Zombie, Spaceship, Wastland, Vampires?

Not much new to report in Sanguine Diaryland. I’ve submitted two stories for publication, so now I just have to wait. I still have two other projects in the works. More on that later.

For this week’s entry,  I’m going to talk about a funny, interesting essay by the brilliant comedian, actor, and nerd extraordinaire, Patton Oswalt. If you’ve never seen or heard him do anything before, watch this clip:

Ok, good. Now you can read my essay, Zombie, Spaceship, Wasteland, Vampires?

“Are you a Zombie, a Spaceship, or a Wasteland?” So begins the eponymous essay of Patton Oswalt’s book, Zombie, Spaceship, Wasteland. Growing up, Oswalt and his friends devoured movies like Night of the Living Dead, Star Wars, and Road Warrior. As time passed, zombie, sci-fi, and post-apocalypse movies became part of his creative DNA, and he found the same thing applied to his friends as well. Therefore, he argues that creative people’s tend to adapt the characteristics of the genre that influences them the most. Here are the three categories Oswalt identifies, and what makes them unique: 

Zombies Simplify: The Zombie narrows the world to a “microcosm of archetypes, fighting for survival against the undead hordes.” The implication of a tight-knit community aside, the Zombie is a nihilist. The infrastructure of their world is still intact, but ultimately “Zombies can’t believe the energy we waste on nonfood pursuits.”

Spaceships Leave: For them, “it’s easier…to build a world and know its history or, better yet, choose the limited customs and rituals that fit the story.” They tend to work with computers and make good parents (“a good captain knows how to treat his crew”), but skim over the surface of the world, deflector shields up.

Wastelands Destroy: They have no interest in building a community of survivors, and “zooming off in a spaceship…smacks of retreat.” So they’re loners, wandering across a desolate world populated by mutants, who’re basically “variations of the human species grown amok.” But they are also “the most hopeful and sentimental of the bunch. Because…they conceive stories in which a core of humanity…survives and endures.”

Each category is interconnected. For example, Oswalt points out that “Darth Vader is, essentially, a Zombie, born in a Wasteland, who works on a Spaceship.”

“Every teen outcast who pursues a creative career,” he declares, “has, at its outset, either a Zombie, Spaceship, or Wasteland work of art in them.” And this opus usually stems from the nadir of adolescence. Oswalt finds that he is a Wasteland. During his freshman year of high school, he wrote two epic tales of post-apocalyptic antiheroes (apparently, they were both garbage). More importantly, comedians live on the road. They drift from town to town, living off cheap booze and nachos, “pointing out [to audiences] how so much of what we perceive as culture and society is disposable waste.”

Each category makes a lot of sense, and the essay does a great job explaining the personal roots of creativity. But Oswalt makes no grandiose claims here. His views reflect his experience, and his experience alone. He even goes so far as to explain, “I think this chapter is more for me than for you.”

Still, I really identify with what he says here. I was a teenage outcast, and I had varying levels of experience with those three genres. I grew up on Star Wars and, as a child of the nuclear ‘80s, watched my share of post-apocalyptic movies. There were other genres, too, most notably James Bond movies. But in my late teens and early twenties, I conceived of a wasteland-ish epic about a dystopian America, led by a dictator that waged a fierce, exterminationist war against fundamentalist christians. By my mid-twenties—which counts as one of the various nadirs of my adolescence—I had refined this story to the point of view of a soldier in said war, focusing on the grim choices she had to make to fulfill her ideological commitments (Thank you for your time, Mr. Spielberg. Really, there’s no need to call security).

But as much as Oswalt’s essay speaks to me, I still feel it’s incomplete. Where are the vampires? This is, after all, an essay written by a man who played a scientist who gets killed by vampires in Blade: Trinity. Granted, a reasonable person could say, ‘Well, maybe vampires weren’t that big a part of his childhood.’ But in the preface of Zombie Spaceship Wasteland, he confides that “Nosferatu looms over and lurks under everything I’m writing about here, and in this book.” Yeah. So there.

I won’t second guess Oswalt too much. I’m sure he had his reasons for sticking to those three tropes. But nothing is stopping me from adding my own experience to his model.

