A Serious Review. For a Change.

A Serious Review. For A Change.

"I don't know much about art, but I know what I like..."

Readers of these infrequent missives of mine are now probably all too aware of my writing style, which is nothing if not conversational. Be fair, my grammar professors at deal ol' USC (that's South Carolina, and yes, I really was a student there, albeit briefly) would no doubt blanch at some of the verbosity I spew. But it's gone over well enough thus far, and I've even garnered some praise for this work. Perhaps it's because I try not to take myself seriously; a review is, after all, only one person's opinion. And who am I, anyway? Forty-one years and I still haven't figured that one out.

So. It's late 2002, and LSU's own Webmistress Of The Dark (not her chosen moniker, I'm sure) contacts me about a review for the Winter edition of Necropsy. I'm sending you something I think you'll really like, she says. And I want you to write a serious review instead of your usual rant.

Gasp.

What, me, serious? Where's the charm in that? Where's the entertainment? Lose the derivative pop culture (off) colored banter in which I seem to specialize? I might just as well sell my soul to Santa (and have you heard the one about the dyslexic devil worshipper, anyway?) and move straight into aich eee double hockey sticks.

And that, folks, is what Serious Journalists refer to as a "lead". Rather a long one, but it certainly brings us into the real reason for all this bandwidth: a genuinely Serious Review. Which begins now.

Really.

But seriously. The book Miss June sent me is City Infernal by Edward Lee. And I have to give her credit, the lady was spot on when she speculated I'd really like it. Indeed I really did, and the rest of this column shall be devoted to praise of Mr. Lee's latest.

"Shit and rot and pus and stink, atrocity, horror, mindless violence and non-stop sheer fuckin' terror...it's all no big deal."

Now, there've been literally zillions of books devoted to describing Hell, haven't there? Forget the Bible, which never really seems to settle on any one particular description, except that it's a lousy place to spend eternity. Then there's Dante's Inferno and its interesting set of substructures for the various and sundry sinners (I think I would be counted among the Hoarders And Wasters, myself) and Larry Invent and Jerry Pournelle updated that concept in their own version of Inferno, (1977) which comes with my highest recommendation, by the way. But even the latter is pretty dated, and don't we all have our own concepts of what the place would be like, anyway? I tend to subscribe to the notion that we're living in hell right now and that what we do here determines whether we move on or go through it all again and try to get it right. But that's neither here nor there.

Picture this then: a whopping great open-all-night city where misery is the regular stock in trade and torture is what keeps the lights on. Vegas without the possibility of winning and designated Mutilation Zones where one stands a pretty good chance being, well, mutilated by hordes of Golems that will materialize without warning. Dead porn stars do lap dances and you can get a Manburger at the corner bar.

"Mental note--don't wear flip-flops in Hell."

Ever walk on freshly laid asphalt in bare feet? I have. Really. It sticks to the soles of your feet and you walk around with what amounts to paved sandals, which are of course necessarily scorching your tootsies to a golden brown, once you mange to peel the tar off, that is. But anyway, what a great line. It's pretty typical of central character Cassie Heydon's wry sense of humor, which is nothing if not appropriate given her circumstances. Her identical twin sister is the after all the proactive half of a murder-suicide, and Cassie is at least indirectly responsible for the act. Needless to say, the resulting guilt trip does dreadful things to her psyche.

Cassie is an interesting character and Edward Lee does a pretty good job of building her. I picture her as a somewhat paler version of Morticia Addams. There's lots of pale folks in this story, in fact, but then Goths don't tend to be seen on beaches or tanning salons very often. Actually, in my experience they tend to emit UV rather than absorb it, but that's another story. Now, I probably ought to define "Goth" for those few who might not be familiar with the word's use as a noun, but instead I will point you to the music of Skinny Puppy, Sisters Of Mercy, or especially Bauhaus for direction. All three bands and several others (including 4AD's wonderfully enigmatic cover band This Mortal Coil, which I don't particularly think of as Goth) are referred to in this book. One listen to "Bela Lugosi's Dead" and you ought to understand. Edward Lee does, I think.

It would be all too easy to go overboard on the pale, disaffected youth totally dressed in black thing and make it a caricature. Lee does, but I think perhaps intentionally. He takes the same sort of tack in describing the rural area to which Cassie's father takes her following her obligatory wrist-ripping. Possum sausage indeed! And the porcine slobbering-redneck son of the family's housekeeper is named Jervis, for crying out loud.

