Isolation Nation, The Dead Zone (1979, 1983)

THE DEAD ZONE (book - 1979, movie - 1983)

John Smith loses everything but gains second sight. Despite a degree of self-imposed social distancing, he shakes the wrong hand and seals his fate.

Freak out...but make it vampire cloak FASHION!

Whenever I think of The Dead Zone, all memory arrows straight to David Cronenberg's 1983 movie adaptation. King's 1979 source material is merely a footnote. I've never seen the television series (and likely never will) so it will not factor into this assessment beyond noting the wild leap from protagonist John Smith being portrayed first by the always mildly berserkers, electric scarecrow Christopher Walken to somehow later being portrayed by the weirdly beefed former Nerd King Anthony Michael Hall. It pulls a brain muscle just to think about it.

 

Normalcy is VW bugs and bowl cuts.

The movie lives at the fore of my experience (and admiration) because I saw it well before I ever read the novel. I was around eleven years old and had already seen way too many movies beyond my emotional maturity to adequately absorb (Excalibur was nauseating, Heavy Metal was disturbing and mortifying, there are too many more to recount here), so even the creeping horror of Smith's circumstances and the shockingly creative violence depicted throughout the film was not enough to give me my tell-tale stomachache, the sure sign that this particular rated R movie was probably not appropriate for my rigorously naive mind.

Instead, what I remember most, even more than the twitching scissor death scene (gahh), is the capital-em M   O   O   O   O   O   O   O   D of it all: the blue hues, the bone coldness. Cronenberg's vision seems to run cool in the works of his that I've seen, though I will state now that I do not pretend to be a Cronenberg aficionado. Even though the icy aesthetics and gnawing strangeness are familiar, I would consider The Dead Zone elevated and apart from Cronenberg's other works. I'm not into bleary-eyed masochism on any level, let alone debilitating, deliberate transmogrification, putrefaction, twisted alteration (once dead, send me straight to the pyre, no embalming, no eye glue, no viewings, no thank you), so much of Cronenberg's work is too upsetting and alienating for me to ever truly appreciate.

When Johnny sees the past or the future, he is transported to the moment,
an extremely effective device that ups the creep factor to eleven.

Even so, beyond those cold, blue aesthetics, it's hard to miss the common ancestry between The Dead Zone, Scanners, The Fly, and even Dead Ringers. But The Fly was pushing it . . . and Dead Ringers was a step too far . . . off the cliff and then wheeee down into oblivion canyon where thirty years later I still can't shake the revulsion that movie punched through me after just one viewing. The rest of you 2-cool-4-school film nerd psychos can enjoy one of the worst movies ever made to your sick little hearts' content, but for me Dead Ringers resides in a dark vault next to the likes of Eraserhead, Spider-Man 3, and Sex and the City 2. Send them all to the pyre. Just not my pyre. Send them to their own pyre on the opposite side of the earth where even our char particles may never mix. Ugh. Gross.

The terrible scene of the crime.

The clasp of the dead girl's hand.

The terrifying violin scree of connection.

From night to day, the killer hunts.

But The Dead Zone? The Dead Zone is beautiful, haunting, unsettling, gripping, and crushingly sad. It exists entirely in winter, the soft crunch of snow underfoot as Smith holds a dead girl's hand under the scant shelter of a gazebo, the slow plunging terror of children laden in hockey gear falling through the ice to drown in the deep, frigid waters, Christopher Walken's white, broken face, stick straight hair, and hollowed blue eyes staring, jolted in memory/precognition, the tight screech of violin strings raked with each terrible vision. The late, great screenwriter Jeffrey Boam (Innerspace, The Lost Boys, all of the Lethal Weapon movies) took King's patchwork novel and made it into a succinct, driving story that Cronenberg painted in ice and abject isolation.

Johnny sees the truth.

I mean, the second he did this, did you really expect it to turn
out as awful as it did? This was NOT in the book.