Vampires Detach: Unlike Zombies, they appreciate the complexity of the world around them, and they have no desire to zoom off in a Spaceship. Nor are they exactly solitary wanderers.  Vampires interact with other groups, but they tend to be disconnected and secretive. There are three basic kinds of vampire subcategories: decided vampires, self-conscious vampires, and people who kill vampires. In each case, the main character does not, can not, fit into society.

The detachment, the sense of seeing the world in a way that is irreconcilable with a proverbially normal life, often comes with a conceit of superiority. The decided vampire views people as edible playthings. For all their moping, self-conscious vampires are often compelled to show off their power as they divulge their awful knowledge. The vampire hunter protects the world from an unseen threat, so the very nature of their work makes them an outcast.

Look at it this way, Stoker made Dracula as much an anathema to all that is good and decent as he was hard to resist. Anne Rice’s Louis was sensitive and wise, but he was also so deprived of companionship that he wrestled with his turbid lust for Claudia, a vampire in the body of a prepubescent girl. Blade is skilled at killing vampires because he’s half-vampire, so he doesn’t have too many friends.

The Vampire’s alienation is rooted in their own capacity to be a monster. This is the final, deepest layer of the Vampire burrito. This is also why I know I am a Vampire. Teen outcast? Sheesh, I was socially awkward well into my thirties. So I spent a lot of time alone, usually in a room full of people. As a recovering alcoholic, I am also well aware of my ugliest capacities.

Without AA and multiple, daily entreaties to my Higher Power, I am a selfish, self-destructive douche who thrives on chaos. Left to my own devices, I’m the guy who shows up sloppy drunk to your party, presses your guests about the worst details of their lives, and assumes you won’t notice that I’m leaving with half of the beer from your fridge. It’s not as sexy as hypnotizing virgins and drinking their blood, but basically I can be about as white-knuckled over my appetites as Edward Cullen, Stefan Salvatore, or any other pretty-boy vampire who’s afraid to bite his girlfriend.

So that, my friends is my addition to Oswalt’s model. It’s not perfect, but no less so than the original. And like the original, it is strengthened by its overlap with other categories. For example, Buffy Summers is a Vampire slayer, who also fights her share of Zombies; her hometown of Sunnydale sits on a Hellmouth, which threatens to open and turn the world into a Wasteland; and at one point her mother is tormented by a Demon who crashed to Earth on a Spaceship.  So there.

In the Maw of "Meh": Mario Acevedo's Killing the Cobra

Well there's good news in Sanguine Diary Land. We have a winner for the giveaway. Jen Snyder of New York, New York won a free copy of the anthology Dark Light, with my story "Blood and Soil." The rest of you will just have to get one for yourselves. It's even free for Kindle if you're an Amazon Prime member. Yay!

Now, on to the rest. Here is my review of review of Mario Acevedo's graphic novel, Killing the Cobra:

In the Maw of "Meh": Mario Acevedo's Killing the Cobra:


Mario Acevedo’s novels are a lot of fun. Each one pits Felix Gomez, a vampire P.I., against absurd characters like lascivious aliens, vampire porn moguls, and mad scientists. And as far as vampires go, Gomez is pretty benevolent. When not drinking goat’s blood, he minimizes the damage to his human victims with hypnosis and saliva that can heal wounds. Gomez is also pretty resourceful, often favoring his wits over brute force. With titles like Jailbait Zombie and X-Rated Bloodsuckers, Acevedo’s novels brim with dark humor and a gritty, noir feel that seem like a great fit for a graphic novel crossover. And I still believe that is true, except that Killing the Cobra abandons the formula that makes the novels work.

As a story, Killing the Cobra is certainly cold-blooded, but in the wrong way. Gomez scowls and punches his way through each frame with none of the twisted humor that makes the novels enjoyable. Instead, Cobra makes Gomez a square-jawed hero who spits macho clichés about playing by his own rules.

The plot is simple enough, and actually too predictable. The Araneum, a sinister vampire syndicate for whom Gomez is a reluctant servant, has assigned him to take down a drug kingpin from Hong Kong. Gomez destroys a massive shipment of heroin, and the kingpin takes revenge by following Gomez to San Francisco and kidnapping his girlfriend. A lot of the story feels rushed, shuffling the plot from one action sequence to another, without building much in between.

