Humans Are the Worst Monsters

Stephen Graham Jones, Mongrels: A Novel

Our nameless narrator has been raised by wolves. Literally so: the grandfather, aunt, and uncle who raised him are werewolves. And like American werewolves everywhere, they live rootless, impermanent, undocumented. Foreigners and fugitives in their native land. Our narrator’s aunt and uncle want our narrator to finish high school, live straight, and have opportunities they never had. He wants the savage, uninhibited life he thinks his family enjoys.

Veteran author Stephen Graham Jones makes different use of werewolves than I’ve seen recently. Where other authors’ werewolves apparently represent collapse into pure appetite, Jones offers more a sense here of wounded outsidership. These werewolves aren’t just outside, they’re driven out, even if it’s by their own fear. But saying that, I can’t attest if that’s entirely true. Jones goes further, pushes deeper, than his superficial horror narrative suggests.

This novel comprises nine linked novellas about our narrator’s life bouncing around the American Southeast. The episodic structure sees him confronting some aspect of his own or somebody else’s past intruding on the present. We could read different facets of coming-of-age into stories of these narratives. Or we can immerse ourselves into the experience, intense as windburn, of hitting young adulthood in an entirely present-tense world.

Dedicated literary types can read deeper levels into even the superficial level. (Jones teaches college writing, so that’s probably not incidental.) Aunt Libby is pure self-sacrifice, destroying herself slowly to provide better opportunities to the next generation. Uncle Darren only works to afford his junk food and women, living to indulge himself. Both, importantly, want our narrator to make different, better choices—choices he doesn’t want to make.

The end suggests werewolves’ outsidership is somewhat chosen, because they can’t get together, can’t organize. But can they really not? Perhaps they simply believe they can’t because they couldn’t in the past. They accept an ancestral sense of outsidership, because they’ve been pushed down so long, they can’t assert control anymore. So really they lack the learned skills of power, and thus cannot pass those skills onto their children.

Stephen Graham Jones

Our narrator’s orphan status is part of that. He cannot learn his family’s skills because he only has family one degree removed. The power flowing through them, through him, doesn’t merely come naturally. At the conlcusion we learn that some have learned to tame that power, but that’s learning. It isn’t natural. Even the skill of learning must be learned, which our narrator hasn’t had a chance to do.

Werewolves therefore aren’t just an expression of id, they convey widespread cultural elements we’ve striven to crush altogether. Though Jones is Blackfeet Indian himself, and incidental evidence suggests his characters are po’ white trash, we should resist the temptation to read in a color-coded system here. Rather, Jones makes us consider a system of opportunity, and how them that has, gets. Our narrator never had any chance to learn.

But our narrator also emphasizes his freedom: he reads, and in the final pages, he writes, so he has an opportunity, somewhat self-made, to learn, which his ancestors haven’t shared. He needn’t necessarily repeat yesterday’s patterns. Not everybody has his opportunity, and it seemingly isn’t  distributed evenly, so we can’t use the old canard that “anybody can work hard and get ahead.” Life is just unfair that way.

So this story expresses an element of fatalism. We’re all prisoners of our situation—in the final novella, Jones’ characters are literally prisoners of circumstances they cannot control, hostage to capitalism’s objectifying forces. But don’t mistake fatalism for defeatism: Jones also nurtures soft-spoken optimism, because while all humans remain part of where we came originated, we’re more than that. We’re also who we are.

Our author makes this clear very early, establishing storytelling as important to our experience. Grampa’s stories are, our narrator stresses, lies, but lies leading to deeper truths. Sometimes he successfully decodes those meanings, finding the human element beneath the subtext, and sometimes he doesn’t. But even when he can’t, he leaves us with his own story which itself can be unpacked. He’s lying about lying to get at deeper truths.

I fear this review has made this novel look pointy-headed and self-consciously literary. I’ve analyzed the subtext, without explaining the rush of pulse-pounding horror on the surface. It’s a monster story, folks. But for Jones, like Stephen King, the monster represents something far worse; families and secrets are the real source of horror. They’re also the only hope of redemption. That balance between monsters and angels makes us truly human.

