[Spoilers.] Every now and then you come across a book that causes you to examine your life: the good you've done in the world, the ill. What sin did I commit to have deserved a book as god awful as The Ritual?
Here it is in brief: The Ritual is a derivative, shallow, insidiously sexist novel from an author whose ideas far exceed his technical skill.
In the foreword, Nevill credits a number of other authors for inspiring him, among them Cormac McCarthy. Within the first chapter of The Ritual, it was painfully obvious that Nevill is trying - and failing tremendously - at aping McCarthy's stylistic flourishes. Run-on sentences and sentence fragments, abandoned phrases, writhe across the page. Where McCarthy uses these structures to create atmosphere, by providing cold and grounded details, Nevill uses them as hammers to beat into your head what he wants you to think and to feel.
What could be more powerfully accomplished in a brief, curt sentence, he fluffs into page after page of navel-gazing, Intro to Theology philosophizing. Scenes that ought to be tense and frightening, or tense and thrilling, are instead slogs: why allow the reader to infer that it is instinct that causes Luke to turn and run to the tent when Nevill could instead write a paragraph-long treatise about ancient ancestral instincts reawakening, etc?
Structurally The Ritual's great problem is that it is two novels, neither one of which ought to be even a quarter so long as the actual product. After perhaps the eighth or ninth chapter devoted to informing the reader that The Hiking Crew is Exhausted Physically and Psychologically, with the prose retreading the exact same ups and downs with every iteration, I was praying for them to die. Die and be released, and in your releasing so also release me. Amen. Then - oh, then! - in the second half of the book, the reader is taken on a new, wonderful journey into grinding repetition! Oh, boy, what fun to read another couple hundred pages with insufferable and superficially drawn characters saying the same garbage over and over and over again! Then I was praying for them to die, too, or for some god to come to me and gently take the book from my hands and set their cool knuckles on my brow as they bend to whisper into my ear, "No more. You have atoned."
(What did I do? What did I do to deserve this book? This wretched, endless, sluggish hell of unexplored archetypes rattling off, on the fly, the sort of interminable speeches no human being has ever spoken? Is it because I stole a Beanie Baby Sleeping Bag from a school fair when I was nine? Because I'm sorry! Is it because I purposefully farted on my dog? I'm sorry for that, too!)
I don't particularly care about originality so long as the execution is decent, but there is little decency to this execution. All the usual tropes of two separate horror narratives (argumentative once friends lost in the woods and stalked by some unseen thing; man held captive by murderous weirdos) are present, and they are exceptionally boring. The monster is picking them off one by one! Will Luke survive? If he calls Dom and Phil "fatties" another five hundred times, he might just make it out. But oh, no, now he's being held captive by three drunk teens who listen to (oh, God!) BLACK METAL, and a silent old woman. Oh, cool, more endless fucking speeches (from the teens, not the old woman).
About that silent old woman: no, I need another intro. Okay. This is where I expect people to start complaining. If a book (or a movie, or whatever) is sexist, people expect you to be "objective" in your review aka not discuss the sexism; but I don't give a fuck about that. This book is sexist. It is insidiously, cruelly, dehumanizing-ly sexist.
In the first half of the book, women are referenced only as "moody" and as "bitches," as things to be disposed of (along with the trash - straight up that is a thing Luke says); they're gold-diggers and they're psychologically damaged and they're ball-busters and they're completely off the page. Somewhere Luke has a mother (who is described once as "smiling," and that's that) and a sister, I guess, but more importantly he has a maybe girlfriend, who's referenced a whopping three times and by the third time all I know about her is she has an overbite and the overbite is sexy. Whatever. That's the usual horror shit. It's gross and it shouldn't be a thing but whatever.
Thankfully the second half of the book is here to RAMP IT UP!!! Whoo!!!!!! Finally, women exist on the page! Women like Surtr, who is written as if she were a feral animal, whose fatness is deemed repulsive, who is repeatedly defined by her smell (the smell of her cunt, Luke puts it), who cavorts (repulsively, stinkily) naked. Then there's the old woman, who is: speechless, ignored, a ghost. For some inexplicable reason she needs Luke to off the three murderous, Satanic teenagers. I say inexplicable because (here's the spoiler) the Big Reveal at the end is OMFG the old woman's mom is THE THING IN THE WOODS, and she can summon it to take sacrifices. Presumably she could have gotten rid of her unwanted house guests by, you know, at some point calling out to her monstrous, ungodly, life-consuming mother, but it was very important to Nevill that Luke murder those kids on the page, and then the old woman summons her ma to eat Luke, so that Luke has just cause to shoot the old woman's heart out. Sure. Nothing remotely resembling logic exists in this book, so why the fuck not. That totally makes sense.
(Oh, wait, LMAO, I forgot: Luke, upon killing the two dudes, thinks something along the lines of "of course, they could hurt the beast in the woods with the rifle or the knives!" only weapons didn't do jack shit for him and his friends, there are a hundred enormously easy ways to lure out habitual drunks who fall asleep outside at night around pyres for the beast to kill, and Luke, having had this eureka moment that the rifle can be used to kill the beast, immediately forgets and leaves the house, with its high, clear vantage points, for a truck parked all the way across the god damn clearing so Nevill can write a SCARY CHASE SEQUENCE.)
There is a scene where Luke goes into an attic and kills the undead creatures there. Needlessly, Nevill writes that Luke innately understands one of them is a woman. Where Luke efficiently dispatches of all the others, he both strikes this dead-and-not-dead woman through the skull and throttles her, in the longest section of this passage.
Again and again Nevill returns to the belief that women destroy men; they weigh them down. Ultimately, what surprise is it that the inhuman monstrosity in the woods should be a woman, a mother? "No more sons and fathers and friends should hang from trees." This, Nevill writes in a book where Phil's wife is a gold-digger, a bitch, that Luke once slept with years ago (and her orgasm is described in animal terms, as profoundly off-putting to Luke), and Dom's wife is frail, ill, sapping the strength from him. Over and over, Nevill reinforces the weakness of Phil and Dom, or the wrongness of the two teen boys, Fenris and Loki, by describing their hands, their habits, their personalities as feminine.
In Nevill's world of Ritual and its primordial "truths," women are beasts, demons, hideous and defined by their sex. They consume men. They destroy them. They steal from them and drive them to madness and death. To survive women, men must slough them off, put them out on the curb for the trash man to collect, kill them with especial violence. Mothers are smiling. Sisters exist. Daughters are tools to create sympathy for a dying man, who will never see them again, no, not even on those rare visitation days his harpy wife will allow him.
I know that Nevill has written a novel wherein the main character is a woman. After The Ritual, I find that prospect actively horrifying. There's your real terror.
I hated this book. I hated it. H A T E D it. I don't burn books. I don't destroy them. I usually donate them, but this book, this book I could not give into the hands of another. I can't chance it. When I'm buried in the earth I want this book to go in my grave, not so that I can keep it close to me always, but because it is now my burden to carry. Into the soil I will go, lifeless yet eternally vigilant, to stand guard over this wretched waste of a tree. Perhaps one day a tree might grow out of soil nourished by myself and by this novel, as in its putrescence might The Ritual atone for its own sins.
Hated this fucking book.