While the novel and the movie follow the same general plotline, details change, seasons change. The book has sunlight and summery scenes by the pool. Johnny's accident is caused by drag racing teens (instead of a sleepy trucker), his first premonition at the hospital saves some cats (instead of the nurse's daughter), and the boy John Smith tutors is a popular teenager (instead of a shy kid). In the book, Smith's vision saves the teen boy and some of his friends from a horrific graduation night fire (instead of the hockey players falling through ice) which was probably a very deliberate change since echos of Carrie would have been more of distraction, anyway. (Although there are still "echos of Carrie" in the tense screech of the violin that denotes Johnny's visions and Carrie's telekinetic "flexes.")

Another big deviation from the novel is the first meeting between Johnny
Smith and Greg Stillson. Stillson is visiting the father of the boy Johnny
is tutoring, working Daddy Bigbucks hard to get support and money. There
is a brief, barely registered introduction where Smith and Stillson seem to
shake hands...but there's a big campaign button in the middle of it,
breaking any connection (and premonition) Johnny might've experienced.

The ICE is gonna BREAK!

Rich people's houses always look exactly the same in every 80s movie.

Both works depict a John Smith shocked and devastated by the remarkable loss of time in the coma that followed a devastating car accident. His dismay and rejection of the "gift" of precognition is about the same. But there's something about the way Cronenberg shot the film--always winter, always cold, overcast, dark--that brings that shock and dismay to a whole other level. In the novel, Johnny is broken in body, laden in spirit, bedeviled by notoriety, and seeking some semblance of normalcy, but still so much of his pre-accident light and humor remains. In the film, Walken is peak Walken. His face is spectacularly singular: the sharp nose, pale lips, and those enormous eyes that either make you want to hold him and rock him to better dreams or just run screaming into the night because Christopher Walken has Seen Things. Terrible Things. And if you get too close he might tell you every. Last. Detail.

The first real handshake with Stillson.

Greg Stillson is decidedly not Josiah Bartlet but they're both New
Hampshire politicians. I wonder if that factored into the character design
when The West Wing was being pitched. Martin Sheen is from Ohio, by
the way, but he apparently puts out a very New Hampshire-y vibe... at
least to casting directors.

This scene is almost as chilling as that robe.

King's John Smith runs from his uneasy fame, rejects the second sight as the curse that it would most certainly be, but he spends most of his post-accident life in the presence of others: his father, his lost love Sarah, the tutee and his family. He tries to get back into teaching (before the notoriety blows that out of the water) and spends his free time attending political events to see candidates speak and, on occasion, to meet them and, cursed or not, shake their hands. This is how he manages to meet the true catalyst of his life, the most important handshake, the cataclysmic end of all self-serving, worldly pursuits: Greg Stillson. Smith is also spurred by acquaintances' interest in this particular bloviating candidate, but the novel goes to some length setting up the meeting as preordained by Smith's preexisting interest in politicians.

The Murder-y Faces of Greg.

Rainbow Fax Machine of Doom.

The film, in turn, makes their meeting completely circumstantial, and pulls lost-love Sarah back into the mix by way of canvassing for Stillson right to Johnny's front door. It is a surprise to her as much as it is to him, since Johnny's gone "off the radar" after the last precognitive incident. He lives alone, anonymous, in his sad robe, with all that cold winter light bleaching him into a haunted husk of memory and dreams deferred. He is the very picture of isolation, and the shock of seeing Sarah, along with her husband and child, is only more bracing in the lively commotion of Stillson's political rally revving up just across the street. Once they part, all awkwardness and hollow goodbyes, John Smith emerges from his self-sequester into the winter light, a wraith among the hopeful, enthusiastic living. Stillson and Johnny's encounter in the crowd of energized voters is as accidental as it is fated, and the bright overcast setting of their meeting makes Johnny's horrible vision of a night in the not so distant future all the more stark and alarming.

The smile never touches the eyes.

As I write this, the world is living in unprecedented times. We are all self-isolating, more and more by order of cities, states, and countries all reckoning with the Covid-19 virus. It's having varied, predictable consequences on the collective psyche. We are social animals after all, with some suffering more than others from the lack of human interaction (either entirely or outside the family unit). Even the more antisocial suffer, too, just from the absence of other faces, other voices, and the warm vigor of life and breath and living that surrounds us in our day-to-day lives.

Walken's acting in this scene alone is just...everything. 

