Not Better than the Film, Just Different
Some novels launch careers; others do more: They give birth to legends. There is no better example of this in my lifetime than The Shining.
Stephen King was already a successful novelist in 1977 when he took his first detour from eerie goings-on in Maine to introduce a spooky hotel in Colorado. Its success resounded first as a book, then as a movie, and finally as an urban legend. Everyone knows what goes on in The Shining – including things that don’t happen in the novel at all.
In it, we meet Jack
Torrance, out-of-work writer and recovering alcoholic, who takes his wife and
son to stay at a mountaintop resort, The Overlook, where he will be its
caretaker in winter. Jack sees enforced solitude as a golden opportunity to restart
his writing career.
But the Overlook
contains some dark secrets, as well as an animal cunning that lights upon
Jack’s psychically-endowed five-year-old son, Danny. Right away Danny picks up clues
of supernatural malevolence in the empty rooms and gardens. A friendly hotel
cook named Hallorann shares some of Danny’s power and warns him to be careful:
“I’ve
had some bad dreams here, and I’ve had some bad feelins. I’ve worked here two
seasons now and maybe a dozen times I’ve had…well, nightmares. And maybe half a
dozen times I’ve thought I’ve seen things. No, I won’t say what. It ain’t for a
little boy like you. Just nasty things.”
Of
course, being this is a Stephen King novel, Danny’s ability to follow
Hallorann’s wise counsel is nil. The result is one of King’s best-constructed,
hardest-charging works of fiction, a masterpiece of dread and an immersive, emotionally-involving
read.
King has actually written better books, in my opinion. Different Seasons showcases his versatility and craft, while my favorite novel of his, The Dead Zone, maximizes both suspense and emotional uplift. But The Shining has its own dark pull, as an alcoholic’s cry for help and an examination of the darkness permeating the American Dream.
“I
think this place forms an index of the whole post-World War II American
character,” Jack tells a friend.
The
novel also has its own ghost, of course: A guy named Stanley.
When people think The Shining, they
think not the novel by King but the movie by Kubrick. I do enjoy the film more,
but agree this is not fair. Stephen King not only came up with the story; his
treatment remains definitive if you want the chills served up with real human
interest.
King complains Stanley Kubrick’s
film short-changed the
characters in pursuit of pure adrenaline. He’s right about that.
What I notice re-reading the novel was how
carefully King sets up the central conflict between Jack Torrance and his
demons, both those he brings with him in the form of alcoholism and anger, and
those who lie in wait at the hotel. King has described The Shining as a
personal account of his own then-spiraling addiction issues, and you see there why
he might view Jack and not Danny as its most important character.
Jack’s ultimate struggle involves his sanity: “In the very center
of him a cold certainty was forming and the certainty was that he was losing
his mind.” In the novel, this is quite gradual, and forms much of the early
pull. He is a hothead, but also intelligent, caring, and sensitive to the needs
of his wife and son. As Jack begins going off the deep end, King shows us how he
rationalizes his worst decisions as acts of love. He understandably fears the
repercussions of failing as hotel caretaker.
In
the 1980 movie, Jack’s menace is as blinding as a lighthouse beam from the opening
scene. Also, the movie is rooting for the Overlook. We
see it there as a wild, wacky kind of place, very creepy but also kind of funny
with its men in dog costumes and flappers and even somewhat genuine in
its perverse regard for Jack. We kind of get why Movie Jack wants to live there
forever and ever and ever.
In the book, the Overlook is unmitigated evil,
its spirits out not for mere tricks, but blood. It doesn’t want Jack at all. It
wants Danny. Through Danny’s eyes we see it not as all-night party but diabolical
machine:
The
hotel was running things now. Maybe at first the things he had seen really were
like scary pictures that couldn’t hurt him. But now the hotel was controlling
those things and they could hurt.
Near the end, Danny puts the Overlook in
perspective: “Everything is a lie and a cheat.”
Danny being only five in this novel makes
King’s use of him as a wise child problematic. The emphasis on the feelings of
the Torrance family is necessary to set up Jack’s fall, but gets underlined way
too much, as if King is afraid we will miss the personal dimension in his
story.
