Every generation reimagines or adds to the stories and myths passed down to them; this is part of the process of culture and its communication, and it’s something that Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan, co-authors of The Strain, are acutely aware of. When dealing with a mythology as often returned to as vampirism, it is especially important, to my mind, to bring something new to the table.
The Strain is quick to debunk some pre-conceived notions we might have about the children of the night:
“Garlic has certain interesting immunological properties and can be useful in its own right. So its presence in the mythology is biologically understandable, at any rate. But crucifixes and holy water?” He shrugged. “Products of their time. Products of one Victorian author’s fevered Irish imagination, and the religious climate of the day.”
If you’ve seen Blade II, which Del Toro directed, you’ll be vaguely familiar with the unusual physiology of these vampires, and the authors clearly use this film as a platform upon which to base some more bizarre physical traits, but I won’t spoil these for you.
Another particularly refreshing aspect is the perspective from which we as readers view the narrative. Vampire literature traditionally draws from a limited pool of protagonist types; I’ve had my fill of brooding vampires and their equally self-centred hunters, lone individuals who barely have to interact with the world around them, but this book is different. Hogan and Del Toro’s hero is a middle-aged man struggling through divorce proceedings while trying to maintain a normal relationship with his young son. Alright, so he’s also the head of a bioterrorism response unit, but apart from that he’s like all of us: weak, scared and human.
Therein lies the true difference between this novel and the majority of the vampiric canon, the supernatural is really just a foil for humanity, we are the central players. Much like Pan’s Labyrinth, another of Del Toro’s, it’s humanity that causes the worst atrocities, not the terrifying fantasy world that we sometimes inhabit. As a vampire says to one of the central characters, a former inmate in an Austrian concentration camp during the Second World War:
“But why destroy me, boy? Why am I so deserving of your wrath, when around you you find even more death in my absence?”
Set in New York, a city trying to build over the scars of 9/11, the outbreak of vampirism is initially mistaken for a bioterrorist attack, or the beginnings of some new epidemic, the implication being that human beings could easily have caused as much carnage without the help of their vitamin D-deficient cousins. Scarily enough, once people start to realise what’s happening, there’s a perverse pleasure in defending oneself from former loved ones and acquaintances. Annoying neighbours, smug co-workers, even estranged spouses, all are dispatched with an eerie relish.
As one would expect from a director turned writer, pacing and description is bang on; the writing is so seamless you can hardly tell it was a collaborative effort; and it actually made me afraid of the dark again, which is surely the ultimate achievement for such a work. Inevitably, however, we must turn to the question of a future film adaptation, and what effect this had had on the writing. As already mentioned, it’s a vividly descriptive book, and the build-up is perfect, but to what degree one can differentiate this from plain good writing is hard to tell. One thing to note is that the way the chapters are split up, to me, seemed cinematic, almost scene-like, but your mileage may vary. Whatever the balance, I wouldn’t be surprised if this trilogy ended up on the silver (!) screen at some point in the not-too-distant future.
PS the audio version is narrated by Ron Perlman, long-time Del Toro collaborator, which got me excited.
