"The Haunted" Should Be Hunted Down...And Shot!

As Insane Clown Posse once said, "I'm back like scoliosis."

Did you miss me? Quit lying. You don't even know I'm here. If anyone does read this, please let me know. I'm starting to feel like I'm wasting my time. Oh, that's right, that's what I'm doing by reading these books.

Speaking of books, we have a real winner for today's posting. And, sorry, but I'm only scanning the front of the books from now on. Really, I mean, if you're interested in reading any of these (God help your poor soul!), the cover should sell you on them. What's behind the cool covers is gravy.

Today's gem is called The Haunted. Hmmm. There's puns to be had there, but this thing sucked most of the life right out of me. Not that it's bad. Well, it is. It sucks. But in a good way, kinda like that nerd who couldn't figure out what to do with his wang, but had overdeveloped lips from sucking on Mountain Dew bottles during those marathon role-playing fests. Ooh, too much information? Like there's anyone reading this. And, yes, I've slept with a couple of true nerds.

Forest (Run, Forest, run!) is Vietnam, fighting the VC, and he hasn't heard from his near-child bride Marcy (If you think that's best, Sir.) in nearly six months. So he asks his recluse sister, Jennifer, to check up on the wayward bride. She arrives at the house of Marcy's aunt and uncle, where she finds a bloated, catatonic Marcy and an evil uncle Horace.

Keeping up? Good. Doing better than I did. It seems Marcy has gone bonkers and her high-strung relatives are loading her down with sedatives to keep her under control until she can tell them what happened to drop kick her off the deep end. There are veiled threats and a creepy, stone-faced neighbor sneaking about. There are undertones of rape and various other types of abuse. There are boneheaded choices made. Oh, and it wouldn't be a gothic romance without the romance, right? It makes a shockingly out-of-place appearance in the last three pages. I kid you not.

The whole thing has the air of sleazy movie shot on a lunch-money budget, but, for some reason, I kept envisioning Bruce Willis as the menacing Uncle Horace. Get Tarantino to direct, and Bruce would be onboard for this cheese fest. But is it worth reading? Yeah. Definitely. It wasn't cluttered with romance. Tons of vague evil. And the whacked out Aunt Elna, well, you just have to read this thing to believe what she is like.

So, here's hoping that my next posting isn't as far inbetween. But you have to cut me some slack. I can't read this drivel ALL the time, even if I do love it. I had to recenter my literary tastes. But I'm back in the groove for trash once again.

I AM BACK!!

Why Don't They Just Shut Up?

It's been a little while. Not that anyone's been missing me. But I find strange comfort in my ramblings here. Some day, when there are Net archeologists, my scribblings will be found and perhaps I'll be written about. Until then, it's just you and me, folks.

Up on the chopping block this time is a little novel called The Silence Of Herondale. Young woman failing at being much of anything (a role model!!) seeks employment as the nanny to a brilliant child author. Before we can even get past the introductions, someone is playing games with dear sweet Deborah as it would seem she is accused of stealing jewelry that she knows she did not steal.

Well, early intrigue and mystery gives way to alternating between the young charge, by the likely name of Careen, being vaguely ill and witty, literate chats amongst the characters. A car is tampered with and things that wouldn't frighten Nancy Drew abound. Apparently, the author felt the heroine should be a bit of a lame git.

Should you read this? Nah, this one is a skip unless you dig pointless plots. I mean, I pushed through it quickly enough, so if you find it and have nothing better to do, help yourself. But, unless you have become obsessed with landing gothics for the sake of owning them, go read some David Sedaris, or his sister Amy's new book on entertaining.

Sea Foam And B.S.

One of the things that attract me to the gothic romances is the fact a number of them read like loony movies. Villians, heroes, damsels, all sorts of crap being thrown at you. Fun stuff.

Today's choice is like a cheese-ball flick straight out of the Fifties, when they could still churn out movies on a nickel budget and expect a reasonable return on the investment. The Hungry Sea is not only structured like a Grade-Z flick, but it is written like one as well. I mean, the copyright is for Arcadia House, which was publishing firm, so in spite of the fact Leslie Ames has her name on the cover, it is a good bet that this was a piece of fluff ground out by an in-house writer to fill the backstock for that month. (Holy crap, what the hell did I just write? Don't trust my opinions; I'm just pulling this stuff out of my butt.)

The story, well, it's a mess. Ann runs away from a bad situation to start fresh by working with a doctor to compile his notes into a book. Before she can even get to the doctor's house, she ends up in a bar where she is warned by a handsome stranger (God, where are these guys when I go into a bar?) that working with the doctor is sure to cause problems. Well, of course the doctor is creepy, like one of the freaky scientists from Jonny Quest. And then there is the weird female assistant and the pale young girl who clings to the new helper.

The doctor's wife died under unusual circumstances. The handsome stranger turns out to be related to the doctor. Boats crash, the ocean surges, and breasts heave. And let's not forget the weird experiments in the lab. Could our plucky heroine become one of them?

Dig this little paragraph:

"Adele is dead," I interrupted. I explained how she had been gulped by the sea.

