Danse Macabre #6: Book Review — "Interview with the Vampire" (1976)
In 1981, Stephen King published Danse Macabre, a work of non-fiction wherein the author acts as a tour guide through the history of horror. He addresses the social issues and political conflicts that have influenced creators over the years, and the ways creators have influenced each other.
King closes out the volume by recommending 96 films and 113 books released during the 1950-1980 period that he feels have significantly contributed to modern genre fiction. With this Fearsome Queer column, I’ll be making my way through those titles in no particular order.
I first read Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire in the 8th grade, when I would have been about 14 or so. I loved it then, and now that I’ve re-read it as a 30-year-old… I love it even more.
In circa 2005, I did not identify as gay, but referring to my adolescent self as “closeted” never really feels right. I wasn’t in hiding. I wasn’t actively in denial. I simply hadn’t had that conversation with myself yet. It would take many more years for me to have my ah-ha moment. Nonetheless, I know the homoeroticism in Interview with the Vampire registered for teenage me—but not nearly in the way it practically leaps off the page for adult me now.
To be honest, though, the thing that resonated most with me during this re-read was not the queer stuff, but rather the sense of profound loneliness the story conjures. That ache of alienation, of not having community—moving through a world to which you don’t belong, a world that you don’t enjoy living in. That’s something I really struggled with when I came out. It took years for me to find a core group that actually felt like one.
Growing up, I was an introverted loner. It wasn’t until a recent conversation with my dad that I realized… I didn’t have many childhood friends. I wasn’t disliked or anything. My peers were just indifferent toward me, I guess. Entire summer breaks would go by without me seeing or talking to anyone from school. I’d read, watch movies, ride my bike… Alone. It just became the norm after a while. So, in retrospect, I reckon this lack of a social upbringing contributed to my struggle to find friendship when I came out in my mid-20s and started seeking a coven—my own Armand and a Théâtre des Vampires.
Oh Armand, the way my loins gorge when I think of him!
I know it might seem odd to use a supporting character, whom we don’t even meet until well beyond the midpoint, as my launch pad into the book, but I’ve always felt a weird connection to Armand. Although he’s close to four hundred years old when he’s introduced, he possesses a youthful visage, like an immortal Botticelli angel. He has a penchant for the arts, he’s educated, and he bears a heavy cloud of sadness. I’ve wanted to be Armand and I’ve just straight-up wanted him, respectfully, impurely, savagely. Fuck, I’m such a sucker for cute, learnèd sad boys like me! So, I can see why sad boy supreme Louis falls for him, too.
I view myself as somewhere between Armand and Louis—figuratively, but I wouldn’t mind being physically between them, either… We don’t get Armand’s whole woeful backstory here (he gets his own book later), but by this point we do know the scope of Louis’ tragic history. Something I cannot fathom is how so many people regard Louis as boring. But, then again, I may be biased, because I see a lot of myself in him (phrasing intended this time).
Like Louis, I have dealt with suicidal ideation following the death of a loved one whose departure I feel responsible for.
Louis’ disenchantment with life rings so true to me. I get why the idea of carrying on often seems meaningless to him. I also get why certain readers might interpret him as languid. Depression is a fickle bitch like that: inside you may feel like you’re being ripped apart, but to the outside world you’re a statue. And Louis has been suffering through two centuries-worth of it. It began when he was mortal and merely took on new mutations in his immortality.
His interviewee voice, our vehicle on this journey, is relatively calm, almost tranquil. Even when describing the more horrific scenes, he remains pretty steady. He speaks with precision, only breaking off a few times during this nearly-nonstop monologue. Some may find this unrealistic: People generally speak messily when telling a story, one might argue, with timelines resembling spaghetti. But Louis has had decades to think about this, to process it all, to recollect all the minute details, to become desensitized… Replay scenarios in his head, ponder the what-ifs…
Do you ever do that thing where you’re trying to sleep, but your thoughts suddenly go to a miniscule regret from your past that has been festering is some dark corner of your brain? Well, Louis has been doing that for two hundred years. So it seems only natural to me that he would be able to rattle off a complete oral memoir with few hiccups.
