Is
Christine a clever chrome-plated gorefest
a young and still-hungry Stephen King dashed off with deceptive ease? Or is it
rather an early signpost of decline when the blockbuster horror writer was
bottoming out on booze and coke?
Popular
opinion favors the latter; I understand the argument. As for me, I love Christine.
This has little to do with
it being a scary story about a demon car. For me, it’s something of a perverse
nostalgia rush. I was in my last days of high school when I read this, my first
King novel, and to say I related to the lead character, pathetic loser Arnie
Cunningham, is an understatement. Every blow and insult directed at him echoed
in my own memory well.