While perhaps not in every respect the most brilliant author to grace us with the fruits of his labour, Stephen King is surprisingly often very good, and on a small handful of occasions even sublime. Taken as a whole, his work manages to stride the rift between great art and pulp in a quite ingenious manner, and is probably the main reason why we’ll retain a living legacy of romanticism and its off-shoots.
My personal favourites among his novels are probably It (1986) or The Stand (1978), which are complex and multi-faceted stories that not only push the boundaries of gothic horror by intertwining the genre with the profound existential themes of that period, but which also explore its political dimensions, albeit in very different ways.
The Stand is more explicit in this sense. The story’s virus apocalypse places the isolated survivors in the naked state of utter material and relational dispossession, bringing out and refining their essential natures and their free choices in what amounts to an epic struggle between good and evil in the painful rebirth of human society. There are a lot of obvious questions that unfortunately are left unasked here, but a few really good ones are posed, not least in the discussions between Stuart Redman, the spaghetti Western-ish protagonist, and Glenn Bateman, the radical sociology professor, when they first meet and realize that they’re about to reform the community as an institution. One of their recurrent reflections relate to whether or not technology can ever be neutral, if our human agency can ever meaningfully override the inherent functions of the artifacts and systems fused with our social relations.
It is much subtler in terms of its societal analysis, and allows for a range of interesting interpretations of the hideous rot beneath the picturesque facades of post-war suburbia. The little group of child heroes not only battle an antediluvian evil, but clash with the radical conformism of the parent generation, and on many levels also engage the existential anomie of the emergent post-industrial parasite that is the heart of the US Empire. The strangely penetrating unease and disturbing atmosphere King manages to produce here is in some sense analogous to the moral and political perception of some deep and fundamental wrong in the very structure of modern society.
But the Bachman novels are a whole different story. The original books have almost no connection to the preternatural as such, and are all openly political, with an examination of society as their main focus. A couple of them are futuristic dystopias (The Long Walk (1979) and The Running Man (1982)), while the rest are set in the then-contemporary US, although with an eye on the various trajectories towards such an end.
The two dystopian ones share important similarities. Both envision an authoritarian society in which culture is reduced to entertainment and then fused with propaganda, and follow protagonists who in some way are forced to enact a spectacle where fear, death and subjugation are the main values offered for consumption. The Long Walk is one of King’s oldest stories, begun at the age of nineteen, and I find it the more interesting at a personal level. Not really sure why. It has a good deal more of character interaction, and to some extent attempts a unique psychological study of willing yet traumatic submission, but it’s pretty thin in terms of institutional analysis &c.
The Running Man rather inverts this focus, and while almost sophomoric in its character portrayal and development, it gives the reader a pretty meaty consideration of a spectacular corporate dystopia.
The year is here 2025, our main character is a destitute factory worker with a child dying of pneumonia, and who approaches “The Network” to take part in one of the lucrative yet lethal game shows broadcast over the “free-vee”, the ubiquitous televised entertainment that is the chief opiate for the ailing and impoverished masses.
The setting is immediately framed as a surveillance police state that maintains property relations through propagandizing mass entertainment. The very setup basically consists of a detailed examination of the system’s intrusive scrutiny and biopolitical herding of its denizens, something which is maintained as a central part of the narrative throughout.
As soon as Richards, the protagonist, begins interacting with The Network, he’s immediately subjected to a penetrating inspection of his data and his biometrics (which is then finalized with an actual rectal examination described in terms of rape) as well as of his private inner life. He must be quantified and possessed by the objective gaze of the corporate state, first to pass its muster as a commodity worthy of consumption, secondly to be effectively marketed as such. Kind of like Instagram.
“‘Have you been immunized? Don’t try to lie!’ the doctor shouted suddenly, as if Richards had already tried to lie. ‘We’ll check your health stats.’
‘Immunized July 2023. Booster September 2023. Block health clinic.’
‘Move along.’
Richards had a sudden urge to reach over the table and pop the maggot’s neck. Instead, he moved along.”
Of course, everyone is already the property of the system in one way or the other. The free-vee saturation floods all public discourse and effectively undercuts meaningful resistance, we find in a later chapter. Elections are now digital and their outcomes never in question. Legislation managed by the “revised congress” catering to the PR-needs and the actual governance carried out by the corporations.
“‘Somebody might kife a library card and find out lung cancer is up seven hundred percent since 2015.’
‘Is that true? Or are you making it up?’
‘I read it in a book. Man, they’re killing us. The Free-Vee is killing us. It’s like a magician getting you to watch the cakes falling outta his helper’s blouse while he pulls rabbits out of his pants and puts ’em in his hat.’
He paused and then said dreamily: ‘Sometimes I think that I could blow the whole thing outta the water with ten minutes talktime on the Free-Vee. Tell em. Show em. Everybody could have a nose filter if the Network wanted em to have em.’”
The game shows of everyman’s awe which deal in death and despair naturally also have a disciplinary function. They enact a deterring, vicarious punishment for the crimes the people could imagine committing, and even reward volunteers among the public for assisting in the apprehension and execution of the vilified contestants. The stoolies with cameras volunteering for surveillance work. Yeah, kind of like social media.
“‘You symbolize all the fears of this dark and broken time. It wasn’t all show and audience-packing out there, Richards. They hate your guts. Could you feel it?’
‘Yes,’ Richards said. ‘I felt it. I hate them, too.’
Killian smiled. ‘That’s why they’re killing you.’”
All written in 1982. I open up today’s newspaper, and can’t help thinking it was quite prophetic.
“DELTA AND OMIKRON BEHIND GLOBAL WAVE OF INFECTIONS”
“WILL ALL OF US BE STRUCK WITH OMIKRON? VIRUS PROFESSOR ANSWERS READERS’ QUESTIONS”
“OMIKRON MAY DISABLE VITAL SOCIETAL OPERATIONS”
It’s entertainment with fear and death placed center stage.
It’s entertainment and it’s subjugation, all in one neat package.
Because we like to watch.
Don't forget "Killian is lying to you!"
But even among alt media I saw them think that Brian Williams was on their side with his last speech on the air. Haha, he was just promoting the status quo division.