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Are serial killers sexy?
Why do novelists romanticize characters that torture, dismember and repeatedly murder men, women and children?
Why are fictional serial killers always smarter, sexier, wittier and pretty much better at everything they do (in addition to killing) than the characters in their fictional world, and their readers?
And why do readers hungrily gobble books about psychopathic repeat murderers?
Here’s my hypothesis: We read (and write) novels about the very worst parts of the human psyche as part of our collective attempt to understand and control the mad randomness of life and death itself. If we can understand the twisted workings of their minds and eventually imprison these ruthless killers, superior in every way to us, then perhaps we can quiet down the incessant internal whisperings about our own inevitable death.
For me, reading about fake killers offers no revelations in this regard. As I see it, the painful paradox of human life is that we will only understand its mystery fully at the same instant when our unique consciousness is poised to become neurological dust. In other words, just before we die, we’ll get it.
Gifted fiction writers use their murderous characters (Raskolnikov and Smiley come quick to mind) in ways that help us navigate the absurdity of this human terrain, and perhaps move toward an uneasy peace with it. These writers are rare, and important. I’ve made it my rule to stick to them when reading about grisly human undertakings. Otherwise, I feel complicit in glorifying murder.
So given this predilection, why was I reading Let Me Go on a windy Oregon beach recently? Three reasons: I agreed to review it. The writer is from my beloved Oregon (and so are the characters and setting). And after five highly successful books, it seemed like this was a reasonable series upon which I could test (and reverse?) my possibly naïve objection to serial killer romance soft core snuff porn writing.
It’s good form to hold one’s prejudices up to the light from time to time.
Chelsea Cain is a fine writer and Let Me Go is a well-crafted book falling solidly within the expectations of a thriller framework. The descriptions occasionally crackle, the pacing is terrific and the dialogue rings true. The plot is oft-summarized elsewhere and I won’t repeat it here.
This was my first book in the Sheridan-Lowell series, and it comfortably stood alone. Cain sprinkled enough information from events in prior books to fully engage me in the larger narrative thread but still, I believe, will have managed to keep this newest book fresh for readers of the full series. That’s no small literary feat in a series with so many highly-read books.
The characters are drawn just deep enough for this genre, like an exactly sharpened scalpel. Detective Archie Sheridan is believable and likable, even as he sexually obsesses over a serial killing psychopath. I felt sorry for his kids. They have a messed up life ahead of them. Killer Gretchen Lowell is a sexy smart caricature – as required by the genre – but from time to time, throughout the book, Cain does a decent job of genuinely rendering Gretchen insane. Susan, Rachel, Henry and the cast of supporting characters work well, and there’s just enough of them to add interest and complexity without dragging down the pace. The plot chugs along, offering a few unexpected twists.
Cain’s depiction of the Portland scene is largely accurate from my standpoint, although a bit cynical, but I quite enjoyed learning more about Lake Oswego.
Did the book change my mind? No. Making money by romanticizing people who kill for the sake of killing is a messed up way to make a living. And the continuing appetite from readers for this genre is a bloody statement on the stalled evolutionary status of humanity.
Nevertheless, as an objective reviewer, I “recommend” Let Me Go to readers who respond to this genre and I have rated it highly within the context of its grisly peers (it’s only fair). But I respectfully suggest a parallel reading of Crime and Punishment or even No Country for Old Men for a deeper and more nuanced rendering of your nagging questions associated with human existence.
A related question I’m interested in is this: Is there a moral distinction between novels that glorify violence in the “real” world and those that glorify it metaphorically through fantasy fiction (vampires, zombies, wizards and so on)? The answer determines if this review is hypocritical, given my own authorial subject matter. Your views on this question are welcome here, as I formulate my own response to this for a subsequent post. – KM
Are serial killers sexy? From a writer’s standpoint, they need to be depicted as sexy or ingenious or otherwise superior for a number of reasons. A protagonist needs a certain level of likeability – hence attractive features or mental prowess. Even as an antagonist, the killer needs to be deemed worth chasing and eliminating. On a more human level though, depicted serial killers represent a part of us that we wish we had: the ability to outsmart anyone, charm and charisma, the ability to make a game of what would be a stressful situation, the seeming lack of stress response to stressful situations. Simply, the air of control over one’s environment.
I recently read an article about the “Uncanny Valley”, that part of the spectrum between unrealistic human depiction, such as cartoons and Claymation, and lifelike – human. There is a valley in the graph which shows that just before a human depiction becomes the most lifelike, it becomes creepy. The depiction that is almost human is frightening to people, much more-so than the inhuman monsters in even the best horror fiction. The concept of a serial killer that is attractive (and creepy) is that by the time the uncanny valley is revealed, it’s too late. What a helpful man, helping me with my flat tire. And he’s good-looking, too. What did he just say? What size clothing do I wear? Oops! I’m done for.
Does the attraction translate to real killers? Only to the extent that people take enjoyment in figuring out the puzzle. We need to profile this person, put them in a neat package, so that they don’t outsmart US. That’s the play-at-home game. To most people, there is nothing sexy about actual serial murder, but the safety of fiction allows us to peek inside and safely play with the parts of it that are super-, sub-, exra-human.
Lisa, thanks for the comment. Really interesting points! I agree with all of them, and your perspective alludes to the other question I called out. Can we meet the same literary/story-telling goals and accompanying psychic exploration without “real” people? For example, the vampire myth (in its original form) and other supernatural figures permit this but without the requisite pseudo-glorification of human-on-human violence. -KM
(PS: And where did you read that article about the uncanny valley? I’d like to read it too.)
It just so happens I’m reading a book — Cruelty: Human Evil and the Human Brain (by Kathleen Taylor) that explores the neurologic, biologic and social/cultural sources behind the impulse to be cruel. The chapter I just finished discuses her theory of why we glamorize sadism in movies and fiction. She sees three basic reasons that “the most popular fiction reassures us, just as religions do,” about sadism. It shows us that:
1) we have particular meaning and importance to others (even when they hate us)
2) cruelty is punished
3) and evil people are alien (to us)
She makes a compelling case that evil, sadistic characters let us experience the thrill of breaking social norms (because one must be strong and powerful and confident and smart) with not risk of the inevitable social and legal ramifications (being ostracized and/or imprisoned and/or killed). We identify with and long for their power, vicariously. Plus, she argues that negative emotions (fear, disgust, cruelty, sadism, callousness, etc.) are all more powerfully distinguished in the neural pathways. Having a cup of tea is rewarding and wonderful, but leaves no echo of its passing. Reading the horrible things Hannibal Lecter does gets our neurons all fired up with moralizing and fear and squirmy pleasure and vicarious thrills and the hope he will be caught and thinking about how we would react if we were confronted with that situation and wondering if we could ever do something like that or if we would be smart enough to catch him, etc.