Gomez’s relationship with his girlfriend, Qian Ning seems rote. In almost all of the novels, Felix has love interests and Acevedo always makes a little bit of room to develop the characters’ rapport. One scene in X-Rated Bloodsuckers, where a woman holds his hand and he has to pretend that her silver ring doesn’t hurt him, is a perfect example. Qian Ning is painted with too many broad strokes: she’s ‘good’ because she’s an ex-prostitute who runs a shelter for women escaping the sex industry. Beyond that, though, there’s very little to her character. This is too bad, a real missed opportunity for adding complexity to the plot.

Gomez is also drawn too broadly, despite the fact that the graphic novel is at its best when describing his experiences of the Iraq War. But for most of the story, Gomez just talks tough, telling thugs to mind their manners or reminding his contacts at the Araneum that he does things his way. Acevedo’s novels are not what one would call nuanced, but they work just fine. In the novels, Acevedo explains Gomez’s scars from the war and describes the parameters of his vampirism without slowing the plot. In Killing the Cobra, he not only changes the parameters, but explains things with needless redundancy. The Felix Gomez of the graphic novel completely abstains from human blood, which robs the character of a lot of interesting ambiguity. Practically every scene in Killing the Cobra explains that he’s a vampire, as if fangs, super strength, and imperviousness to bullets do not adequately convey this. On two separate occasions, it is explained that Araneum is latin for spider web. And this is one of those things that readers should be allowed to look up on their own.

I am way past the age where I take pleasure in harsh criticism, and it gives me no joy that Killing the Cobra falls flat. Honestly, I was looking forward to reading it. In fairness to Acevedo, the story was released in serial issues before being compiled into a graphic novel, so it’s entirely possible that poor sales or some other tremor of the publishing world cut the project short. If that’s the case, then it would explain why so many of the relationships lack depth and some of the more intriguing premises—like Qian Ning’s women’s shelter—were not adequately explored. But the dumbing down of Felix Gomez is still a disappointing mystery. Maybe Acevedo just didn’t know how to tell a story in a different medium. Either way, if you’re a fan of the novels, don’t bother with Killing the Cobra. And if you’ve never read Mario Acevedo, pick up Jailbait Zombie. It’s a lot of fun.

Anthology Giveaway: Dark Light, featuring my story, "Blood & Soil"

It is an exciting night at the Sanguine Diary. My story, "Blood & Soil", was featured in the anthology Dark Light, brought to you by the good people at Crushing Hearts & Black Butterfly Publishing. And now you have a chance to win a Free Copy! 

Here's a trailer for the book: 

This is my first giveaway, and I am using Rafflecopter. Between March 22nd and April 3rd, all you have to do is  fill out the form below. The winner will be announced on April 4th.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

New Deal, Old Scores: American Vampire, Volume 2

Confession: Over the past few months, I have spent many a night reading comic books by flashlight. It was something I never did as a kid, so I guess I'm catching up. But my self-indulgence pays off, for tonight I present you with a review of the second volume of Scott Snyder's American Vampire.

Vampires can hold a grudge. Piss one off, and it’ll launch a long, seething vendetta that makes Richard Nixon look positively gracious (Note: Actor Frank Langella has portrayed both Dracula and Richard Nixon. Coincidence?). It has been said that anything you do can come back to bite you, and the second volume of American Vampire puts a literal twist on this adage. By the end of the story, old scores are settled and new ones have arisen. It’s a good ride, but would have been even better if the creator, Scott Snyder, had settled some of the problems of the first series, notably the development of his central character, the original American Vampire, Skinner Sweet.

The second installment of American Vampire picks up about ten years after the end of the first one. It’s 1936 and Roosevelt’s New Deal is in full swing. The Works Progress Administration has loosed an avalanche of money on Las Vegas, Nevada, and everyone’s scrambling to reap a reward. Skinner Sweet gets his by being a pimp, catering to an army of migrant laborers and the wealthy entrepeneurs who’ve been contracted to build a massive dam. In an effort to attract workers and stimulate the economy, prostitution and gambling have been legalized, but the move ultimately pushes the city to the brink of lawlessness.

The town’s young sheriff, Cash McCogan, tries his damndest to keep the peace, a task made even harder by the fact that he just donned the badge of his father, who was murdered in cold blood. If that weren’t bad enough, the leaders of the engineering consortium in charge of constructing the dam start turning up dead. He gets some help, though, from two FBI agents who are actually Vassals of the Morning Star—vampire hunters who’ve been recruited into the trade because a vampire has harmed them at one point in their life. What McCogan doesn’t know, is that Sweet has set the stage to take revenge on the old-world vampires who turned him. I offer no spoilers, except to say that this is not a cautionary tale. Blood flies, scores are settled, and others have no reasonable choice but to seek revenge.