Okay. "Gulped"? I'm at a loss for words here, but you can see what I meant about this things is written as cheesy as the the story itself is.

And it just ends. I won't tell you how, in case you find yourself trapped in some Outback shack waiting to be butchered and have only this book to read. But the characters talk you to death to vaguely wrap up the loose ends, and then it stops. Like the writer just decided they had hit the required word count and didn't want to put in that extra effort to actually END the stupid thing.

Needless to say, I loved it. It made me smile for a week, and EVERYBODY got to hear about this during that week. Lost a lot of street cred. Well, I never had any to begin with, but....

Ah, Sweet Devil

Now that I've taken great pains to explain the reason for liking gothics, it is time to start introducing you to them, one book at a time.

We start with one of the more outlandish titles I've read. Lord Satan by Janet Louise Roberts (but whose copyright lists a name of "Louisa Bronte," which makes you wonder if she truly is related to those wacky sisters of old).

Most gothics deal with supernatural material, but like most episodes of "Scooby Doo," the truth is that people are either under the influence of something (drugs, poison, paint chips or massive guilt combined with a touch of crazy) or they are just plain up to no good. This novel, barely larger than a novella, actually offers up not just one devil but two. Well, technically, three, but that would be spoiling things if I explained.

You have your basic set up here. Beautiful, young, innocent girl, suddenly alone in the world, discovers she has a distant relative, in this case a cousin. She travels to his castle. He is handsome and brutal, and our chaste heroine doesn't understand why her underthings get damp when cousin Vincent whips and curses some poor servant. Before you can ignore the vague incest element (Oh, come on! We ARE talking about Victorian Europe here, for the love of God!!), our perky, sickeningly sweet character stumbles upon a Satanic mass with nude women and bloodletting. What has she gotten herself into?!? But she seems to forget the next day when her rugged cousin talks to her and wiggles his eyebrows at her.

Soon she is falling for this lout and trying to change his ways. Still fairly typical of this sort of thing. Oh, I forgot to mention Vincent's dearly departed mommy keeps popping up to chat with our heroine about how to run the house and how to remove ring around the collar. Toss in slaughtered girls on the moors, rumors about Vincent's status amongst the townspeople, Vincent's growing love for his dear cousin and the admission he is half-devil.

Hang on. Did you just say, Vincent is a half-devil? Yup. A real cinder of the old block because Daddy was a full-blooded devil. No, really, you aren't misreading this. Devils. Magic powers. Chats with Satan. Cavorting with denizens of the Underworld. Yes, a devil.

And now this dirty devil wants to marry our poor sweet God-fearing girl.

This could be a sitcom. The scenes in which the Devil Daddy comes to have dinner with his half-breed son and his blonde squeeze are loopy and funnier than they were meant to be. The catch phrase could be "Vincent! You got some damning to explain."

Okay, I'll let up. Is this any good? Well, at 159 pages, there isn't enough time to find a lot to bitch about. It moves fast enough. And it almost seems like the story is nearly beside the point because the author obviously liked the characters, and she almost lets them overpower the story. Our plucky heroine maintains her sense of purpose and shows her loyalty and devotion by the time you reach the end, so she doesn't leave a completely bad taste in your mouth.

Verdict: Not as fun as a TMX ELmo, but good for a quick read.

The End Of Definition

When I refer to "classic" gothics, I do not mean the seminal works by Walpole or Radcliffe. (Ah-HA! You thought I was an airhead who knows nothing about literature, didn't you?) And the volumes I intend to extoll the virtues of are not the near-literary cousins written by Wilkie Collins and the like. No, no, I mean to wallow happily in the formulaic deluge of titles that were so popular from the 50's through the mid-70's. They were pumped out with the intention of hitting the pressure points with equal parts of scares, hinted-at sex and good-natured violence.

Are the heroines smart? Not terribly. In fact, even when faced with clearly presented evidence, they often ignore warning signs and stumble directly into more trouble.

Are the stories and situations realistic? Well, in a general way, yes, but, mostly, no. I can't vouch for how women acted or felt they HAD to act in the early days before liberation began, so a woman cleaving to the firm chest of a man ruling her life sounds like so much bullshit to me. However, I have to benefit of being alive today and not back in 1837 or whenever.

Do they even attempt to present women in a positive light at all? Yes, definitely. Sure the heroine is occasionally saved by the big strong man, but she is usually the one who roots out the trouble and imperils herself to discover the mystery. Most, but not all, heroines in gothics tend to exhibit the finer qualities of virtue, honor, loyalty and persistance in the face of adversity. That's more empowering than reading about stupid chickie-chicks sleeping with their bosses, co-workers, emotionally-bankrupt guys while wondering why their lives are such utter shit. (Hello, Bridget Jones!! Braindead damn book that I, with total disgust, launched across the room while feeling insulted by it.)

I love gothics because I completely accept the level of silliness in which I am about to immerse myself. I don't read them to exorcise some inner demon. I don't look to them to answer any of life's questions. I don't expect to see myself or my peers reflected in the characters. Basically, its like watching an Adam Sandler movie, but without having to see him do his typical schtick that makes me want to throw up a little in my mouth.