You know the book you've read is mediocre at best when the most well-written part was the introduction, even if someone as great as Stephen King wrote it. Three classics in the horror genre, whose influence is felt to this day, you'd think one of them would be above average. Nope. King actually gives fair warning in his intro that the stories are not written particularly well, but I wondered if maybe he was being too harsh. Turns out he was being too kind.
First was Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, the tale of a young doctor obsessed with learning the secrets of life and death who discovers how to give life to a monster. There are some fascinating themes, such as how far is too far for science to go and, although this isn't often talked about in relation to the story, is god responsible for the evil that men do? Unfortunately, these themes aren't as prevalent as endless scenes of Victor Frankenstein talking about his family, his friends, his vacations to escape his troubles and almost anything he can talk about besides the monster he has inflicted on himself and the rest of humanity. Imagine Superman narrating his life's story and talking mostly about Ma and Pa Kent, Lois Lane's childhood and the decor of the Fortress of Solitude, and then, every fifty or so pages, remembering to touch briefly about one of the times he saved the world from Lex Luthor or Braniac. For example, early on when Frankenstein is detailing his time at medical school, where his obsession begins, through the actual creation of his monster, he ruminates constantly on what his professors think about scientific ethics, but glosses completely over the steps he took to build his creation! All the scenes you remember from the movie where he digs up dead bodies and steals limbs and organs from morgues and laboratories were created for the movie (by better writers than Mary Shelley). Apparently, Shelley thought readers wouldn't be interested. Well, to be fair, Frankenstein does say several times that he will not reveal the methods he used for fear that someone else may try to recreate them and, ultimately, the monster, but I think that's a cop-out. When you're dealing with mystical things it's okay, and sometimes better, not to explain the details, but when you're dealing with a radical scientific experiment it's criminal not offer any information as to how the experiment was conducted (especially when she went into great detail about the most inconsequential subjects). Another problem was the prose itself, which was awkward and, frankly, pretentious, even considering the era in which it was written. It reads as though Shelley felt she had something to prove, like she felt she had to make her story seem more important than it really was. Frankenstein was a bore.
I'll admit that Dracula, by Bram Stoker, was the one to which I was most looking forward. I love vampires (when done properly; I weep for the current state of Nosferatu in our pop culture, with the rare exception) and was eager to read the most famous novel of the undead. And it started off terrifically! The first sixty-two pages are incredible, filled with chilling atmosphere and a sense of dread you can feel all around you, as though the Count himself (or perhaps the Three Sisters he keeps in his castle) are staring hungrily at your neck. Then, almost instantly, the suspense is gone. There are intervals where the menace returns, but nothing compared to that first section in Transylvania. Part of the problem is that the novel is epistolary, meaning it is formed entirely of letters, journal or diary entries, newspaper clippings and the like. This limits the field of perspective to only what the main characters see. In the beginning this is fine, as it deals only with Harker (as opposed to Renfield, as it is in most of the movies) visiting Castle Dracula. We want his perspective. But as the novel moves on, we don't get to see any of the good stuff. Dracula is absent for most of the story, save the occasional appearance as a bat outside a window. When Lucy is turned and stalks the streets of London for young victims, we never read of any of her encounters. The closest we get is seeing her from Dr. Seward's perspective as she carries a victim back to her crypt (an excellent, haunting image, to be sure, but a look at Lucy, a formerly sweet girl, on the prowl would've been appreciated). The characters are all one-note, and that note is exactly the same for all of them. Every time they meet each other, they become best friends and declare their (platonic) love for each other. Pages and pages are wasted talking about the high esteem in which they all hold each other. The only thing that separates Morris from Arthur and Dr. Seward is that he has a Texas accent. Van Helsing, portrayed in every Dracula movie I've ever seen as a hardened, experienced vampire hunter, is here a very kindly old man. There's nothing wrong with this in theory, but his constant gushing over everyone becomes too much after a while and he almost becomes a caricature (although I did enjoy his broken English and the way he called Dr. Seward "Friend John"). Every character with whom he comes into contact is one of the most extraordinary people he's ever met (although, since they're all exactly the same, I guess that kind of makes sense) and he belabors that point endlessly. The climax is weak compared with the excellent opening and even some of the middle section. There is no grand battle with Dracula where the lives of all these amazing people hang in the balance. How unfortunate to set up such a terrific villain, one who still resonates today, and then sideline him not only for the bulk of the novel, but the climax as well. Dracula wasn't the worst of the three novels, but it was the most disappointing.
Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde was the shortest and easily the best written of the three (there's a reason we know of more than one Robert Louis Stevenson novel, as opposed to Bram Stoker and Mary Shelley). Told from the perspective of Mr. Utterson, a lawyer, it examines his investigation into Mr. Hyde, an ugly little man inside and out who seems to cause trouble wherever he goes. Hyde has some sort of link to Utterson's good friend, Dr. Henry Jekyll, but what that link may be is a mystery. Perhaps the biggest problem with Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde is not the fault of the novel; we know the secret. Everyone knows that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde are one and the same. You'd be hard-pressed to find a first-grader who didn't know that. The suspense, therefore, is gone. When Utterson hears the story of how Hyde transformed back into Jekyll from Dr. Lanyon, I wasn't shocked; instead, I thought, "Finally, we're on the same page." As I said, this isn't really Stevenson's fault, and I do still wonder if I would've caught on if I hadn't known the twist, but it inescapably affects the impact of the story. There are still worthwhile ruminations on repression and the desire to have your darkest impulses set free, but again, the story has been so analyzed over the years that none of this comes as a shock. It's a real shame.
What a disappointment. I'm glad, in retrospect, that I can now say I've read these three stories, but I would never pick them up again. The few bright spots don't make up for the flaws.