Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating 7/10
After so many years of writing in a particular style that even the appearance of a full stop suddenly placed before the reader’s eyes was enough to have them scurrying for the covers and checking nervously under the bed, to witness Stephen King, the ultimate in the name of Horror in the 20th Century, take on a straight forward suspense thriller is akin to see him offer a book aimed at children…Mr Mercedes is no My Pretty Pony though, then again it is also no Under The Dome either.
Stephen King has reached the level of output that he had during the decade that spanned the mid-80’s to mid-90’s and whilst every book that the man writes gets devoured with the consistency of a rabid wolf stalking several acres of woodland by his millions of fans, Mr Mercedes might be a bit of a slog to get through. Not because it isn’t well written, because it is, it is so well written because Stephen King is the true master of his craft and in the last 40 years only Britain’s James Herbert could match the intensity felt in every word that was poured out of the mind as if someone was squeezing a giant giving sponge. It isn’t even because as with us all age and repetition start to become a contributing factor in making even the simplest of things heavy weather, it is more that somewhere it feels as though the absolute highs made in such books as It, Tommyknockers, Carrie, Dolores Claiborne and The Stand are never going to be seen again.
Even Doctor Sleep, albeit a timely reminder of just what the master can do, is a peak of tremendous worth that appeared out of a shallow rough, the love, the adoration of the written word and the desire to let people see something beyond the veiled black curtain has just gone just off course.
That’s not to say that the perpetrator of the crime at the heart of Mr Mercedes is not a piece of work worthy of a great writer, he just isn’t truly worthy of Stephen King. Brady Hartfield isn’t one dimensional, not in the same way as retired policeman Bill Hodges appears, but he certainly isn’t in the same league as some of the most compelling people to ever step out from between the dust jacket that houses the great American authors face.
It is hard when you realise that a writing hero to many, a man whose mere name was enough for book shops to order books by the hundreds and in whom a delicious nightmare could be guaranteed to be prescribed from, has gone down a path in which you will still buy the book but no longer feel the need to run at breakneck speed along with; these days it feels more like a sedate ramble with a much loved uncle, you still want to spend time with them but the conversation has wandered a bit.
With a new book due in the autumn, perhaps the tales will come back with a vengeance, time will tell.
Ian D. Hall