Olson's Guided Tour of Haunted Hollywood Hotspots

Melissa F. Olson, Trail of Dead: Scarlett Bernard, Book 2

This review follows Olson's Practical Primer in Ordinary Human Magic

Why do soap opera characters talk about dead enemies? Surely they’d learn that talking about them conjures them back to life. Scarlett Bernard, whose mere presence negates all magic, spent so much time in the prior book invoking her dead mentor Olivia that she almost had no right to act surprised when Olivia showed up, transformed into a vampire. Now it seems Olivia has one more lesson to teach Scarlett.

Melissa Olson’s first novel broke new ground in the overworked urban fantasy genre by shifting focus off the wizardry, onto human relationships. Scarlett, who makes her living keeping Los Angeles’ volatile supernatural community off the living world’s radar, overturned expectations by relying on her ability to love and form bonds, which the undead around her don’t share. This book doesn’t break the same ground, coasting on momentum, while remaining enjoyable.

Olivia, like Scarlett, was a “null” when she was alive: magic failed in her proximity, witches couldn’t penetrate her sphere, werewolves and vampires turned human when she passed. So how could she now be a vampire? The Count should have been rendered powerless by her presence. Scarlett must figure how how Olivia accomplished the impossible, while Olivia’s body count moves ever nearer, threatening everything and everybody Scarlett holds dear.

Detective Jesse Cruz stumbled into Scarlett’s world in the last book; now he finds himself serving as the Old World’s reluctant LAPD liaison. Los Angeles has built a strange truce among witches, werewolves, and vampires, a peaceable kingdom virtually unique in a world noted for medieval blood feuds. When vampire Dashiell, LA’s Old World capo, dragoons Jesse to stop Olivia’s bloodbath, he already knows he’s out of his depth.

The Godfather-esque implications Olson packed into her first book become amplified here, as Scarlett pushes the ethical envelope, and Jesse recognizes himself for a made man. But they rationalize (barely) their compromises as necessary when confronted by superhumans who fear revivals of feudal inquisitions. Moral squishiness is necessary when the pretty bad have to stand guard against the truly awful.

In such a milieu, leadership takes on new implications. Vampire Dashiell doesn’t so much lead, as play the part of leader, while everyone else plays followers to stave off anarchy. Witch princess Kirsten, who doubles as a suburban soccer mom, governs her people through a mix of politics and being stronger than anyone else. Werewolf alpha Will is prepared to kill anyone who strays. Power is playacting; civilization is a role.

Olson, a film industry veteran, does a good job embodying what it means to keep secrets in a city built on illusion. Scarlett and Jesse, the youngest and least adept members of LA’s Old World, find themselves fumbling through a succession of snafus because they haven’t yet learned to play their roles. Every encounter becomes a balancing act between saying what needs said, and maintaining necessary public façades.

Behind the pomp, Olivia knows her lines better than anyone. Unlike her naïve former apprentice, Scarlett, Olivia is a master manipulator, keeping the diverse communities chasing each other when they should unite against her. Scarlett and Jesse, the only players free to speak the truth, stand uniquely positioned to stop her onslaught. But they only get one bite of the apple.

In her ruthlessness and delusion, Olivia invites obvious comparisons to Hannibal Lecter. Yet on second thought, perhaps her mix of charm and sociopathy more closely resembles Chelsea Cain’s villainess, Gretchen Lowell. Both Olivia and Lowell share the ability to convince rational people that their moral qualms don’t matter. They both exude a twisted perversion of love. And they both brook no impediment to reach the people they consider “theirs.”

This volume does feel somewhat more predictable, proceeding as it does from the story Olson initiated in her first novel. Whether this means Olson has a distinctive voice that we can follow, or that Olson doesn’t blaze new trails this time out, only individual readers can decide. There’s a fine line between “comfortable” and “formula.” While I liked this book, and look forward to the next one, not everyone will agree. Individual taste matters.

If this book isn’t as innovative as the prior, if it doesn’t subvert genre archetypes with the same graceful aplomb, that doesn’t make it any less fun. Olson maintains the rocketing pace that she set, pushing LA’s notorious “live fast, die young” ethos onto characters who have already died, though that hasn’t slowed them down. While first-timers may prefer to start with the prior volume, this is a more-than-adequate sequel.

