Paperbacks from Hell [N.F. - Literature, Art]

The Man behind the Manitou

Seventeen-year-old Graham Masterton started out as a newspaper reporter in his native Scotland. He soon became the editor of Mayfair, a men’s magazine, and then moved over to Penthouse. At the tender age of twenty-five he wrote the sex instruction book Acts of Love; since then he has written close to thirty more lovemaking manuals. In 1975 he took a break from nookie advice to write The Manitou, the novel that launched his fiction career. He has written more than seventy books, including historical sagas, humor collections, and movie novelizations.

Critics write reviews of Masterton’s books in a stunned, slack-jawed daze. “Be warned,” a still-reeling reviewer for Kirkus wrote of Master of Lies in 1992, “Masterton’s newest…opens with what may be the single most sadistic scene in horror history….The excruciating detail here seemingly acknowledges no bounds and culminates in a soul-draining depiction of a giant mutilating the penis of a renowned psychic.”

But Masterton isn’t out simply to shock. He is obeying his one commandment, stated in “Rules for Writing” on his website: “Be totally original….Invent your own threats.” And so he wrote Feast (1988), about gourmet cannibal cults. The story opens with the immortal line: “‘Well, then,’ said Charlie, his face half hidden in the shadows. ‘How long do you think this baby has been dead?’” Turns out the baby is a schnitzel served at the Iron Kettle, a crummy joint in upstate New York that Charlie is reviewing for a food and lodging guide. His three-week trip is ostensibly designed so that he and his teenage son Martin can spend time together. But Charlie is a lousy dad—selfish, hapless, and loaded to the gills with failure. By chapter 4, Charlie’s obsessed with Le Reposoir, an exclusive French dining club in the middle of nowhere that refuses to book him a table. After picking up a floozy and spending a very dirty night at his hotel, he returns to his room to find Martin is missing. Most books hoard their plot twists, but Masterton has more twists up his sleeve than the average bear. I am spoiling nothing by revealing that Le Reposoir is a front for a cult of devout cannibals named the Celestines and Martin is in their clutches. The first big wrinkle: the Celestines regard being eaten alive as the holiest of acts, and Martin has joined them because he wants to undergo this peak religious experience. Compared to his dad’s grubby, pointless life, participating in a transcendent autocannibalism orgy doesn’t sound so bad, and the Celestines maintain the moral high ground throughout the book.

Wherever you think this book won’t go, Masterton not only goes there, he reports back in lunacy-inducing detail. By the last page we’ve seen amputee dwarf assassins, flaming dogs, one of the most harrowing scenes of self-cannibalism ever committed to paper, one death by explosive vomiting, and an appearance by Jesus Christ himself. Throughout, Masterton enjoys himself immensely. He cares about his characters. His dialogue is funnier than it needs to be, his gore is gorier, and his sex is more explicit. His books may not be the most tasteful, or consistent, but you feel that Masterson will gladly hang up his hat the minute they’re not the most original.