Broken Monsters (2014) combines a stylistic predisposition towards social realism with a geeky love of supernatural horror in a convergence that’s becoming an aesthetic commonplace of the New Weird SF/H sub-genre. If the supernatural stuff is particularly offensive to your readerly sensitivities, then Lauren Beukes offers you a way-out in the form of a potentially realist-materialist explanation of the book’s more trippy events, but you’d have to be pretty bloody-minded in your approach to make such an exegesis fit, I feel. For the purposes of this review, therefore, we’re gonna take the supernatural at face value.
Unfortunately, I expect Broken Monsters will attract the same kinds of gloriously point-missing reviews that dogged The Shining Girls; reviews characterised by a sense of disappointment that Beukes didn’t explain the origins of the time travelling house, as if an infinitely-retreating sequence of whys and wherefores is a prerequisite for fantastical narratives to have any value. This is the unfortunate legacy of worldbuilding, and perhaps speaks to the more conservative literary tastes of many genre fans. Like the House in The Shining Girls, the “dream” that possesses the serial killer of Broken Monsters is given little to no biography, but also like the House, therein lies its merit. It’s not in their convoluted histories that Lauren Beukes’ supernaturalisms become interesting, but in their weird unknowableness, their horrifying effects upon the reader, and their worth as metaphors and subtexts for whatever real-world issues the writer is addressing, that is: misogyny and problematic cultural representations of women in The Shining Girls, and poverty, production and the quest for originality in this book, Broken Monsters.
Similar to The Shining Girls, this is a serial-killer crime novel with supernatural elements. This time the action transpires in present-day Detroit, American’s most notoriously depressed, semi-ruined and semi-abandoned city (just look at the declining population stats). The book is uncompromising in its gritty (gritty gritty gritty) portrayal of violence, poverty, misogyny etc, and, also like The Shining Girls, it’s a real emotional gut punch, with Beukes again demonstrating her amazing aptitude for big-picture social commentary conveyed through intimate portrayals of individual emotional lives.
The primary narrative takes the form of a police procedural; there’s a very large cast, with short chapters alternately flitting between several groups of characters. It takes quite a while to settle into the book’s rhythm, but even when you’ve got a handle on all of the peeps involved, Beukes has a tendency to upset the reader’s comfort with micro cliff-hangers and chapter-long deviations; it’s a standard structuralism of the thriller genre, but hey, it works: the book’s pretty pacy.
Things hit the ground running with the discovery of the mutilated body of a teenager (he’s been cut in half and his torso glued to the similarly-severed hind legs of a deer. Eww gross. Lauren Beukes must have been gutted that True Detective (with its comparable deer-parts-stuck-on-a-dead-body opening scene) aired just a few months before BM was published. Deer hybrids must be zeitgeisty, or something). The investigating detective, Gabi Versado, is the main protagonist; a well-realised single mum, equally as adept at investigative policing as she is at batting away the sexist machismo bullshit she faces as a female police officer. To be honest, though, I found Gabi to be the least interesting of the players, partly because the cop-struggling-with-personal-problems is a tad cliché (though the fact that it’s a female police officer occupying this role is amazingly refreshing), but partly because, as readers, we already know who the killer is, and so we’re permanently at the advantage of Gabi, whose investigation is always playing catch up. Not that the ‘whodunnit’ is the only viable form for a thriller to take, of course, but in a book with so much going on, scenes in which the characters struggle to work out what the reader already knows can be a bit dry.
The murderer is lonely, struggling artist Clayton Broom, who’s been possessed by a “dream” – some supernatural evil that more-or-less controls his actions – and who attempts to make works of art out of the various people he kills. Whether or not the dead-bodies-as-art is a goal of the “dream” itself, or whether the art thing is a side-effect of the dream having possessed an artist whose conscious is kinda bleeding into its own, is left deliberately ambiguous; muddled in a way that mirrors the hybrid nature of the bodies-art themselves.
Art in general, in fact, is a major theme. Broken Monsters is partly an attempt to show the real life suffering behind the hipster “ruin porn” photography that’s oh-so-trendily emerging from post-industrial Detroit, “the number one Death-of-America pilgrimage destination”. Tied up with all of this is the phenomenon of art flourishing in times of social crisis, and one of Beukes’ most striking achievements is portraying the production of art as social catharsis in a time of disaster (while simultaneously satirising the crappiness and effectual impotence of bad installations, cliché photographs of abandoned factories, and lame Instagram filters etc).
