Island
Don’t confuse the late Richard Laymon’s 1995 novel ISLAND with the recent Michael Bay turkey currently rotting in theaters. Because if that film had been based upon Laymon’s book, there’d be a lot of happy executives at DreamWorks right now.
Laymon’s ISLAND is told through the first-person journals of Rupert, a horny, 18-year-old virgin accompanying his quasi-girlfriend on a cruise with her parents, her two sisters and their husbands. But on page one, their ship has exploded, leaving them all stranded on a deserted island. Given a wealth of supplies, this scenario wouldn’t seem too terrible, especially since it provides Rupert with lots of opportunity for perverted eye candy. But then one of them is murdered, and another, and another, to the point where it’s painfully clear that the island harbors secrets the survivors may not live to discover.
This is the second Laymon novel I’ve read, after last year’s lightning-quick bizarro (and bravura) mummy tale, TO WAKE THE DEAD, and although I did not enjoy it as much as that book, it does not disappoint. His pacing is impressive, but his imagination even moreso. This plot in particular can be summed up like an episode of TV’s LOST with heavy doses of Rob Zombie depravity and Russ Meyer titillation. In Laymon’s terms, dirty sex and gory violence combine with palpable suspense effortlessly, and you’re never quite sure what the man has up his sleeve (protagonist escapes doom by peeing in his tormenter’s face? Check!). And yet all of it’s done in a manner that never feels like you be ashamed for reading such a thing.
At a hair over 500 pages, ISLAND is arguably a little too long, but that is mitigated by a killer final line that’s like a punch to the stomach. Few horror authors can nail you like that and still leave you smiling.
Island is one of my favorite Laymon books along with Savage and The Stake. I like that it’s a bit longer than usual for him because he doesn’t sacrifice the blistering pace he was known for. I’ve read three of his books in one sitting but Island kept me busy for a week.
Kept me busy for a week, too, whereas I think TO WAKE THE DEAD was polished off over the course of a couple afternoons. That remains my favorite thus far.
[...] In his past works I’ve read (and loved) like TO WAKE THE DEAD and ISLAND, he keeps you on your toes by withholding information, drawing out secrets until the last possible moment. No such luck in COME OUT TONIGHT, whose one surprise is blatantly obvious from page 27. Of a twice-as-long-as-it-needs-to-be 434. [...]
[...] When Laymon is good, he’s great, but when he’s bad, he’s terrible. Unfortunately, AFTER MIDNIGHT falls into the latter category. Like THE LAKE, it smells as if Laymon wrote a single draft in one long night and turned that in. It’s lazy, and there’s no need for it to be more than 400 pages; when something this loose gets that long, it’s not plotting, but typewriter masturbation. [...]