The movie was better. A small part of me wanted to just drop the mike and walk away. But I like to expound upon my perceptions, even if I’m doing it for my own pleasure and edification. First, I’d like to thank Trudi (aka The Busty Book Bimbo) for throwing down the gauntlet and calling yours truly to the red carpet. Yes, she may have called me out a while ago, but I’m from West Virginia, and we tend to talk and move a little slow. And, yeah, I had the movie version in the back of my mind with Jack Nicholson at his finest level of insanity. Rather than break the spell, I wanted to hold onto my crazy ways.
THE SHINING was a slow bleed for me. Sure, it was freaky and crazy and had a certain level of insanity and madness, but it’d take me about three days to bleed out. The movie version, however, bled me out in less than twenty minutes. That shit was crazy. And grotesque. And strange. And weird. And the way Jack Nicholson pounded away at the keys…well, that reminded me of the great man himself slaving over his typewriter in the 1970s with a gleam in his eye and a razorblade in his hip pocket.
But Stephen King never quite captures that level of horror for me, where I’m sleeping with my Honey Boo Boo nightlight and sucking my thumb for a week at a time. He freaks me out a little, like an itch I can’t quite scratch, and I may look over my shoulder once or twice, before I move on with my life. And, sure, I get the feeling that he might be a little bit nuts, because genius and hovering outside the norm walk hand-in-hand across I-95. But that’s where I meet the brick wall going at 70 mph in the slow lane.
The story dragged along a bit longer than necessary. Sure, the man can spin a yarn better than Calvin Klein, but a little brevity never hurt anybody, and unfortunately, you won’t find it here. That being said, though, I’m glad I was taken to task for my novel skipping ways, and I shall make a more valiant attempt in the future at staying on top of things. When I do, I shall most definitely alert the proper authorities.
Oh, and I may never stay in a hotel in rural Colorado. But I’ll kindly thank Stanley Kubrick for that one.