For a variety of reasons, the idea of experimental, "Bizarro" fiction doesn't necessarily make me think of something particularly fun or satisfying to read. But it kinda seems like it should, shouldn't it? Well, Polymer is the kind of riotously inventive, uninhibited bundle of constant entertainment that actually delivers on all that promise. It's unapologetically hammy, built on a masterful command of genre pastiche that never veers into overt winking or rests on the laurels of its references. And it all works because of the meta-fictional, Procrustean lens of the collective protagonist.
Quite the opposite of what I might have feared, the narrative gimmick of telling the story from the perspective of all of polymers fans at once provides not an absence of motivation, but an endless supply of it. I'm not sure this gimmick would work over a longer story, but for a novella, it's perfect. The whole thing feels very postmodern, of course, but more than that, very contemporary. If the base DNA of Polymer's world is Bloodborne, seeing the story from this point of view is like a Twitch stream. It's actually kind of a stroke of genius, considering how inimical the Soulsborne games are to adaptation in first person storytelling.
So instead of putting us in the hunter's shoes, creating dramatic justification for the endless slog of monster hunting, polymer explores the interesting drama of seeing that from a layer removed. As Polymer's fans, we see the story as lore hunters and bystanders and overzealous vicarious thrill seekers. The collective protagonist is a goopy, multifaceted thing driven by id (again, just like the comments in a Twitch stream). The way it casually abandons parts of itself to death and danger and then continues on, oblivious, reminds me of the blob thing from Inside. Moreover, it has the quality of a sports broadcast, a camera capable of jumping around from angle to angle, fight to home life to puff piece, that modulates tone and knowledge as needed to craft a compelling experience (if not a strong drama, per se) from the incommunicable grind of gamified hunting.
The experience of reading Polymer is thus surreal, intoxicating, familiar but disorienting. If the formula is familiar, the palate it is painted with is entirely unique. I often find books that rely heavily on describing experiences best suited to other media simply fail. And I can't say the glam rock synth magic really landed for me – it is so clearly something I would enjoy seeing actually executed with sound and video, but I can't do it justice in my head, or at least the effort distracts me from the story. All of the rest of the flavor is awesome. Potatomania, the glass fenced vents between worlds, the insane entertainment culture of Sickleburg in general, the performative violence of Lord Abisma, and the wild aesthetic of the cosmic horror monsters, which sits somewhere between the goofy chimaeras of Lovecraft, the colorful goop of the Candy Kingdom, and a vaporwave music video. In general I think of myself preferring horror aesthetics that are a bit more restrained, but the juxtaposition of elements in these monsters somehow feel both indulgent and creatively liberating and all the more disquieting for their tangible, almost edible plastic, sugar, and sweetmeat textures.
If there's anything lacking here, it's just that the story really does have the feel of a music video. Far more interested in tone and visuals and climax than anything else; what drama there is takes place on a stage, melodramatic, easily readable, digested secondhand. Similarly, history and world building are relatively shallow, and clearly feel like they stop existing shortly after the elements the book presents. That all makes sense for Polymer; it's clearly the extent of the books, ambition, and it delivers on it. My complete satisfaction. I guess I'm just thinking now about how well this storytelling technique might hold up over a longer story. I suppose in essence, the problem is that the fandom premise centers a story on the hunter himself, who would traditionally be little more than the transparent lens through which you viewed a more systemic story. Perhaps an alternative could work just as well, but the advantage of the fandom is that it implies an instant, potent emotional investment that might be difficult to justify otherwise.