Just today I found myself near tears for no discernible reason whatsoever. There was just this keening feeling of anxiety and sadness pushing outward from my core. I felt completely out of control. It reminded me of recovery, the terrible "awakeness" of sick wanting, for the drink, for the soft, smothering numbness, the ersatz zip of alcohol-fueled thrill, and even just the banal habit of it. It was also a reminder of why I had to quit smoking when I quit drinking--just breaking the habit is sheer Hell. Addiction just piles on and rubs your face in the dirt until you're a shivering mess of tics, galvanic rage, and uncontrollable sobbing. Having life upended completely on a global scale--even if it just means telecommuting in jammies, only eating home cooked food, and committing completely to social distancing--is hard for everyone. It certainly should not be minimized or dismissed. Routines may not be addictions, but they are hard to break. Varying levels of depression, anxiety, and stress are to be expected.

The star-struck electorate.

Our current global circumstances have certainly given me a new appreciation for poor John Smith. As I read through the novel, mentally ticking off each deviation from the film so central to my memory of the story, I found myself thinking more and more about that adaptation, how well it captured his Otherness, once an ordinary schoolteacher, now a twisted freak whose third eye might see too much so don't touch him, never touch him, and don't let him touch you. Christopher Walken's haunted face was perfect for the role, and Cronenberg's cold hues knitted the themes of isolation, exclusion, and the wending threads of fate into a tight, tense work of grim horror. Imagine the intimacy of "knowing" any stranger, a moment in time, the past or the future, just by touching them. Then imagine the terrible truths you might see, willing or not, to be infected by this horrible knowledge. In the book, Johnny's interest in shaking hands with various politicians is mostly spurred by general curiosity. He never expects to encounter the nightmarish depths of arrogance, madness, murderous zeal he senses when he grips hands with Greg Stillson. Unwittingly or not, Other-ed or not, the John Smith in the novel still seeks contact, even with the threat of knowing more than he bargained for.

We've asked ourselves, "What would it take?" Maybe this. Maybe. I would
have been sure before, but not anymore. Cynical? Or just honest? 

The End for Johnny, but the end for Greg Stillson, too. 

It's easier to relate to John Smith in these extraordinary times, when every person outside the sequestered home is an Other, a possible threat to the well-being of the household. In many ways, this topsy turvy time of self-isolation and fear serves as a moment of revelation, perhaps a time for introspection, contemplation...comprehension, even. People have found themselves unable to focus, to be productive, to find the plot of life and reel it into something more cohesive than watching an endless blend of entertainment available with an internet connection, a cable subscription, or even just Antenna TV. They feel discombobulated, unreal, detached, dismayed.

Simple, two-color design that neither confuses
or misrepresents the story.

Depression can feel like this. Anxiety disorder absolutely feels like this. But what it reminds me of most is something else: the severe case of dissociation many of us have been experiencing since the early morning hours of November 9, 2016.

The shock has worn off, sure, but the surreality of the situation remains. Sometimes it intensifies, sometimes it dissipates, but it's never really gone. Donald Trump was elected president of the United States. That really happened. It didn't matter how grotesquely he behaved, how narcissistic, hateful, petty, childish, or just plain embarrassing he was on too many occasions to count (though many have tried, exhaustively, but to what end...) because it didn't matter. Enough people--and the electoral college--decided yes, this man should lead a country. And not just any country. The U. S. of Fuckin-A, Bubba.

It's not necessary to list out every "nasty" incident. The day he mocked the disabled reporter was the end of it. There are no justifications after that, no excuses, no side steps. He's a bad person. He shouldn't be managing a Foot Locker let alone a country.

The failure is not Trump, just as the failure is not Stillson in The Dead Zone. Trumps and Stillsons will always exist. But all the glad-handling evidence was right there: the shaky, shadowy history, the glib insincerity, the thin platform full of big(goted) ideas and sniggering divisiveness. That blowhard, showboating selfishness and thinly veiled contempt for anyone outside the the immediate shadow of the monolithic, vengeful despot, is on display for anyone to see. When I first saw The Dead Zone, I thought the same things so many of us were thinking during the 2016 election season: How can they not see what he is? How can they be so blind?