He also uses hedge animals as animated
guardians of the Overlook, a conceit which doesn’t work. I think King wanted
them for monster value, but they wind up being not only unnecessary to the
story but artificially presented. One attacks Hallorann by scratching him up with
its branches, which when you think about it is about all a bush can do.
At times King strains for effect. Other times
he can be too perfunctory. “He held on – no exaggeration – for dear life,” he
writes of one battle. But throughout his set-up and denouement, King gives the
Overlook a detailed, lived-in feeling and establishes in Jack and Wendy
Torrance a realistic portrait of two good people stuck in a lousy marriage.
If
it’s true as King claims in his later memoir On Writing that he doesn’t
outline his novels, he must have Lego blocks for brain synapses. The Shining’s
structural soundness is perfect, like a diabolical cuckoo clock. You can see how
the malefic hotel methodically steps up its assault at the conclusion of each
section. Danny even encounters a monster living in the bathtub of Room 217 –
kicking off the straight-horror part of this horror novel – on page 217 of my
Signet paperback.
King
also does this narrative trick early on, as Wendy and Danny enter the Overlook
for the first time, of shifting the narrative stream-of-consciousness from character
to character. At first I actually thought this was lazy of King, then I
realized it was his subtle way of suggesting Danny’s telepathic powers, and
perhaps those of the hotel, too.
Danny does seem way too mature for five, but
King makes the most of both his sensibility and sensitivity in filling out his
tale:
But
grownups were always in a turmoil, every possible action muddied over by
thoughts of the consequences, by self-doubt, by selfimage, by feelings
of love and responsibility. Every possible choice seemed to have drawbacks, and
sometimes he didn’t understand why the drawbacks were drawbacks. It was
very hard.
King
is also focused on issues of American identity. Later, people would analyze
Kubrick’s film adaptation and read in it clues for everything crooked in our
nation’s past, from the purging of Native Americans to the exploitation of
minorities to fake Moon landings. It’s all a bit mad, and yet King is working
along those very lines in the novel.
Over
time we learn how the Overlook’s history is intimately connected with bad stuff
having to do with capitalism and crime. Once a Howard Hughes-like tycoon named
Horace Derwent owned the hotel, later on the Mob took over. Reading a scrapbook
he finds in the basement, Jack imagines the hotel as it was in August, 1945,
the same month the United States dropped A-bombs on Japan:
Tuxedos
and glimmering starched shirts; evening gowns, the band playing; gleaming
high-heeled pumps. The clink of glasses, the jocund pop of champagne corks. The
war was over, or almost over. The future lay ahead, clean and shining. America
was the colossus of the world and at last she knew it and accepted it.
But
King doesn’t push these points; his aim here is not proclaiming a manifesto but
establishing a mood of unease. Like Faulkner, he sees the present as being
locked in an uncomfortable embrace with the past, and in The Shining, works
this sensibility into an involving ghost story.
I
understand King’s resentment of Kubrick’s movie. Not only does the film play
with the narrative; it introduces elements to our understanding of The
Shining that would in time become iconic: Elevators of blood, creepy-eyed
twins, “Heeere’s Johnny!” and the rest. It’s not that King is above similar
Gothic devices – his version does feature a possessed fire extinguisher – but
his overall approach is more cerebral.
I
don’t think it’s better, but it is different, entertaining and engaging in its
own special way. I definitely prefer this version of Jack, but his self-doubts
and family attachments would be lost in the 1980 film, as would his need to be
taken seriously as an artist. Says a voice in his head:
“You
have to kill him, Jacky, and her, too. Because a real artist must suffer.
Because each man kills the thing he loves. Because they’ll always be conspiring
against you, trying to hold you back and drag you down.”
Any
novel’s connection to a reader depends in part on the unique circumstances when
it is read. Maybe it’s just my luck that I picked up The Shining, a
novel which is ostensibly about the world’s worst case of cabin fever, at a
time when a global pandemic has people like me self-isolating and wondering if
there is to be any future at all. Thus I find Jack’s situation
all-too-relevant.
Regardless
of externals, whether they be pandemics or Kubrick, The Shining is a
beautifully self-contained mind trap that tells a great story in its own way,
and showcases the perverse power that is Stephen King.
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