My only reservation about this story line is that Sweet’s motives don’t seem to make sense. As a character Sweet has three basic traits: he is ruthless, cunning, and absolutely self-serving. This makes for a solid villain, but does little to explain why he has it in for the vampires of the old world. It can’t be because they made him a vampire. Despite a rough start, he clearly enjoys the change. It can’t be that they foiled his spree as a bank robber when he was still human. He’s never, in either the first or second book, complained about the loss. The only motive he ever states is a disdain for the older vampires, but so what? They aren’t really a threat to him. Hopefully, something more complex about Sweet will be revealed in later volumes.

The continuing story of the Scott Snyder’s other American Vampire, Pearl Jones, adds even more layers to her character. Pearl is something quite interesting: a ‘good’ vampire who is neither self-loathing nor remorseful. She still struggles with serious issues, such as the eventual frailty of her human lover, Henry, and whether or not he will one day be revolted by her true nature. But she also freely admits to enjoying certain elements of her ingrained bloodlust. Pearl rarely kills humans, though when she does, it’s for good reason—such as protecting someone she loves—and she doesn’t regret it.

Pearl's past comes back to haunt her, too. Hattie Hargrove, a vampire and former friend who Pearl left for dead after Hattie betrayed her, has escaped captivity and is looking for revenge. Except Hattie’s pursuit of Pearl never comes to a head. This part of the story feels more like a bridging segment, keeping the characters active while nursing earlier conflicts toward a finale. Skinner Sweet's story in this volume is also open ended. New characters, such as Cash McCogan, are introduced, and, if the first volume is any indicator, his story is not finished.

All these loose threads are good news, because it leaves plenty of room for mayhem in the next installment, especially since second volume of American Vampire was almost as good as the first. Once again, Rafael’s Albuquerque’s artwork is terrific, as is the work by contributing artist, Mateus Santolouco. Hopefully, Sweet will gain more depth, but I can’t say I’m holding my breath. Snyder seems pretty content to just let him be mean and selfish. Still, I can’t fathom why he is so bent on destroying his predecessors. 

Volume 3 was published in early February of this year (expect a review soon), and Volume 4 is due out in October. I can’t wait to see where Snyder and co. take this story. 

Baltimore: The Plague Ships

Things are still good in the land of the Sanguine Diary. Tomorrow I am going on a three-day retreat to get some writing work done, and my story "Blood and Soil" is now available in the anthology Dark Light, from the good people at Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing.

So tonight, I am pulling myself away from Robert Kaplan's Balkan Ghosts (feel free to wonder if that book is related something I might be working on) to present you with a review of Baltimore: The Plague Ships from Dark Horse Comics.

No doubt, Lord Henry Baltimore is the coolest vampire hunter with a wooden leg. He marks each of his kills by driving a nail into his prosthesis. The first nail was for his wife. Some call him a hero, others call him a curse, and Baltimore himself believes he is damned. In a simpler life he was a soldier, leading his men across the battle-scarred fields of France in World War I— until a chance encounter with a vampire unleashed a plague upon humanity. God may have forged him as a weapon to bring some light back to the world, but Baltimore cares for no greater purpose than vengeance. You see, blighting humanity was not enough for the vampire; he also had to murder Baltimore’s family.

Lord Baltimore’s story debuted in the excellent novel by Christopher Golden and Mike Mignola, titled Baltimore, Or the Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire, and The Plague Ships is a comic-book sequel by the same authors. Those who haven’t read the novel would not be lost if they read Plague Ships first, though. It not only supplies the necessary back story, but is a solid work in its own right.

Plague Ships follows Baltimore through a Europe choked nearly to death by a vampire’s plague, The Red Death. Those who’ve not been turned into vampires have succumbed to a gruesome, highly contagious disease, and those who have survived live in suspicious isolation.Baltimore’s search for Haigus, the vampire who killed his family and unleashed the Red Death, brings him to a desolate coastal town in France. Ashe secures passage from the town, becomes shipwrecked, and battles a horde of undead German submariners, he also learns he is the target of a new, ruthless inquisition which believes the Red Plague can only end if Europe is cleansed of all sin. And the inquisitors see no difference between Baltimore and the monsters he slays. This is only a brief synopsis of The Plague Ships, which sets up a longer plot to be continued Baltimore’s saga in another collection, titled The Curse Bells (due out this June in trade paperback).

