Book Review — "Flicker" by R.F. Blackstone

Having already read R.F. Blackstone’s The Book of Spite, I figured that there would be plenty of gore and madness in Flicker. And indeed I was right.

Lemme tell you, I read the bulk of this novella over the course of a few lunch breaks at my day job, and I would not recommend that method for most people. But if you, too, are a weirdo whose appetite stays intact while reading about grisly murders and eviscerated fetuses, then you’ll probably be fine. Just do so knowing this: R.F. Blackstone is a writer who does not hold back.

In fact, he likes to remind his audience that his horror leans extreme. Every new vignette of grotesque violence seems to declare Hold my chalice of virgin’s blood! as Blackstone attempts to out-gross the previous pages. Which he frequently manages to do, disturbingly adeptly.

In addition to blood and guts, Blackstone seems to enjoy a hardened private dick. This is something we have in common. I mean, I grew up watching sleuths like Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, and Thomas Magnum flaunt their masculinity in the course of solving a mystery. Searching for clues by swinging their manly wiles all about. No magnifying glass necessary. (Ugh, Magnum, I will never get over that name.) Blackstone seems to be especially fond, though, of the neo-pulp dime novel brand of detective—

Oh, by “dick” you thought I meant…? Well, thankfully, R.F. never goes in half-cocked when it comes to inserting a male character’s little Mike Hammer into a scene, so… maybe he’s got some Hardy Boy in him after all, I dunno.

I do know, however, that, in addition to pulp, Blackstone has been immensely effected by the work of H.P. Lovecraft. So although all the otherworldly, apocalyptic doom stuff going on here is a positive for me, taking too much influence from a notorious bigot obviously has its drawbacks, which might explain a gripe I have with Flicker.

I’m going to chalk it up to an artistic choice to resemble the mood of the, shall we say, parent material, but this story and its protagonist voice a fair amount of off-color remarks. Don English, the dick, is very forthright when it comes to his disdain of “Political Correctness,” which is a sure-fire way to establish that someone’s an asshole. Which is also, to be fair, par for the course. A lot of leading men in pulp literature are unlikable; they’re often gruff, persnickety fellows who’d really love a vibrator in their butt if they weren’t too damn bullheaded to try it—but because they won’t admit to themselves what they truly desire, all their self-ire manifests into chauvinism, and they go around rudely insulting everyone they perceive as inferior instead, that’s my theory anyway... Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah… So, I think I get why English is such a prick (assuming Blackstone is merely reflecting tropes), but… do I, as a reader, like it?

Hmmmm, I gotta say the answer is no.

I wonder how differently the text would read had Flicker simply been written in the first-person. Because—and here’s where Lovecraft comes in—in that case, I suppose the stereotyping of Mexican people could more easily be inferred as a character choice. The journaling of a jaded and somewhat prejudiced investigator recounting a tale over a few fingers of whiskey, let’s say. But since these generalities exist within the third-person narration as well, it becomes trickier. I wouldn’t be surprised if earlier drafts of this story had been told from English’s point of view, since the character and the narrator seem to be married stylistically. One could argue that Blackstone’s prose is not only an attempt to mimic the style of an era (even though Flicker is set in the age of Netflix and Amazon) but also as an effort to match the mindset of the protagonist.

Maybe I’m too generous. And forgiving. But for whatever reason, what I enjoyed story-wise outweighs the complaints I have with the minutiae.

Zeroing in on the plot now, Blackstone weaves a wicked yarn, that much is clear. If you’ve ever watched The Maltese Falcon and thought, “This would be better with a dash of In the Mouth of Madness and just a pinch of Ringu,” then I’ve got good news for you. You see, a mysterious broad with potentially dubious motives hires Don English to find a missing artifact that’s been known to induce insanity. The item in question is a lost film whose production was marred by much bloodshed. But she’s not the only person who wants this cursed film that, in the wrong hands, could bring about the destruction of humanity…

It’s a cool concept, certainly. And Blackstone has a way of pulling the reader along for every one of the book’s roughly 170 pages—even through puddles of bile and other nasty bodily fluids.

I also found it amusing that the author ends many of his chapters as if we’re cutting to commercial break, on these mini-cliffhangers, sometimes mid-conversation. It’s a fun trick to get folks to turn the page just when they thought they were going to get a respite from the utter brutality.

So even if I did not completely vibe with all of this novella’s techniques (namely the profane stereotyping and offensive language), I will keep reading Blackstone. I don’t think he’s a bad bloke. His artistic choices with this one here just don’t quite work for me, personally.