I finally came to the conclusion that the people who elected Trump were not blind at all. They know exactly who he is and voted for him anyway. Some people are just like him; just as hateful, petty, brittle, and small--they relate to him and he speaks their language. Other people like to watch the world burn, lend matchsticks to the firestarters and lean back smiling in the light of the flames. Too many are just as embarrassing as Trump (and quite frankly I'm surprised more people don't talk about this) because these grown ass adult humans with actual functioning brains voted for him because he is famous. They were star struck, dumb struck, now we're out of luck.

And we can't forget the people who simply voted against Hilary Clinton. Their hatred for her is as hot as their reasoning is cold. Conspiracy theorists are not welcome here. It's like comparing a bang snap to a grenade. Stop hitting yourself.

"We are on Facebook! We are on Twitter!"
At this point, who isn't? Leave it off.

In The Dead Zone, a nuclear holocaust is the eventual consequence of allowing Greg Stillson's political career to take its course. In the Covid-19 Zone, the United States now leads the world in confirmed cases. As of today's writing, there are over 374,000 confirmed infected in the US, and over 12,000 dead.* On February 28, just over a month ago, Trump called the increasing criticism of his administration's handling of the coronavirus threat as the Democrat's "new hoax"(1) downplaying the severity of the virus (comparing it to the common flu) and later claiming the government had "tremendous control over [it]" (2). From blustering misinformation and lies, he's now moved on to war analogies and minimizing the specter of 200,000 possible deaths in the US alone.

Humans, even intelligent, educated, introspective, branius maximus ones, can be manipulated by political "spin," but it doesn't work on a virus. Yell at it all you want, declare "war" on it all you want, "close" travel to and from one country all you want, deny that it really matters all you want. Viruses are single minded and apolitical. They don't believe in borders. In their estimation, we really are "the world": united, equal, and fair game.

Front inner cover now serves as an ad page for more
contemporary works, which in turn dates the edition
but I doubt they care much about that.

So as we live out this term of isolation, doing our level best to "flatten the curve," will even a small fraction of Trump voters repent, see the error in their ways? Will they finally see through the facade, the nonsensical blatting, the gaseous intellect of old farts lingering in the greasy couch cushion that is the Trump presidency? Johnny Smith self-isolated to avoid the grim immediacy of the human condition, all its ugly secrets, bitter truths, sad ends better left unspoken and unknown. When the time comes, are there enough of us willing to face the hard truths of the world, that most of the time you won't get the candidate you really want, but you can certainly vote for the candidate that all the people need?

Trump is not a Republican. He is an opportunist. He is an ugly person. There are many, many examples of his wretched behavior readily available online, in print, and no doubt on a scroll in Hell somewhere, tallying, tallying, forever tallying. Demon interns working overtime.

So . . . Sit in your dirty bathrobe and do nothing? Or put on your vampire cloak and do something?

Preliminary praise page full of weird stock
acclaim. It never fails to entertain and vex,
the generalizations and inaccuracies in some
of these blurbs. I truly love them. Intense!!

When we saw The Dead Zone in the theater, I distinctly remember being most terrified by Smith's premonition of Stillson's "destiny," the scene set in some near-future woodsy, rich man's cabin, deep in the night, the warm comfort of knotty pine and lamp light . . . but then there's batshit crazy now-President Stillson (played with gleeful, malevolent bluster by the more-than-qualified Martin Sheen) threatening his general to either put his hand on the screen or he'd "hack it off and put it on for you." At first my preteen brain couldn't compute what was happening. This wasn't what it looked like, was it? In memory the scene seemed so much longer, but it clocks in just over two, gutting minutes. By the time it ended with Stillson stating that the missiles were indeed flying, the quiet evil of it all was like a thundershot to the sternum. The scene stuck with me for days, weeks, even years. The casual lunacy, that it came to Stillson "in a dream" to push the proverbial button and annihilate the planet, was chilling, sickening even, but surely remote? Surely.

