Dead on the Dolmen by Cameron Trost

 

There is something naturally comforting about mysteries that know exactly where they live. Dead on the Dolmen: An Oscar Tremont Mystery is rooted in a way that feels increasingly rare, and the soil it draws from is ancient, stony, and steeped in story. Brittany is not used as postcard scenery, but as lived-in geography. You can feel the damp in the air, the weight of centuries pressing beneath the grass; a sense that folklore hasn’t vanished so much as learned to wait.

At the heart of the novel is the Ankou, that skeletal ferryman of Breton legend, rattling through the night on horse and cart, his scythe in hand. Cameron is careful with this figure. He does not overexplain or modernize the myth into something slick. Instead, he allows it to retain its strangeness, its rural terror, and its ambiguity. The Dolmen itself becomes a locus of unease: a place where history, superstition, and violence overlap. Stones remember. This book understands that.

The narrative pairing of father and son, David and Rowan, serves as an emotional crux. Their relationship feels unforced, lived-in, and quietly affectionate. This is not a story that relies on melodrama to manufacture stakes. The fear grows organically, seeded in concern, curiosity, and the realization that something old may not be content to remain symbolic. When Oscar Tremont enters, he does so not as a disruptive force but as an extension of the novel’s temperament. An investigator of the strange and inexplicable, yes, but one who listens as much interrogates.

This was my first encounter with Oscar Tremont, and what struck me most was his restraint. In a genre sometimes populated by outsized personalities, Tremont feels refreshingly human. Competent without arrogance, curious without condescension. Trost resists any urge to turn him into a gimmick. Instead, our Investigator becomes a lens, someone through whom the uncanny can be examined without being diminished.

Stylistically, the prose is clean and unadorned. Sentences move easily, inviting immersion rather than demanding attention. There is a British coziness to the structure, recalling Midsomer Murders or Father Brown, yet filtered through a continental sensibility that gives the book its European verisimilitude. Dialogue is natural and unshowy … and the supporting cast of village characters feel lightly sketched but authentic.

Perhaps most telling is the sense that the author cares. Trost writes like someone invested not only in story, but in reader experience. There is an openness, a conversational quality that extends beyond the text itself. This is the kind of novel that encourages curiosity, not only about its mystery, but about the folklore it draws from. You may find yourself pausing to look things up, to wander down adjacent paths.

Dead on the Dolmen is not interested in reinventing the mystery genre. As an alternative, it polishes well-worn stone until it shimmers. Atmospheric, the novel reminds us that the most persistent horrors are rarely the ones that announce themselves … but those that have been quietly occupying the landscape all along.

Different Masks: A Decade in the Dark

And so, after ten long years in the reviewing business, I’ve decided to hang up my quill pen. I hope - by way of this Blog – that you have managed to find something you like ... enough so that it prompted you to seek out the author/creator responsible and purchase a copy of their novel or film.

Next year, HodgePodge Press has agreed to publish a polished and updated version of this Blog in its entirety. Entitled Different Masks: A Decade In the Dark, the book aims to be a legacy of support, shining a spotlight on works that continue to inspire all of us working in the horror genre today. With this chapter closed, it will give me ample time to finish all that I have within me personally ... those mythologies that have always been there, just waiting to be unearthed.

Matthew Tait, July 2014.

 

Crimson Peak by Nancy Holder

A confession: during my first viewing of Crimson Peak in a theater I was, at the time, subtly deflated. Guillermo del Toro, such a creative artistic behemoth, had co-written and directed a Gothic romance with shades of unmistakable horror. And yet the experience for me (and for others) felt somewhat tepid.

I stress this was only my first viewing, riding coattails with weighted expectations.

In the time elapsed since then, my appreciation of Crimson Peak didn’t just grow, but began to haunt me in the same way our protagonist is haunted: the color, tone, and imagery all conspiring to make the journey a thing for the ages. Not intended to terrify, Crimson Peak instead invokes both an aching nostalgia and emotional frisson … responses seldom generated in the modern film-making epoch.

