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joejohnson's review
5.0
A Satisfying, Slow-Burn Terror that Makes an Old Story Feel New
The plot is easy enough to summarize, which the book's back cover does well: a single Mormon mother in Blackhawk, Utah, encounters a cursed object, becomes possessed by a demon(s), and her only hope is two LDS bishops who, 45 years before, saw something like this. That earlier attempt at an exorcism—or "dispossession"—ended in tragedy. Will this one? But books, good books, are so much more than the sum of their plot lines. And Tranchell's new novel fits into that "good books" category.
Tranchell deserves great marks for difficulty. On the surface, Tell No Man looks like a Mormon version of The Exorcist: switch out a priest for the priesthood, Washington DC for small-town Utah. I've seen (in the Evangelical Christian world) whole enterprises of movies, music, and books that attempt to make stripped-down, family-friendly versions of something "secular." But Tranchell doesn't fall into that trap. Rather, the LDS perspective is so much more than a "what if" switch. And that perspective certainly doesn't make this into some safe, sanitized story. The book has teeth.
I am not a Mormon (and have never been). Yet I found that the LDS components deepened the story, made it seem like something I haven't heard before, without losing me. For all its apparent similarities to Tranchell's predecessors—Blatty/Friedkin, the movies of Scott Derrickson—this little story is fresh. Even if we suspect it has to develop and end one way, there are surprises in store.
In short, some of Tranchell's earlier writing showed perhaps too much respect for his heroes (Stephen King, John Carpenter). In this one, Tranchell aims to capture his own voice. And it felt more akin to the great Ira Levin (Rosemary's Baby, A Kiss Before Dying), while being distinct. I mean that the writing is clean, direct, and skilled. The story moves forward, but doesn't rush and doesn't lag. Tranchell has found a world that belongs to him, maybe a story that he is uniquely able to tell. And with that, his prose has confidence. That craftsmanship kept me within the book, within the town of Blackhawk, and, most importantly, in the terror of real evil that has real stakes.
Tell No Man remembers something that many of Tranchell's writing/film heroes sometimes forget—something the great Poe always remembered: that a concise and intimate story can be more terrifying and tonally powerful than a massive book. Page count does not equal power (and sometimes page count gives the reader too much time to relax, to get too familiar with darkness and fear). So, think of Carrie or the Bachman stories (or, again, Ira Levin). Tell No Man belongs in the company of those books—but stands on its own. It is the kind of story that should be handed out on cross-country flights: Sit back, buckle in, and don't stop until you get to the end. Hopefully, you make it to the ground alive.
The plot is easy enough to summarize, which the book's back cover does well: a single Mormon mother in Blackhawk, Utah, encounters a cursed object, becomes possessed by a demon(s), and her only hope is two LDS bishops who, 45 years before, saw something like this. That earlier attempt at an exorcism—or "dispossession"—ended in tragedy. Will this one? But books, good books, are so much more than the sum of their plot lines. And Tranchell's new novel fits into that "good books" category.
Tranchell deserves great marks for difficulty. On the surface, Tell No Man looks like a Mormon version of The Exorcist: switch out a priest for the priesthood, Washington DC for small-town Utah. I've seen (in the Evangelical Christian world) whole enterprises of movies, music, and books that attempt to make stripped-down, family-friendly versions of something "secular." But Tranchell doesn't fall into that trap. Rather, the LDS perspective is so much more than a "what if" switch. And that perspective certainly doesn't make this into some safe, sanitized story. The book has teeth.
I am not a Mormon (and have never been). Yet I found that the LDS components deepened the story, made it seem like something I haven't heard before, without losing me. For all its apparent similarities to Tranchell's predecessors—Blatty/Friedkin, the movies of Scott Derrickson—this little story is fresh. Even if we suspect it has to develop and end one way, there are surprises in store.
In short, some of Tranchell's earlier writing showed perhaps too much respect for his heroes (Stephen King, John Carpenter). In this one, Tranchell aims to capture his own voice. And it felt more akin to the great Ira Levin (Rosemary's Baby, A Kiss Before Dying), while being distinct. I mean that the writing is clean, direct, and skilled. The story moves forward, but doesn't rush and doesn't lag. Tranchell has found a world that belongs to him, maybe a story that he is uniquely able to tell. And with that, his prose has confidence. That craftsmanship kept me within the book, within the town of Blackhawk, and, most importantly, in the terror of real evil that has real stakes.
Tell No Man remembers something that many of Tranchell's writing/film heroes sometimes forget—something the great Poe always remembered: that a concise and intimate story can be more terrifying and tonally powerful than a massive book. Page count does not equal power (and sometimes page count gives the reader too much time to relax, to get too familiar with darkness and fear). So, think of Carrie or the Bachman stories (or, again, Ira Levin). Tell No Man belongs in the company of those books—but stands on its own. It is the kind of story that should be handed out on cross-country flights: Sit back, buckle in, and don't stop until you get to the end. Hopefully, you make it to the ground alive.
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