"Gawd, Pa. it's one of them transvesterites, I reckon. Like we seen on Springer!"

Speleologists (and if you want that defined, feel free to wire me) world wide will positively roll when they read that. Transvesterites. Do those grow down from the ceiling or up from the floor?

Anyway. So here we have Cassie Heydon, the typically out of place surviving Goth twin, plucked from her citified surroundings and dropped into the boonies. But not just anywhere in the boonies. Not in City Infernal. Oh no. She's deposited on Screaming Baby Hill, in Blackwell Hall. For Fenton Blackwell, who we shall eventually learn is now one of Lucifer's High Sheriffs and who sacrificed wee ones born in the inevitable labyrinths which lay beneath Blackwell Hall to the Prince of Darkness in the inevitably weird attic of this mansion (I'm imagining Hill House as a pretty close parallel.) And that's still not all: if you order in the next 30 minutes we'll throw in the ability of the house to work as a gateway to the Mephistopolis. A great name, that. It's the capital of Hell, where sex and violence and drugs prevail. Come to think of it, it's not all that different from DC, from which, coincidentally (or not) Cassie Heydon hails. It's described in exquisite detail in this book's prologue, which is quite astonishing. I was alternately offended and sickened in just the first five pages and actually put the book down for about a week before eventually plowing into it anew.

I'm glad I did.

Now the kicker: as it happens, by a strange set of circumstances, in Hell Cassie is no mere Goth grrrl--forgive the mixed terms, but it fits--she's an Etheress, and the First Saint of Hell. And she has it in her reluctant hands to bring down the Devil's fortress. But she's not interested in such trivialities. She's there to rescue her sister, who of course is condemned to Hell for that Most Cardinal Sin, Suicide. Now personally, I think that whatever God(ess) may be would certainly understand that there's just some times and some folks at which and for whom there seems to be no other option. I also think that pedophile priests and the church hierarchy that silently condones them should get the really severe punishment, which is more than adequately described in City Infernal. But leave us not dwell on that topic, no? Good.

"One time Hush painted 'Satan Sucks' on the front door to the Westminster Church of the Anti-Christ."

If it all sounds rather clichéd and stereotypical, it's only because it is, but don't for a minute think I'm poking fun. No, I'm having fun. Hey, if you want artsy-fartsy stuff, go read Kathe Koja. This is classic splatterpunk (splattergoth, anyone?) Think Joe Lansdale or David Schow or Skipp & Spector, who, like the Beatles, should've eventually worked together again, if for only one more book. And who, also like the Beatles, probably never will (prove me wrong, fellas. Please.) Lee is, in fact often mentioned as one of the masters of this gory subgenre. Based on this single experience of his work I would have to say that's well founded, because (if I may be allowed to use a cliché or two myself) this is "one kick ass thrill ride that will grab you by the throat and refuse to let go."

There. I've gone and done it. A Blurb. Please, for God's sake, don't quote me on that line.

"Disgrace to Lucifer. Death to all enemies of the Angel of Repentance. May the souls of those who died here tonight be consigned forever to the bodies of Excre-Worms."

I'm not making this stuff up, really I'm not. You may not like it, but you can't help but be fascinated by it. Throw in Lilith--which means gratuitous sex, of course--and a "Fallen Angel who looks like Brad Pitt" and why, It's almost like a sicko pulp version of Stephen Donaldson's Thomas Covenant books, where an less than pleasant anti-hero is the unwilling savior in a netherworld where Almost Anything Goes. Or in this case, I suppose you can take out the "almost." And like the Donaldson books, there's a wide open ending (but with a relatively satisfying conclusion, thank God) that promises a City Infernal 2. Or at least one would fervently hope.

Speaking of Brad Pitt, it must be stated--no, shrieked--that that this book is positively begging for someone's twisted vision to turn it into a movie. Sam Raimi or Dario Argento could probably do it justice. But the Powers That Be would have a field day when it came to the rating. It'd have to have at least a strong "R." Cutting anything would ruin it, because it's the level of intensity that makes the whole clichéd splattergoth (I officially lay claim to the term, by the way) concept work so well in City Infernal in the first place. Which of course assures that a film version on this book will never happen.

More's the pity. There's so much sickness in the world today that a good means of escape is pretty much essential to one's emotional and psychic survival, and City Infernal is escapism to the semi-logical extreme. Hey, sometimes a good swift kick in the kiester is just the thing. So grab this one before the local Committee for High-Toned Community Values manages to sweep it from general view.

And that, my friends, is as Serious as I get.

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