Werewolves In the Mist

Benjamin Percy, Red Moon: A Novel

The Lycans live among us. They could be the pretty girl at school, the quiet guy at the factory, or the person in the next seat on the plane. They are ordinary people, but they could become cold-blooded killers. Every time some isolated Lycan lashes out at the humans around them, hateful political rhetoric notches up; and with every rhetorical increase, the chance of violence grows.

Benjamin Percy won’t let readers to dismiss his werewolf novel as mere fantasy. He works hard to spotlight the political ramifications, practically grabbing readers’ lapels to demonstrate how simplistic solutions—on either side—fail to remedy a painful situation. But by keeping the focus on his nuanced, melancholy characters, he prevents it spiraling into mere drum-beating propaganda.

When Lycans attack three transcontinental airplanes, leaving a trail of dead throughout America, young Patrick Gamble survives by sheer accident. It will be the first of several times he survives by refusing to fight. But politicians don’t learn from him, and every American Lycan gets treated like a criminal because so few acted violently. Not surprisingly, previously law-abiding Lycans feel oppressed, and rebel.

One such rebel is Claire Forrester. At an age when other girls pick colleges and boyfriends, she’s on the run from the FBI, paying for her parents’ sins which she never previously knew. Now she finds herself thrust into a world of radical politics, legalized oppression, and criminal shapeshifters. She never wanted this fight, but it chose her, and she has no choice but to see it through to the end.

Meanwhile, firebrand governor Chase Williams’ knee-jerk rhetoric draws Lycan attention. One bite, and he finds himself slowly turning into the enemy he has promised to bring down. While he keeps to the old rhetoric, riding anti-Lycan sentiment into the White House, he has to take increasingly extreme measures to conceal the fact that, on full moon nights, he feels less and less like himself.

Percy juggles these three convergent narratives, and enough subplots to fuel a cast of thousands, in a mostly satisfying manner. His savage, austere language, reminiscent of Mickey Spillane or Raymond Chandler, strips away all pretense and demonstrates characters at their most raw. He manages to keep characters engaged and stories moving forward without making them feel busy.

Throughout, Percy’s story mirrors the way America has treated subsets of its population in recent years. Readers who like their political symbolism oblique may not appreciate Percy’s straight-on approach. But by removing race and religion from the limelight, Percy is able to address common, widely held concerns without having to seem pedantic or preachy.

While America deals with restive Lycans at home, American troops struggle to keep the peace in the Lycan Republic. Or, let’s say, “keep the peace,” because commanders on the ground don’t even pretend they’re there for any reason than to keep the supply lines open and raw uranium flowing back to the States. Many soldiers enter the field thinking they’re doing right, and leave with more questions than answers.

A scientist with military connections stands at the verge of inventing a cure for Lycans, a mission that gains extra urgency when President Williams needs his help to conceal his growing illness. But his own ghosts won’t let him be. And Patrick finds himself needing the professor’s help when he discovers his soldier father’s strange connection to the growing research. All society may rest on an appallingly fragile foundation.

Percy’s storytelling chops resist easy designation. Though his language makes easy reading, his non-sequential structure takes some getting used to. He may jump forward several months without warning, leaving us hanging for pages before closing the gaps in flashback. His characters’ penchant for long bouts of introspection come across as either touching or tedious, depending on your taste.

And while Percy makes a good novelist, he’s less of a fantasist. His unnecessary attempt at a scientific justification for Lycans just thuds, leading to scattered moments of unintentional comedy. It feels as though, in moments of visceral terror, he forgets that horror is as horror does. He feels that he ought to explain, which isn’t his strong suit; he’s far, far better at creating characters and situations.

These problems notwithstanding, Percy creates a smart, engaging allegory that rewards attentive audiences. His structural complexity does not let us read this as a “mere” novel, demanding we read with our critical faculties engaged. Diligent readers will find plenty to like in this book that reads smoothly, but refuses to let readers down easy.

The Changing Face of Modern Werewolves

If we believe Susannah Clements’ claim that vampires provide a barometer of cultural morals, werewolves hold a different sort of mirror to our culture. Vampires and werewolves have been fellow travelers for generations, whether as allies, adversaries, or even the same beast. So how should we read the werewolf representations in Being Human, the third season of True Blood, and Catherine Hardwicke’s Red Riding Hood?