With the collapse of the motor industry, Detroit’s most iconic mode of manufacturing production, it’s tempting to interpret the “dream” as a nightmare manifestation of Detroit’s own subconscious: the desire to produce combined with the expressive opportunities of art all mixed with the sheer rage of being the victims of a crisis the people of the city didn’t make. For the “dream”, which presents as simultaneously sinister and childlike, murder is a means of production, a process by which it can increase its own capital in the world and put itself out there. This is recession America as horror, then. Stuff has gone wrong, things are overlapping and becoming confused.
“There are places that are borders. Where something was but isn’t anymore, and other things can surface.”
The novel’s most striking character is Layla, the teenage daughter of detective Gabi. Layla is a sharp-tongued, sassy super wit who, as a young teen, could almost be a proto- version of Kirby from The Shining Girls. Lauren Beukes is freakishly gifted at ventriloquising the brought-up-by-the-internet, meme-dominated tech slang dialogue of twenty-first century teenagers, and to this end large chunks of the action transpires as YouTube comments, Skype IMs, Facebook messages, Tweets, Reddit threads etc. etc.
Now, this kind of stuff is a double-edge sword for me. Firstly, modern advances in communications technology present particular problems for writers of thriller fiction. How much of fiction’s tensions depend upon characters being separated, being out of touch, being at a literal distance from one another? (answer: a lot). Something of mystery and apprehension has been lost now that everyone is just a text or phone call away. Writerly responses to this are varied; some writers concoct shit reasons why a character has no signal, or has lost their phone or whatever. Others go as far as to set their dramas in a pre-mobile phone period purely to avoid having to contrive such bullshit no-cell-reception-at-the-moment-of-crisis scenarios. Both of these solutions are terrible. Lauren Beukes, then, should be praised for diving in at the deep end and swimming with, rather than against, the tide of modern comms tech, and creating a narrative whose tensions exist because of the ubiquity of modern communications, rather than in spite of. Indeedy, Layla’s involvement in a paedophile-baiting scheme is one of the most tense yet socially relevant thriller plot lines I’ve ever come across.
Secondly, I love anything that looks weird on the page, and YouTube-style comment threads definitely disrupt the standard novelistic textual layout. Lauren Beukes, being brilliant, manages this in a way that transcends gimmickry to become something genuinely insightful. It’s a critical truism to point out how much of our lives are now lived online, but here we go: The manner in which the layout of such passages differs from the rest of the novel reflects the internet’s simultaneous identity as something part of, but also other to and essentially separate from, our day-to-day lives. Lauren Beukes is doing more than just saying “these things exist!!”
But, but but but but but. But. All of these things (YouTube and Twitter and Instagram oh my!) aren’t mediums of communication in the way that television and letter writing are mediums: they’re also brands. And there’s something uncomfortable about reading a book that’s so utterly in-your-face with real world brands. All. The. Time. It’s like advertising but also not.
To be honest I don’t know what the solution is. Inventing some fictional but obvious equivalences to real-world social networking sites is just naff, but ignoring the stuff completely is, as I’ve argued, just burying your head in the sand. I mean, even the BBC struggle: as an organisation they’re (rightly) brand-averse, as expressed in the oft-repeated phrase “other ____s are available” (often uttered when some guest or other has made the gaff of name-dropping a corporation), but even the BBC has to name-check Twitter and the like, as if Twitter isn’t a money-making business with competition, as if this isn’t advertising, or as if social media are somehow outside of normal business culture (maybe they are…).
If you’ve read The Shining Girls you’ll more-or-less know what to expect from Broken Monsters. It feels a bit looser than the former; an unfortunate side-effect of a significantly larger cast and a more sprawling plot (indeed, some of the book’s tangential meanderings could be lost to no ill effect); but this is a minor niggle against a novel that, for its length, maintains an impressive sense of tension and ever-impending crisis that’s perfectly balanced against a steady stream of revelations. The book’s most prominent achievement is the way it rocks the genre boat by converging horror fictional tropes with a more lit fic-style interest in psychological and social realism; using the supernatural as metaphor to express the social in a way that makes the two impossible to disentangle. It’s fucking brilliant and very much, I hope, the future of genre writing.