There are
numerous readers of speculative fiction whose brains are not activated by
horror. I am one of them. Sophisticated interrogations of the human
psyche can be engaging, but the cheap thrills of fear (and let’s be honest,
fear is the foundation stone of the building of horror) are too narrow in aim
for me to engage with as a genre. I
don’t get scared. I don’t even get a feeling of discomfort or lingering sense
of wonder reading such stories. Philip
K. Dick, yes, but Stephen King, no.
Thus, take my review of Richard Matheson’s 1954 I Am Legend with a grain of salt.
A driven story, but oh so empty…
I Am Legend is the story of Robert Neville. The lone survivor of a vampire-zombie
apocalypse, he lives in a barricaded home what remains of
Inglewood's suburbs. Watching the clock each day,
he must be home before sunset. The
unearthly remnants of humanity climbing into the dark to hunt for fresh blood,
they assault his home and conscience throughout the night, threatening to not
only drive him insane, but kill him if they can get their fangs into his
body. Hammering wooden stakes through
the vampires he encounters while collecting food and supplies in the daylight,
the meaning and purpose of life deteriorate with each sunset, moving him to
drink and depression. The arrival of a
mangy dog on his doorstep one day changes everything, however.