Nancy Holder’s adaptation in novel form encapsulates the film flawlessly. There’s a graceful sweep of syntax, a haunting melancholy to proceedings that arouses Fernando Velazquez’s poignant score. Here, the author manages to nail each scene with enough restrained nuance it’s like experiencing the tale in a more intimate (and blackly adorned) Gothic setting. A perfect parenthesis to the source material from which it sprung.

 

Hollow House by Greg Chapman.

The author under the spotlight here needs no introduction. Greg Chapman has worked for years now to shed light on the many mediums of horror, both through his own work (novellas, illustrations, and design work), and the work of others; being a vocal mouthpiece for the literary achievements of friends and colleagues and helping to establish horror as a serious genre both in his native Australia and abroad. Earlier this year, Omnium Gatherum saw fit to publish Greg’s first stab at novel length fiction. Already, Hollow House has picked up some favorable reviews. 

Without delving too deeply into plot territory (the bare bones of this can found both in the novel’s description and the many assessments floating around), let’s examine instead both the positives and pitfalls. In Hollow House, the scene is set with an archetypal haunted house at the center of the maelstrom: Kemper House on Willow Street. Surrounding the house, numerous players (the immediate neighbors) are drawn into a spiraling web of death, possession, and desires made manifest. In effect, Greg is taking the inhuman aspect (the house), and using it as a springboard to see how his character's behave and interact. If I could compare this formula to other works, we can see a similar method explored in novels such as Richard Bachman’s The Regulators, and the darker fantasy of both Bloch and Bradbury.

The positive aspects of this novel derive from the human element; Greg has sketched out numerous damaged characters that are a real-life echo one would find on any suburban street: angst ridden teenagers, a retired Army Vet, and the conventional large family. Witnessing how they cope with a house of horrors is an entertaining testament to Greg’s burgeoning storytelling prowess. However, there are pitfalls, and this is often the generic make-up of certain gambits. For instance, opening up proceedings with something as arbitrary as a dead body. In addition to this, having a reporter on the prowl to uncoil layers of information has its DNA firmly entrenched in dozens of horror films.

Small drawbacks aside, this is a novel showcasing genuine heart with some adequate turns of phrase. Above all, it’s a competent signpost of what to expect. With Hollow House, Greg Chapman is merely laying down the load-bearing foundations of a universe of horror to come.  

      

Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon

A small declaration: the film adaptation of Wonder Boys is one of my all-time cherished film experiences. And I suspect you will probably hear the same thing from many writers, both of the prolific and broad ilk, in addition to the hermetic and oblique. Belonging to a sub-tribe of people who spend a lot of time in the shadows can promote a feeling of loneliness or longing. Fortuitously, along comes a major motion picture with major star power where that sub-tribe is put on show for all the world to see: their intellects and foibles; their addictions and over-abundant capacity to love. Although I don’t know for sure, I'll wager there were wordsmiths all over the world celebrating Wonder Boys. A writers time in the spotlight is brief, and any air-time at all, no matter how momentary, is a brief salve to that ever-present loneliness.

So why did it take such a long time to come around to Michael Chabon’s original novel? Primarily, the man dabbles in genres I seldom haunt. Which is a pithy excuse. Though I think it bears mentioning the author seldom writes about subjects that interest me: (topics such as Judaism, spiritual heritage, among other things). However, something I do know as a certain truth: one's storytelling aptitude can eclipse any theme on show. Or, put more bluntly: an elegant turn of insightful phrase can be the sole reason I plow through a novel, plot be damned. In any case, I am an undergraduate of Michael Chabon’s prose, but foresee steaming ahead with his entire resume.