I’m surprised that no significant works of fiction, to my knowledge, have even attempted to appropriate Rice’s style since Interview’s publication almost five decades ago. At times, it’s easy to forget that Interview with the Vampire is in fact not written in the first person, but the third. Louis is not so much “a narrator” as he is “the storyteller.” Most authors would probably just tell the tale from a first person POV, clean and straightforward. But Rice instead made a daring—and incredibly smart—choice to have her protagonist literally recite his biography to a rapt audience of one.
And she times it perfectly. The interview takes place in real time over the course of one long night in present day San Francisco. A young man, who readers eventually learn is named Daniel Molloy, sits and listens to Louis chronicle his life story, with an occasional interjection or follow-up question or a changing of the tapes to remind us that this is a recitation. In truth, if you have the time, this book could be read in a single sitting between dusk and dawn. The audiobook, performed by Simon Vance, is fourteen hours, which is roughly the length of a generous winter night.
For the subsequent novels in the Vampire Chronicles, Rice chose to find the internal voices of her protagonists, mainly Lestat. While Louis is the protagonist of Interview, it’s Lestat who goes on to be the breakout star of the series, as the (anti-)hero and (first person) narrator of the majority of the books. The next four are narrated by Lestat, and one of the best things about them is how strong his voice is. Rice’s ability to produce such elegant prose for Lestat, while maintaining his signature quasi-conversational vibe, is unparalleled.
There are no characters in modern literature quite like Lestat. His name is so recognizable that he doesn’t even need his surname “de Lioncourt.” Lestat is basically the Cher of literary vampires. (Dracula who?!) After his grand introduction in Interview with the Vampire, Rice would go on to flesh out his backstory in the aptly titled The Vampire Lestat, then continue his journeys with the ensuing chapters of the saga. Something kept calling her back to him, and it’s easy to see why.
Lestat is an idol. A bold, bisexual, bilingual, beautiful, vain, fashion-forward, devil-may-care, bibliophilic idol. He’s bestowed with the moniker “The Brat Prince” for a reason, and he fully embraces it.
What he absolutely does not embrace, however, is the reputation he received when Louis’ version of their relationship goes public. Louis paints Lestat as a monster—a selfish, controlling, wicked monster. Louis’ feelings, while harsh, are understandable. He and Lestat were in a 65-years-long bond that was not exactly trouble-free. For starters, Lestat had ostensibly dubious motives for turning Louis in the first place. Then, when he sensed Louis drifting, Lestat sired a five-year-old girl into becoming their vampire daughter—which is a big no-no in the vampire world—so as to further bind Louis to him, as co-parents. Lestat’s coerced family-building totally backfires on him in the most gruesome of ways.
Thus, I would be remiss if I wrapped up this word-vomit (can you tell how much I love this book?) without mentioning one of Anne Rice’s fiercest creations. Claudia.
Compared to her counterparts, Claudia’s “page count” is relatively low. Her story, altogether, is limited to Louis’ telling of it, in Interview with the Vampire. She doesn’t get the privilege of continuing further into the Chronicles. But, boy oh boy, does she make the most of her brief time.
Her plight is so unique and dreadful. Plague-stricken and orphaned as a child, Louis chooses to feed on her, as both a mercy killing and out of necessity. Then, impulsively, Lestat ends her mortal life and births her anew as an immortal, thus trapping the conscience-ridden Louis into staying with him, while eternally trapping Claudia in the body of a five-year-old girl. Over the course of decades, Claudia mentally matures and develops into a woman, but her body remains juvenile, prepubescent. She can never love fully, live her life fully, or be seen the way she wishes to be seen… because of the body fate has dealt her.
It all sounds pretty queer to me! Body issues, same-sex relationships, feelings of forsakenness… C’mon, now.
Anne Rice burst right out of gate with one hell of a debut novel. It’s gay, it’s ghastly, and it’s tragic—my three favorite things. Even if Interview with the Vampire had ended up a standalone novel, it would have been an all-timer. But I can see why Rice felt her characters calling to her, demanding that she be the conduit for their stories. They’re all so dynamic and spellbinding.
Re-reading this book has made me want to read the entire Vampire Chronicles/Lives of the Mayfair Witches series. I tried back in school, but commitments got in the way. Now that I’m a loser grown-up with no commitments, I think I’m going to take another crack at it. So… Armand, my lover, let’s catch up!