Being Human's George (Russell Tovey)
begins a painful transformation

Though wolfmen tales date back at least to Greco-Roman writers like Ovid and Hesiod, the distinct werewolf myth didn’t exist until the early 20th Century.  Dracula had the ability to turn into a wolf, as well as a bat and— everyone forgets this—a rabbit. But the special effects proved cumbersome in Hamilton Deane's play, and the wolf got separated. This relatively recent origin lets werewolves contrast with vampires in symbolic terms.

Being Human and True Blood pit supernaturals against one another. The two species, both series claim, have a longstanding rivalry, dominated by the more physically imposing vampires. This rivalry should surprise nobody: vampiric ardor and lupine rage both create a rush of blood to the abdomen, a spike in blood pressure and adrenaline, and a need for immediate, visceral satisfaction.

If, as I’ve suggested, Being Human is an essentially religious narrative, then vampire Mitchell embodies lust (the the first episode features him losing control and consuming a woman in bed), while werewolf George represents wrath, making ghost Annie acedia. George’s werewolf identity epitomizes uncontrolled rage, little more than an angry stomach, lashing out. And George lives in fear of what he has done.

This conventional depiction turns contrary when George tries to manipulate the wolf. In season one, caught in his girlfriend Nina’s office prio to changing, demure George turns aggressively sexual, a theme which recurs in season three. More importantly, in season two, George uses pharmaceutical sedatives to silence the wolf. On awakening, he suffers violent outbursts and lashes out at inopportune moments, finally admitting he needs to free the wolf from time to time.

Interestingly, True Blood werewolves are played
by actual wolves, not CGI models

Essentially, in Being Human, the wolf represents shame, which characters express by fleeing themselves in different ways.  True Blood wolves are appetite unadulterated: the show depicts them eager addicted to vampire blood, which has both narcotic and medicinal properties. Werewolves under a vampire’s influence show remarkable strength and determination in pursuit of assigned goals. But they behave like DARE brochure models: strung out, asleep in their clothes, mindless of little but the next fix.

More important, unlike George, these wolves retain conscious control during the rampage. They take pleasure in destruction. According to Alcide Herveaux, a putatively civilized werewolf, werewolves lapse into unthinking violence if not strictly controlled. One wolf pounces on a female character, shifts into human form, and arches his back to howl, in a posture that looks unmistakably like anal penetration.

Both of these creatures essentially exist to eat. The Red Riding Hood wolf seems more interested in power. The villagers in the unnamed forest hamlet believe they’ve been under siege from the same wolf for generations, attributing to it remarkable skills of strategy and survival. Every full moon, the wolf enforces a sort of sabbath, when all trade and activity cease, and people huddle in their homes with their families.

Valerie (Amanda Seyfried) and Peter (Shiloh Fernandez)
tempt the wolf into yet another attack.

The wolf picks significant moments to strike. Whenever Valerie, the title Red Riding Hood, feels amorous toward her woodcutter sweetheart, or dances in the village square, or shows the least willfulness or ambition, someone dies under the wolf’s paws. Inevitably, villagers suspect Valerie of being the wolf, and pillory her in public like a fresh spring lamb— not a casual metaphor.

THIS PARAGRAPH CONTAINS SPOILERS. After much guessing, the wolf is unmasked as Valerie’s father. After several point-of-view shots in which the wolf watched Valerie having sex, and after propositioning her with power in a low, sensuous baritone, her father’s offer to make her a werewolf and share in glory with her seems distinctly incestuous. This is only amplified when Valerie’s lover is bitten and becomes a werewolf, but Valerie still sleeps with him.

As pop culture has fundamentally domesticated vampires, their psychological significance lingers. We can’t stop mythically representing our dark impulses just because we’ve lost an external source for public morality. Thus the werewolf, previously only a vestigial myth, has assumed the task of bearing our moral guilt. Like Jekyll and Hyde, we’ve accepted our dark sides by splitting ourselves in two.

I wonder: since Stephanie Meyer has already begun the process, what happens when we also domesticate the werewolf?