Hallett’s storytelling, and this was another addictive So, I have had some time to let this settle and I have very mixed feelings here. I love Janice Hallett’s storytelling, and this was another addictive read comprising a series of messages, journal entries, emails and reports. But...
The idea is that three examiners are assessing the coursework and other documents from a ‘Multimedia Art’ master’s degree. One of them believes ‘something disturbing’ happened on the course and was covered up by the students, so they ask the others to read all the documents (i.e. the text of this book) and make up their own minds. This on its own is convoluted enough – just the degree, a combination of art-making and marketing skills, is convoluted enough – before we even get into the plethora of links between the characters, dramatic backstories, and bizarre solutions to problems. And the plot hinges on not one but two incredibly stupid MacGuffins that make very little sense. I mean, I know all Hallett’s books have silly elements, I’m not expecting Crime and Punishment here, but this really does take it a bit far.
I wish I hadn’t read this so early now – I’d love to get some different perspectives on the story. And thinking about this makes me wonder if what I’m really looking for is someone to convince me it’s better than I suspect it actually is. I had fun, but I’d like to feel the story is at least a little more plausible than this (The Appeal, for example, works so well partly because its English village eccentrics and ‘big fish in a small pond’ types are instantly recognisable and true to life; not so the broad caricatures that make up the students in this book). I love Hallett’s approach in general, and I’ll definitely still be reading whatever she writes next. For me, this was probably better than The Twyford Code but didn’t reach the heights of The Appeal or Alperton Angels.
I received an advance review copy of The Examiner from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
(3.5) True-crime novels are having a big moment, and Kill Show wades into this increasingly crowded field with a relatively underused hook: a document(3.5) True-crime novels are having a big moment, and Kill Show wades into this increasingly crowded field with a relatively underused hook: a documentary TV series, the fictitious Searching for Sara. The show, broadcast in real time, became a phenomenon. It changed the lives of everyone involved: the family of a missing girl suddenly catapulted to a very strange kind of ‘fame’; the producer who built a career on the back of Searching for Sara’s notoriety; the residents of a small town suddenly overrun with media and conspiracy theorists. Kill Show purports to be an oral history of the show, documenting its effect alongside the fate of the girl at its heart, 16-year-old Sara Parcell.
Kill Show is compulsive reading – fast-paced, full of revelations, lots of characters, the plot rarely pausing for breath. This makes it a very compelling book, yet ultimately a little empty as a story, because we never learn who any of these people are beyond archetypes. The voices also don’t come across distinctly; these very different individuals all talk suspiciously similarly (this would probably be much less of a problem in audiobook format). Unlike recent novels in the same space – think True Crime Story, Six Stories, Penance – it doesn’t attempt any metatextual analysis beyond gesturing towards the idea that any engagement = consumption = perpetuation. Definitely worth a look if you enjoy stories of this type, but more of a beach read than a meaningful examination of true-crime-as-entertainment.
I received an advance review copy of Kill Show from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
Imagine Tana French writing a folklore-infused horror novel, and you have Knock Knock, Open Wide. This is a book that won’t be for everyone, simply beImagine Tana French writing a folklore-infused horror novel, and you have Knock Knock, Open Wide. This is a book that won’t be for everyone, simply because there is just a lot of stuff in it; it’s not one neat storyline, but a bunch that overlap and entwine, and there’s a lot of character work, details that could feel irrelevant if they weren’t so beautifully crafted. For me, it was one of those reading experiences where my delight increased as the story went along, where I thought more and more this was written for me! the more I read.
It’s about Etain, who is involved in a freak accident that leads her into a series of bizarre horrors, and how that night changes the rest of her life. It’s about Ashling, her daughter, and the woman Ashling falls in love with. It’s about a long-running TV series remembered differently by everyone who watched it (the kind of plot device I find irresistible even when done lazily – used unusually well here). It’s dark and sinister, but full of life and love, too.
I’d like more time to sit with Knock Knock, Open Wide but I am hopelessly behind on reviews with no prospect of catching up in the near future, so this will have to do for now. This is a book I absolutely adored, an instant favourite and a world I will return to.
I received an advance review copy of Knock Knock, Open Wide from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
This year has been packed with horror novels featuring premises that seem perfect for my tastes. Mister Magic is the latest: 30 years after productionThis year has been packed with horror novels featuring premises that seem perfect for my tastes. Mister Magic is the latest: 30 years after production ceased on a mysterious kids’ TV programme, its stars are brought back together for a reunion podcast (!), the recording of which takes place at a huge, creepy house just outside an eerily perfect desert town (!!), with things being complicated by the fact that no records of the show exist and everyone remembers it differently (!!!). Clearly inspired by the ‘Candle Cove’ creepypasta, Mister Magic builds a fantastic setup and explores it well – the inserts between chapters, where we get to see extracts from various online discussions about the show (and even its Wikipedia page), were my favourite parts. Ultimately, however, the plot goes in a different direction than anticipated, examining the psychological effects of a cult-like community. It’s pretty effective, it’s just that I would have personally preferred to read more about the mythos of the show. Plus the relationships between characters are sweet but a bit cheesy. I liked The Devil’s Playground, Experimental Film and Blue in Green better as stories about cursed media of various types.
I received an advance review copy of Mister Magic from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
Novels about lost or cursed films seem to be coming thick and fast lately, and here’s another: Burn the Negative follows journalist Laura, one-time chNovels about lost or cursed films seem to be coming thick and fast lately, and here’s another: Burn the Negative follows journalist Laura, one-time child star of legendary 90s horror flick The Guesthouse, as she’s sent to interview the cast of the inevitable reboot series. After a series of deaths linked to The Guesthouse, Laura has reinvented herself, but she’s dragged into a Hollywood nightmare when the ‘curse’ begins to affect the remake too. While I always enjoy a cursed-media story, pretty much everything about this one – plot twists, characters’ behaviour, pivotal scenes – takes suspension of disbelief to new heights. I can’t decide whether this is an appropriate critique or an ironic one, but much of the action would be better suited to the screen than the page. The fast-moving, drama-packed narrative leaves little time to explore what sometimes seem like baffling choices made by the characters. Overall, a bit sillier than I was hoping for, but if you enjoy horror in the Grady Hendrix/Clay McLeod Chapman mould, it’s worth a look.
I received an advance review copy of Burn the Negative from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
I haven’t picked up anything by Lisa Jewell since I read Ralph’s Party as a teenager, but of course my attention was snagged by the fact that her I haven’t picked up anything by Lisa Jewell since I read Ralph’s Party as a teenager, but of course my attention was snagged by the fact that her latest thriller involves a podcast. And I was delighted to find that the hook – the idea that this story, about two very different women who are ‘birthday twins’, ultimately became so wild and horrifying that it was made into a podcast, then a Netflix series – is used brilliantly. It’s impeccably described: I could see the documentary scenes playing out in my mind. Jewell has complete control over the propulsive force of the narrative, hinting just enough at what comes next. I was utterly gripped. But... ultimately, some things about the plot are ill-thought-out and left a really bad taste in my mouth. I can’t give it a higher rating because of that. I might try another of Jewell’s thrillers (in the hope that it isn’t resolved in quite such an offensive/borderline damaging way).
I received an advance review copy of None of This is True from the publisher through Edelweiss....more
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