This is the final
installment of The Horror Vs. Europe smackdown in which I pit stories from the
scareiffic horror anthologies Dark Forces (Edited by Kirby
McCauley) and Best of Shadows (Ed. Charles L. Grant) against
stories from Best European Fiction 2010 (Ed. Aleksandar
Hemon).
The Silent Cradle by Leigh Kennedy Vs. Swimming Home by Deborah
Levy
The Silent Cradle by Leigh Kennedy: It’s to Charles L. Grant’s credit that he ran so
many feminist stories in his anthology. This one’s about a two-parent,
two-child family that realizes it has a third, unseen child, somehow. All the
manifestations of a child are there except for the physical presence of a
child. The story proceeds to game out the logic of that premise, which is
similar to the big secret at the heart of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,
to a paradoxically sad conclusion. It does this well, but is a bit like a
wind-up toy; once you see how it goes, there’s not much to do but watch it run
its course. That sting in the tail resonates, though, even if one sees it
coming. I’ve complained previously about genre fiction’s weakness for pointless
gimcrack twist endings, but this one works because it’s more interesting as an
endpoint than as a jumping-off point; added to which, it’s a strong thematic
resolution.
Swimming Home by
Deborah Levy: This is an extremely tantalizing excerpt from a novel that was
shortlisted for the Booker prize. A woman who seems to be improvising her life,
love- and otherwise, turns up at a vacation home, only there’s confusion about
reservations and 2 families are already there. Things almost stay polite.
Tensions and hostilities are just barely restrained. Someone’s going to have to
leave.
Compare/contrast:
Both stories involve an unexpected arrival who throws a family or two into
confusion. The former plays out its odd logic in linear fashion, while the
latter twists about and lets us feel the jerk of every curve.
Verdict: Kennedy’s
story might have hit me more viscerally if its structuring near-absence was a
cat instead of a child. I’ve checked Swimming Home out from
the library.
Additional proof
of Swimming Home’s worth: negative reviews from obvious dullards on
Amazon. Yeah, yeah, smug elitism, boo hoo blubber sob, I’M A MONSTER.
Wish by Al Sarrantonio Vs. Ballad of Ann Bonny by
Alasdair Gray
Wish by Al Sarrantonio: A child got a wish, so now it’s Christmas every
day. Imagine every kitschy representation of secular Christmas reworked as a
dystopian anime and you’re in the ballpark. Sarrantonio has written my favorite
Ray Bradbury story of this whole review project, and that includes the one that
was actually by Ray Bradbury.
Ballad of Ann Bonny by Alasdair Gray: This story is a nautical murder ballad in
eccentric but highly readable verse. All the rhymes are interior, which,
combined with differing line lengths, yields a drunken wave-tossed verse that
suits this drunkard’s confession of nautical loves and hatreds. The material
seems grounded in authentic folk sources, while the style is enlivened by
modernist stylings.
Compare/contrast:
Both stories draw on pre-20th century folk materials (Christmas kitsch,
nautical ballads) for source material, and both involve terrible problems at
high elevations (to say more would be spoilery for both). Wish is
overtly fantastical, and delighted with its own cartoonish audacity (as was I);
the latter is more subtly outlandish, and more genuinely sorrowful. It is about
murder, after all.
Verdict: I endorse
both. I wanna see the animated version of Wish, and hear the song
setting of Ann Bonny.
The Spider Glass by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Vs. Indigo's Mermaid by
Penny Simpson
The Spider Glass by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro: Another retro club tale. This is my
favorite of the batch. A desperate woman tries to rob, but is subsequently
employed by, a mysterious lordly man who may, or may not, be a worthy
employer/lover. But this gothic tale is mediated by the frame story, which
plays smart games with the cozily chauvinistic norms of club tales; the usual
tipsy, garrulous men become drunken, bitchy, sexist creeps. Yarbro seems
half-fond of them, as one might be fond of naughty children or destructive
pets, but her feminist critique of the genre’s assumptions makes this a lively
text, even though it’s rather long and has made most of its points well before
the end. (Yarbro has perhaps heard such complaints before; much of the story
involves men complaining that the story is too long, and the storyteller
struggling to keep control of his audience.)
Indigo's Mermaid by Penny Simpson. Here’s a suggestion for any film producers who
wish they could do a Nicholas Sparks, but lack the money and connections to
snag the option rights; give Penny Simpson a look. In this tale a bereaved
artist father (his son was murdered in lurid fashion) confronts his own
jealousy of his son’s accomplishments, and makes tearful peace with the late
son’s bohemian girlfriend. If you can’t make a hit movie out of that, you best
find a different career.
Compare/contrast:
both stories proceed from men who are jerks, to men who aren’t. In Yarbro’s
case she accomplishes this transition by introducing a guy who’s better than
normal men (despite, or because, he is A VAMPIRE); Simpson follows one man
who starts out bitter and cruel, but learns to Let Go and be nice to pretty
girls. HOP ON IT, MOVIE PRODUCERS. Also, both stories are concerned with
artistic work as a subject. Yarbro’s narrator luxuriates in the details of his
story while struggling to pacify his quarrelsome audience. Simpson’s sculptor
protagonist is constantly challenged by the crafted representations of both his
son (whose sculptures pop up all over the place) and the young woman (who plays
a mermaid in a shop window, and makes various attempts to explain her side of
the story).
Verdict: I enjoyed spending time with Yarbro as she lobbed
spitballs at Victorian Red Pill MRAs. Simpson’s story has serious commercial
potential unlike this blog thank you and goodnight.