For those yet to read the novelization, Wonder Boys (for the most part) adheres to all the clever comedy and drama up there in Curtis Hanson’s interpretation. Writer and teacher Grady Tripp is a likable protagonist because he’s all too human. Whether we as a species like to admit it or not, a huge number of us are entirely prone to making mistakes and dabbling in narcissism. And Grady Tripp, over the course of a weekend, frequently does both. But he does so in way that is endearing because we, the observers of his headspace, are given an intimate glimpse into private thought processes; the entire lynchpin of the novel medium itself. (And the reason many books feel like marriages, whereas movies can feel like one-night-stands; but that’s a whole different editorial). Complimenting Grady Tripp in his downfall from literary lion to underdog are characters every bit as flawed: James Leer, Hannah Green, and Terry Crabtree. Except for minor deviations in hair color and attire, what you experience on the page is every bit as nuanced as the laid back performances given by Michael Douglas, Katie Holmes, and Robert Downey Jr, respectively. Filtered through the ringer of Chabon’s quirky prose, I would go so far as to say these individuals are even more entertaining. I’ve known creatives like these; I’ve broken bread with them and gotten blind drunk. (Although I’ve never shot a dog or carried a tuba).

One thing needs to be said: halfway through this novel is an extended dinner scene, and it was during this interlude where I almost abandoned the novel altogether. Let it be known I loathe dinner scenes in any book. And this one, featuring an immersion into Jewish ritual, is the granddaddy of them all. If you can overcome such hurdles (and I have no doubt some out there will actually find the scene hilarious), then keep on trucking. Regarding the novels third act and climax - Grady Tripp’s epiphany and subsequent redemption - some of the film scenes were altered dramatically … although this is the nature of any adaptation. Cinema is a different language, and translations need to take place.

Wonder Boys as a novel is witty, and it’s absorbent. Sure, the grand appeal here might be a writer writing about writers. But as the old saying goes, somebody has to do it.

Where The Dead Go To Die by Aaron Dries and Mark Allan Gunnels.

After being involved in a community of horror aficionado’s for over a decade, it’s always a treat to come across new voices in the genre – those you can ascertain (without any great prodding) have an instinctual and genuine love for the medium. As all of us working in the field know intimately, purveying the landscape of horror in its written form is a lifelong pursuit, one that begins prematurely and is never entirely abandoned. Although Where The Dead Go To Die is my first introduction to both authors on show, I foresee a permanent relationship forming.

As hinted by the title, this is a novel that tackles a zombie apocalypse – but of type seldom encountered. Here, the carnage is like background music to a greater whole: a whole that sheds a spotlight on the domestic aspect of relationships. Primarily, the novel is a dissection and foreshadowing of how these units respond to an enigmatic infection … and how bonds are forged and weakened by a threat that (although for the most part contained), still looms visceral and menacing in everyday life.

Emily Samuels is a single mother working as a nurse in a hospice interred with the infected. A latent disease, almost a year can transpire before the septic succumb to the labels of Smiler or Bone Eater. During this incubation period, it falls to staff like Emily to ensure this slow transition is tempered with just enough humanity to keep relatives and the populace happy. For in this realm, even the word zombie has been regulated to the shadows; books and movies dealing with the theme subjected to censorship. Of course, there are those who oppose such flagrant liberalism – who frequently picket the hospice and demand the soon-to be-dead have no right to existence. It’s a heady concoction; a deft social commentary echoing Romero’s penchant for the same formula.

Within, the authors have painted a strong protagonist. But overall it’s the supporting characters who steal the more memorable scenes. There’s Emily’s daughter Lucette, a young girl forced to bear intimate witness to her own father’s sluggish demise. There’s Mama Metcalf, a durable member of the staff who briefly takes on the mantle of surrogate mother and grandmother. Inside the hospice, new arrivals are a constant … including young Robbie, a boy whose baptism into the undead is as taboo as it is heartbreaking. Against the backdrop of a snow-laden Chicago Christmas, all the players converge in a showdown of wiles, death, and prejudices.

To give more away here would be an injustice to what lies in store. Though rest assured this is also a novel containing enough graceful and (at times) poetic prose that it reads much like the origami motif the authors have chosen interweave. In essence, a flat piece of paper has been sculpted into a beautiful yet horrific work of art.

Where The Dead Go To Die also contains many lush illustrations by the author.            

Unveiling a cover ...