At the time, somewhat early in Ronald Reagan's first term as president of the United States, the nervous jokes about an accidental nuclear holocaust had not yet reached the cross-media fervor it later would (the 1986 music video for Genesis' "Land of Confusion" is the most immediate example that comes to mind). We lived in a world where the threat of nuclear war was always a peripheral worry, but at the time it seemed we were in at least competent hands. Even the most hawkish leaders wouldn't go that far . . . unless something truly, spectacularly extraordinary happened. Which it wouldn't. Ever. Of course.

Big, slow clap for Gallery Books, whose 2016
edition blows the 2012 Anchor editions out of
the water. Better paper, cleaner production,
and an overall higher quality effort. Simon &
Schuster rules while Random House drools.

Exceptionally meaty crite page.

The thought that the American people would ever elect anyone so clearly mentally ill was beyond consideration. I believed that the people would be able to see past the bluster, the hammy, Jolly Joe put on, the big, bleached smile that never reaches the eyes. Anyone with that shady of a background would never make it to the debate stage, let alone the nomination. And a person so bereft of compassion, kindness, and humanity might fool some, for a minute . . . but again, that person could never make it all the way to the presidential election, let alone win it. Certainly someone so malevolent, narcissistic, and cruel could never . . .

Lesson learned. Turns out, they'd double down and elect someone even worse.

It would be difficult to find another candidate so abysmally unqualified, incompetent, and morally bankrupt that a starry eyed electorate might fall for yet again, but now we know the depths of depravity, the complete surrender of ethical and judicious, mindful leadership, that a large swath of Americans are willing to not only accept but embrace. John Smith's failed assassination attempt (which Stillson completed by an act so cowardly and low that I can only think of one grifter politician who would absolutely resort to the same thing) would never fix our real-world problems. The stunning finale, one that dictates our immediate future--our health, our happiness, our country's collective well-being--rests entirely on the electorate itself. Some education might help, some healing of hearts and hurts, maybe. But what of the world burners, the never-snowflakes, the ones who live in seething hate of the Other, the "socialist agenda," the very notion of globalization? Unfortunately for us, a global pandemic is not going to help change xenophobic black hearts and conspiracy twisted minds.

I love that there was no attempt to update this
author's note. It's like its very own little time
capsule, referencing the "historical backdrop
of the last decade" and making sure the reader
knows that Castle Rock isn't a real town. 

The author bio page must be updated, of course,
since the gulf of time (and the wealth of work)
between The Dead Zone and now is immense.

Cult of personality aside, maybe the more consequential differences between Stillson and Trump--yammering idiocy and blazing incompetence--will tip the scales enough for a respite. Perhaps enough people will horrified by his administration's handling of the Covid-19 pandemic and will vote him out. Not the candidate we want, but God Help Us, not four more years of Trump. Because if anyone thinks his administration's bungling of the coronavirus threat is the worst that could happen, please think again.

[Book only!]
Grade: B
Scary? (0-nope to 10-you will die): 4, not scary so much as impending doom. The novel is a mishmash of best intentions, with some moments of inspired storytelling dragged down by swatches of exposition that knock the story off-kilter. It is difficult to build tension and sustain mood and immersion when the tone shifts back and forth throughout. Still good, but could be so much better.
Warnings: Animal cruelty, Antisemitism, extreme religious fanaticism, women acting shrill, stupid, and two-dimensional.
Artifact: 2016 Gallery Books edition. Paperback, flat cut, very nice trade cream paper, flat 2-color cover. The only thing wrong with this particular copy was the protective plastic covering added by the library, which is a bit ripped up around the edges, so quite bite-y, scratchy, and all around uncomfortable to read unless you're careful (which is harder to do during the more immersive parts). I got at least one good nick from it (ouch) and will make sure to let them know whenever I'm allowed to return it. Side note: I knew my materials due date was fast approaching so checked my account online. They've automatically moved due dates to May, which is awfully nice of them. I can wrap my mind around surrendering April, but May? Let's say a prayer and hope the storm's passed by May.

Note: All screenshots were taken from the Movieclips series linked here. And if you're curious about what Stephen King has to say regarding all those Stillson/Trump comparisons, a short clip can be found here.

*Last Note: By far, the scariest thing about writing this essay was how the numbers kept shooting up every time I checked the CDC website. When I started, US deaths were around 4,500. Stay safe, stay inside, stay informed.