Whereas Mike Mignola (best known as the creator of Hellboy) illustrated the novel with elegant chiaroscuro, Ben Stenbeck, Dave Stewart, and Clem Robins— the artistic team behind Plague Ships— take full advantage of the medium, using single images to express ideas that could only unfold in several pages of prose. Take this image:

Art by Ben Stenbeck. Colors by Dave Stewart.

Here we see Baltimore recovering from his first encounter with the vampire. He is sleeping in a church the army has commandeered as a hospital. The stained glass above his head, depicting Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden, is a perfect symbol of his transformation. Since the back story is told in flashbacks, the reader has already seen Baltimore as a vampire hunter: his dark, haggard features, the seemingly unbearable load of weapons, his lumbering wooden leg. So the reader already knows his fate. But this image shows that when he wakes up, life as he knew it is over. He has been damned by a terrible, new-found knowledge of evil.

Then there is this image:  

Art by Ben Stenbeck. Colors by Dave Stewart.

A skilled writer could describe this scene very well, but the art has a visceral quality that usually only conjures verbal epithets like “bad-ass!” or “god damn!”

Comic book aficionados will probably laugh at me here. Not only do they already know what I’ve described in the past few paragraphs, but I am sure they could give me a thousand other, maybe even better, examples. If that’s the case, then I say ‘please do’, because I will admit that I am only now really learning about comic books.

My greater area of knowledge lies in the vampire genre as a whole, and I have to say that the character of Baltimore is a welcome addition in any medium. Don’t get me wrong, I love the newer, more ambivalent breed of vampires. After all, two of my four tattoos come from Angel and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But I like that Christopher Golden and Mike Mignola are working in the vein of old school vampires who view the human heart as nothing more than the source of a meal.

And let’s face it, as a villain, Haigus is a serious badass. Dracula only molested a handful of wealthy Brits, but this guy unleashed a plague on humanity. But I also like the way the authors show how the nature of evil unambiguous while acknowledging that its faces are subjective and sometimes hard to detect. Baltimore is a force of good, but he doesn’t really look like one. Consequently, he is often persecuted by people he is willing to protect, and he'ss also the target of an inquisition whose sense of righteousness justifies violent atrocity. This is a very realistic portrayal of the evils most people encounter in their own lives.

In the final analysis, I think that the original novel is a little better, but the comic books still capture the spirit of the story. In whatver form, I hope that Lord Baltimore's dismal mission is far from over. 

More Fun in the New World: American Vampire, Volume 1.

And we’re back. Things are good in the land of the Sanguine Diary. For one, I’m engaged. It’s official; we’ve announced it on Facebook and everything.

In other good news, on February 29th my story “Blood & Soil” will be published in the upcoming anthology, Dark Light, by the good people at Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing. Check out the trailer: 

In the meantime, I have been catching up on my chosen genre and researching a new project. So tonight, I pry myself away from the official history of Special Operations Executive to share my thoughts on the first volume of Scott Snyder’s graphic novel, American Vampire.

American Vampire weaves the history of the U.S. with the evolution of a new, powerful breed of vampire. As opposed to the Wampyr of old Europe, the American Vampire can walk in daylight. Where the old-world vampire is jaded and cautious, the new-world vampire is brash and mercurial. American Vampire tells the story of America’s break from it’s European roots with formidable nuance, representing the different facets of the American soul with the savage, vulgar bank robber, Skinner Sweet, and the faithful, optimistic Pearl Jones, an aspiring actress. While Pearl and Skinner’s European forebearers are more wealthy and sophisticated, they are no less cruel than their offspring.

Skinner Sweet’s story, which was written by none other than Stephen King, unfolds in the Wild West. Sweet’s transformation is an accident, an unintentional by-product of an ancient vampire’s attempt to punish him. In un-llife, as in life, Skinner Sweet is lawless, and nearly impossible to kill.You get the impression he prized the violence of bank robberies more than the money. After he rises from the grave, his only mission is to seek revenge on those who put him there, and he prosecutes this goal with harrowing glee.  

