Book Review — "The Remaking" by Clay McLeod Chapman
Scary stories have been told and retold ad nauseam for generations. Centuries, even. And every new storyteller brings their own angle and flavor to each age-old yarn. You’ve no doubt heard of “The Hook” or “The Hitchhiker” or “High Beams” or “Bloody Mary”—these urban legends that have turned into campfire tales. Perhaps you’ve even recited one or two to your siblings, or during a sleepover… Movies, also, have been redone basically since the medium was invented. Remakes are not an advent of modern times, despite what certain internet personalities may have you believe. Sometimes remakes are about generating money: if it worked the first time, it’s bound to work a second time, right? And sometimes movies are reproduced to make a statement: to reposition a familiar story in a new timeframe or setting for an intended effect. Some succeed, while others do not.
With his novel The Remaking, Clay McLeod Chapman tackles the very notion of what it means to take ownership of a story—how shifting the POV, the time, the place, and the medium can fundamentally reframe a spooky narrative. He does so in a pretty unsettling manner and with an impressive understanding of how horror cinema is produced and how it has evolved.
Chapman demonstrates a solid grasp of horror as a genre without a trace of pretension or a hint of haughtiness. Horror fanatics, in my experience, are a lively bunch. Many enthusiasts of the genre will not hesitate to exhibit their devotion and love of it to you. It’s almost like a test, for you and of themselves. Like they’re trying to determine who the “bigger” fan is—something that cannot be quantitatively measured, nor does it need to be proven in the first place anyway… And if that bit of unloading was not an indication already, I have not had the best of luck integrating into the online horror community, and that’s partly why. Thankfully, though, I do not detect any vibes of arrogance from Chapman. Throughout The Remaking, he drops bits of horror history and a few factoids, but he does it naturally. At no point did I think he was showing off.
He also seems to have a pretty firm understanding of how movies are really made. Before I started this site, I worked in film production. I did it for about six years, and I’ve found that there is a core misunderstanding out there when it comes to how the pieces of a movie are formed and how they eventually fit together—even among those who’ve studied the art form and have a degree to substantiate it. Film schools do not fully prepare you for how sets are actually run, what particular positions do and how departments overlap. I had the benefit of beginning my brief tenure while still in school. So I knew when a textbook or instructor was speaking in theory in regards to production. Chapman, however, appears to have firsthand knowledge—or he’s simply just very good at pretending. He doesn’t detail filmmaking in the way that someone who’s just taken a class or two and nothing more would—he writes like someone who’s been through the process, professionally.
The author also clearly has a fondness for bards, performers of oral storytelling. The Remaking is divided up into four sections, and each reads exceptionally well. This is prose that I’m sure lent itself very well to the audiobook translation. I could hear the words as I read them. At times I even caught my lips moving, particularly in the first and fourth parts. The first part sets the foundation. Chapman gives us the campfire story that put everything in motion—the urban legend that inspired the films that will be made in parts two and three. He writes the tale the way one would speak it, and it leaps off the page. The fourth part is told from the perspective of a podcaster who is investigating the horrific stuff that happened on the sets of the cursed original film and its doomed remake. Maybe it’s because I am a podcaster (ugh, why does that always feel a just a smidge douchey?), but I could “hear” Nathaniel recording his content, too.
Also, I just need to say something here: Nathaniel is committed. His equipment is out of this world. His dedication is unparalleled. And his craftsmanship needs to chill. This is all just a complimentary way of saying that I felt inferior. Notably, my podcast is much different in style and we lack his clout, but still. Damn. Nathaniel got me thinking that I need to up my audio game. That hard-working bastard with a strong voice…
The male POV is something that Chapman seems very aware of here, come to think of it. It’s almost impossible to have a deep, analytical discussion of the horror genre without addressing the male gaze. And he appears to be actively playing with it throughout the book. We get Nathaniel’s literal POV in the final part, and in parts two and three we witness the male directorial influence from the perspective a female actress. Chapman displays instances of female sexualization and trivialization—but with intention. It starts with the urban legend from part one: a story of insecure men killing a mother and daughter due to suspected witchcraft. And it carries through to the film productions in parts two and three and then ultimately into the final part with the male amateur detective who chooses to usurp the lives of these real-life women for his own gain. As an author, Chapman is holding a mirror up to a genre that both reveres and belittles female characters, sometimes simultaneously. In my mind, Chapman is not condoning such tendencies, merely dramatizing it for effect.
As someone who loves analyzing stories, I really dug this book. I’ve always been fascinated with what makes certain stories “work” and others not. Or how a story can adopt a new meaning with a shift in context or mood. Or how advancing technology can elevate a text, or tank it. Or how the whole tone could be uprooted if the microphone were to be placed in the hands of another character. Clay McLeod Chapman also seems to be interested in these things. That’s my takeaway from this novel, at least. The dude definitely knows his stuff. The Remaking obviously came from a cerebral place, but that does not mean that it’s devoid of visceral merits. From time to time, I felt like I was one with the tale(s) in my gut. And isn’t that the mark of an affecting story?
