“He fed her, then he took her on the Carolina Spin – a slow ride, you know, easy on the digestion – and then he took her into Horror House. They went in together, but only he came out. About halfway along the course of the ride, which takes about nine minutes, he cut her throat and threw her out beside the monorail track the cars run on. Threw her out like a piece of trash…”
- Stephen King, Joyland
Stephen King is best known as a horror writer, and a fabulously successful one at that. But almost from the start, he has shown a disinclination to be pigeonholed. In his classic Misery, for instance, the main character is a novelist who yearns to break free from the confines of the literary category that has made him quite rich.
King has channeled that impulse in real life. Over the years, as he's joined the ranks of all-time bestselling authors, he has used his clout to try different genres and - on occasion - different personas. Among his nearly eighty works, you will find fantasy, science-fiction, crime, and even a memoir.
I mention this because Joyland appears – at first glance – to be part of King’s experimental phase. It is published under the Hard Case Crime imprint, a throwback to the “hardboiled” cops-and-criminals paperbacks of the 1940s and 50s. Its cover is pure pulp, a red-haired woman in a short green dress standing in front of an amusement park, eyes wide with fear at someone’s approach. Then you have the tagline, which is beyond ludicrous: “Who dares enter the Funhouse of Fear?”
Taken together, I assumed King was trying his hand at the cheap, tawdry, somewhat disreputable works that he has acknowledged reading in his formative years. I expected something different from what he’d done before, in sprawling epics like It and The Stand. I expected something brisk, macabre, and perhaps even a little bit silly.
Turns out, I was wrong.
Joyland is basic Stephen King, with characters, style, and story-beats that will be familiar to anyone who has picked up his earlier works.
Of course, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
***
There’s nothing too complicated about the setup in Joyland.
It’s 1973, and college student Devin Jones – nursing his first heartbreak – gets a summer job at the eponymous fun park. It’s not a spoiler to say that before the story begins, a girl was murdered in the Horror House ride, which is now reputed to be haunted. Thus, when Devin arrives to begin work, there’s a lot going on: a ghost story; the mystery of the girl’s death; and Devin’s entry into carny life.
I won’t say anything more about what happens, but I will add a word about the pace at which they happen. For all the cheap thrills promised by the exceptional cover artwork, King is in no hurry whatsoever to get to the point. After introducing a murder in the first few pages, he does not circle back to it for over a hundred more.
In a nice imitation of a carnival barker, King gets you to open the cover promising mayhem, and then tricks you by doubling down on the tale of a young, emotionally labile man working a minimum wage job while boo-hooing over an ex-girlfriend.
***
Like many of his best-loved books, King uses a first-person narrator. Here, that’s Devin, who is looking back on his early life from his sixties. For many reasons, I’m not a huge fan of the first-person perspective. In this particular instance, there are two specific flaws in this choice.
First – and most obviously – it gives you some pretty clear insight into the future, and therefore, reduces the tension that a book like this is supposed to be building.
Second, Devin isn’t that interesting. He’s actually a typical King type, in that he’s oversensitive, very particular about his rock-and-roll, and acts, speaks, and thinks like someone far older than his stated age. King has always been a simplifier of complex ideas, especially faith and love. He tends to break things down to the level of parable, with the result that Devin undergoes his coming-of-age without any profound thoughts or insights.
Hanging out with him isn’t a chore, but in the annals of famous King creations – and there are many – Devin doesn’t make any list, no matter how long.
***
While Joyland is marketed as a crime novel with a potential supernatural edge, King’s attention is elsewhere. Specifically, he’s clearly having the most fun describing the workings of an amusement park, and the oddities that such a park attracts when it comes to employees. Much of the novel is simply Devin learning the ropes. There is, for instance, a lot of time spent discussing how various rides work, how employees get from one place to another, and the difficulties of dressing up as a mascot on a hot day.
Perhaps a bit surprisingly, this was my favorite part of the book. To be sure, the carny lingo that King ladles onto these pages – like glutinous nacho cheese over a small pile of chips – is a bit much, and feels like the product of some superficial research. But for the most part, Joyland proves an excellent stage, with many different corners to explore. Given that carnivals are a bit creepy by their very nature – especially a place like Joyland, which is on the downside of its life-cycle – King is able to create an apprehensive mood without even trying.
Leaving aside the awkward carny dialogue, the only problem with the amusement park sequences is that they are not given room to expand. King introduces a large cast – ride operators, a fortune teller, Devin’s fellow seasonal workers – but never spends time fleshing them out. Even at the very end, I kept confusing certain characters because they were little more than names. It kept the stakes low, because I didn’t have a real reason to care about anyone.
The ending is so ridiculous it kind of works. However, the plotting that gets us there is rushed, and mostly consists of characters over-explaining things to the point of tediousness.
In short, Joyland could have been improved by being longer. It is easy to imagine what King might have done with four or five-hundred additional pages in which to give his characters dimension and allow them to rise above caricatures; to provide the thorough recounting of Joyland’s history; to better lay the groundwork for his finale; and to tell more of the stories that clearly exist in this place.
***
As I read Joyland, I made notes of the flimsy characterizations, the cringey sex scenes, and the utter falseness of many of the interactions. But I never considered stopping. To the contrary – as noted above – I wanted it to be longer, so that I could linger in this world some more.
Certain things – beauty comes to mind – are hard to describe in words, because they are a subjective response. Storytelling is one of those things. King often falls back on old habits, hammers the same themes, and replays the hits, but the man can tell an engrossing story. I can’t explain it any better than that.
***
Lately, the path I’ve been traveling has resembled Minnesota’s roads after a hard winter. By the time I picked up Joyland, I’d set aside roughly ten other titles because I simply couldn’t concentrate on them. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but this turned out to be it.
Joyland proves an obvious point: Not every book needs to change your life. Not every book has to be one you remember and cherish and talk about forever. Sometimes all you need is to be taken away for an hour or two, and to not be asked much in return. Soon enough I’ll forget all the details of Joyland, but I’ll undoubtedly recall being glad for the moments I spent with it.