Old-breed vampires aren’t his only enemies, either. Before his transformation, he murders the fiancée of James Book, the law man who apprehended him, and as a vampire he exacts a bloody revenge on Book himself. Skinner’s ultimate goal, though, appears to be the destruction of his vampire forefathers.

Pearl’s story, written by Scott Snyder, is a little less dark than Skinner’s. In the Hollywood of the roaring twenties, a vampire/silent film producer lures her with the promise of stardom, and then feeds on her. Like Skinner, Pearl’s survival is an accident. But Skinner deliberately transforms her as an unwitting pawn in his plot to destroy the old breed.Pearl’s motive, though, is far easier to identify with than Skinner’s. She was betrayed, bled, and left for dead; her goal is justice. After settling accounts, all Pearl wants, in her own words, is to go “somewhere simple and quiet.” Can you blame her?

But Skinner makes it clear to Pearl that her story won’t end there. At the final page, it is also clear that Skinner’s story is far from over, as well. This is a good thing because the overall execution of American Vampire is very good. The art, drawn by Rafael Albuquerque is terrific and the two stories tie together well. I look forward to reading the next two volumes, even though they don’t include Stephen King.

I also hope that the next two volumes resolve a couple of American Vampire’s problems with character development. James Book— the law man who came closest to bringing Skinner to justice and the man who Skinner spends a great deal of story-time pursuing in vengeance— is two dimensional and predictable. He has so little depth that sympathy for him is more perfunctory than visceral. This is unfortunate, because he is the most prominent force of good throughout Skinner’s origin story. In the evil-vs-evil battle between Skinner and the old-world vampires, a really engaging, just character would have provided an interesting counterpoint. Instead, Skinner’s vendetta against Book seems like too much of a side story.

The character of Skinner Sweet is also somewhat underdeveloped. Beyond his crass, violent nature, there is little to him. King and Snyder may very well be playing a long game here, introducing him in the first volume and exploring his motives and personality in greater detail in subsequent stories. Still, can’t they throw us a little piece of something? A hint of something more to come? It is strange that Stephen King, a writer renowned for creating vivid, believable characters, handled this part of Skinner’s story. Snyder, on the other hand, fleshes out Pearl beautifully, with voice-over style narratives from her childhood and dialogue that illuminates her personality.   

That said, the first installment of American Vampire is well worth reading. I will say it again: Rafael Albuquerque’s artwork is terrific. Just look at this image:

 
Image by Rafael Albuquerque, copied from the website Gutter Geek: http://www.tcj.com/guttergeek/

The best thing thing about American Vampire, though, is that it is a welcome tonic against the surge of dewey-eyed, pretty boy vampires. I pray that stories such as this are the first rumbles of a tsunami of dirty, gritty, squirm-inducing vampire lore, and if so, I will gladly pitch a tent on the beach.

Specters of Misogyny: What's the Most Disturbing Thing About American Horror Story?

It's that time of week again, and my story "Restless" is still available in Dark Moon Books' latest eDigest, Dark Eclipse #7. If you haven't already checked out my story, "Survivor's Guilt", you can find it in the Wicked East Press anthology, Once Bitten, Never Die.

Now that the promoting-my-work part of my blog is out of the way, it's on to the vampire, supernatural, and writing-related topics. For this entry, I am going to share my thoughts about the first season of the FX series, American Horror Story.

DISCLAIMER: If you haven't seen American Horror Story, and want to find out how it ends for yourself, stop reading now. It's a show that's totally worth watching, so you won't hurt my feelings if you leave. While you're waiting for the episodes to finish downloading, you can read my story, "Love is a Battlefield." If you've already seen it, or your surprise gene is impervious to ruin, well...

American Horror Story is easily one of the most unsettling things I've seen on TV. It's chock full of vicious ghosts, basement abortions, rape, and low moral denominators. But in the end, what bothers me most is what it seems to say about our society, especially regarding our views of women.

On the surface, American Horror Story is a morality tale about the importance of family and the dangers of reckless behavior. In the beginning, the Harmon family moves from Boston to Los Angeles after the mother, Vivien, has a miscarriage and her husband Ben, a psychiatrist, cheats on her with one of his students. Their teenage daughter, Violet, is caught in the middle of their marital strife, and left isolated by the move.

Several gruesome ghost stories intertwine with the unraveling threads of the Harmon's marriage. Their house, it turns out, is the site of some of Los Angeles's most famous murders, as well as a share of lesser-known ones. When someone dies in the house, their spirit can't leave, and every spirit is motivated by the circumstances of their death. On top of that, there is the Harmon’s menacing neighbor, Constance, and her officious ex, Larry, who is burned on over seventy percent of his body.

Ben is selfish and narcissistic, and some of the ghosts seem to bedevil him as a moral price. He was unfaithful to Vivien, continues to lie to her about it, and ignores his behavior’s affect on his daughter. It often seems like the ghosts are a supernatural manifestation of his deceit and betrayal of his family. Moira, a salacious maid who Constance murdered because of her husband's forceful advances, constantly attempts to seduce Ben. He is harassed by Hayden, the ghost of his mistress, who Larry murders in an attempt to blackmail him. Another malevolent spirit, Tate (a teenage psychopath), poses as a patient and says obscene things about Violet. In the end, Hayden arranges Ben’s death, so he is destroyed by the direct symbol of the harm he inflicted on his family.

This morality tale would be fairly cut and dry if Ben got the worst of it, but he doesn't. To the show’s credit, most characters occupy a grey space between good and evil. Still, of all the members of the Harmon family, Ben is by far the biggest threat to their stability, and his wife and daughter bear the worst burdens.

Violet is sullen and a little rebellious, but struggles to do the right thing. For her efforts, she is tormented by visions of spirits, commits suicide, and doesn't realize she is a ghost for months. But the worst fate is reserved for Vivien.

Vivien haltingly struggles to restore her trust in Ben, an endeavor which is rewarded by Ben's continued deceit and violent harassment from Hayden's ghost. Tate also rapes her, and then attempts to rape her again at Hayden's behest. While Ben is surreptitiously visiting Hayden in Boston, Vivien and Violet are attacked by a cult that wishes to copy famous serial killers. She becomes pregnant— with twins from two fathers, Ben and Tate— and not only does she die in childbirth, but one child is stillborn and the other is the freaking antichrist! And this is not even a complete list of the harm done to Vivien.

The majority of other women in show occupy a moral spectrum ranging from deep gray to black, but none are truly evil. Moira is a ghost with a deep grudge, a flash-frozen trauma who acts out her rage toward the man who assaulted her by tempting other men into indiscretion. Nora Montgomery, another harmful ghost, is driven by the loss of her infant son. Hayden is unstable and manipulative, but Ben’s treatment of her makes somewhat sympathetic. Constance actively plots against the Harmon family, emotionally abuses her Down syndrome daughter, and pressures Larry to murder her son, Beauregard. Though her actions are sometimes cruel enough to make empathy difficult, her behavior stems from a life perpetual tragedy,  .  

The show’s creators, Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, are also responsible for Nip/Tuck and Glee, and I am not the first person to raise questions about his shows' portrayal of women. As to whether these two men are personally misogynistic, it is easy to speculate but harder to say for certain. A lot of people worked on American Horror Story, including Tim Minear, a veteran of the decidedly un-misogynistic Joss Whedon creations, Angel and Firefly. But the question of what the show's creators think about women is actually a part of a bigger question of what the show says about our society's attitudes toward them.

It is telling that the show is set in Los Angeles, a city known for chewing people up and spitting them out, especially young women. It may thus be no coincidence that one side plot of American Horror Story features the infamous Black Dahlia murder, which another side plot replicates with Constance’s young, dim-witted lover, Travis, as victim. Like the Black Dahlia, Travis had big dreams. These two deaths could be a commentary on the commoditization of sex. Both men and women are objectified, though the latter supply the larger share of meat for the grinder.  

So, I don’t think that American Horror Story is sexist so much as it reflects broader misogynistic strains in our society. I mean, you don’t have to listen to lots of Ani Difranco to admit that we are living in a patriarchy. But, as American Horror Story shows, the debasement of one sex debases us all. The women in the show suffer mainly because of the selfishness of men. Nora lost her child as an indirect result of her husband’s failures. Ben Harmon’s reckless behavior destroys the lives of the two women closest to him. I can’t help but wonder what Constance would have become had she lived in a society that had valued her more.

If a morality tale about the value of family forms the thematic rind of American Horror Story, then it’s meat warns us against the devaluation and abuse of women.