As a devoted Stephen King enthusiast for years, having devoured nearly every novel he has penned, my anticipation for “Mr. Mercedes” was considerable. However, this particular foray into the world of Bill Hodges proved to be a significant deviation from the thrilling page-turners I’ve come to expect. Navigating through this book felt more like a chore than a pleasure, a stark contrast to the effortless engagement King’s narratives usually command. Even his less compelling works typically possess that undeniable King magic, compelling you to turn the page and discover what unfolds. Yet, with “Mr. Mercedes,” that essential spark was conspicuously absent. Frankly, I struggled to care about the unfolding events, my determination to finish solely fueled by a completionist desire to tick off another King book from my extensive reading list. The book itself seemed almost resistant, as if actively discouraging me from reaching its conclusion. My overall impression is one of profound disappointment. So many aspects of “Mr. Mercedes” missed the mark for me, and while I might meander somewhat in my critique, I aim to articulate the key frustrations that marred my reading experience. Stephen King remains a beloved author, but that doesn’t preclude acknowledging when a book simply doesn’t meet expectations. If it disappoints like a poorly written novel and reads like a poorly written novel… well, it’s a poorly written novel.
My critique must begin with what I consider the cornerstone of any compelling narrative: the characters. It’s difficult to adequately express just how underwhelming the characters were in “Mr. Mercedes.” One of King’s hallmark strengths has always been his remarkable ability to breathe life into his characters, forging an almost immediate connection with the reader. I’ve often lauded his talent for crafting convincing, relatable characters with remarkable efficiency, a skill that often eludes less gifted writers even across entire novels.
But in “Mr. Mercedes” books? This crucial element seemed to vanish entirely.
It felt as though King populated this narrative with cardboard cutouts, devoid of depth and genuine personality. Not a single character resonated with the authenticity I’ve come to expect from his work. Instead, they felt like flat, predictable figures, strategically positioned to mechanically advance the plot from one point to the next. Their purpose seemed solely functional, lacking any semblance of genuine human complexity.
Right from the outset, the dialogue felt forced, unnatural, and stilted. Consider the initial encounter between Augie and Janice, two individuals waiting overnight for a job fair. The premise itself suggests both are unemployed and actively seeking work. Yet, Augie inexplicably feels compelled to explain the term “downsized” to Janice, defining it as “the twenty-first-century way of saying I got canned.” This explanation feels jarringly unnecessary. “Downsized” is hardly a novel term, even in the 20th century, and someone like Janice, even if young, would likely grasp its meaning from context. This exemplifies a pervasive issue throughout “Mr. Mercedes” books: an overabundance of needless exposition and confirmation of the blatantly obvious. The book lacks subtlety, opting for a blunt, unsubtle approach akin to a “Bond Villain Explains It All” scenario, where every exchange is devoid of nuance or ambiguity.
But I digress. Then we are introduced to Janice, a character seemingly designed to evoke sympathy – young, naive, unemployed, and a single mother with limited prospects. Yet, her pronouncements feel utterly contrived. She expresses a desire to apologize to the world and all of history simply for having given birth as an unmarried single woman. This feels less like genuine remorse and more like a cloying attempt to manufacture likability. Is the reader supposed to find her plight especially tragic, setting the stage for an even greater tragedy to befall this supposedly innocent character?
These initial characters are presented as mere plot devices, sacrificial lambs intended to manipulate our emotions and prime us for the inevitable confrontation with the sadistic killer.
Every character in “Mr. Mercedes” seemed to speak with the same voice, further reinforcing the impression that they are essentially interchangeable cardboard figures. The only distinguishing features are superficial: Janey’s cutout sports a blonde wig and a “Hi! My name is Janey” name tag; Jerome’s cutout is labeled and, lest we forget, is identified as black, complete with a tie to denote intelligence; Bill’s cutout is weighed down with sandbags (he’s overweight!) and accessorized with a fedora and badge; Mr. Mercedes himself is adorned with angry eyebrows over a forced smile, clutching a remote control, car keys, and an iPad; and Holly, in a particularly stereotypical portrayal, is marked by a Lexapro pill bottle in place of a name tag, dressed in drab burlap, and perpetually smoking. (The name tags, it seems, are necessary because the characters are so indistinct they might otherwise be easily confused. Similarly, in the narrative, characters repeatedly emphasize their preferred names, attempting to foster a superficial sense of familiarity that never evolves into genuine connection.) However, appearances aside, the true lack of differentiation lies in their dialogue. One could swap their speech bubbles at random and scarcely discern any difference.
Alt text: Retired detective Bill Hodges contemplating the Mr. Mercedes case, highlighting his initial role in the investigation.
The characters share a peculiar tendency for oversharing. A simple yes/no question invariably elicits a torrent of unsolicited information. “Do you have a safe?” becomes “No, but I can rent one. I bank at Bank of America down the street.”
“How often do you see your mother?” morphs into a lengthy monologue: “Every other day or so. Sometimes I take her food from the Iranian restaurant she and Ollie liked – the Sunny Acres kitchen staff is happy to warm it up – and sometimes I bring her a DVD or two. She likes the oldies, like with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I always bring her something, and she’s always happy to see me. On her good days she does see me. On her bad ones, she’s apt to call me Olivia. Or Charlotte. That’s my aunt. I also have an uncle.”
“Do you have a car?” explodes into a rambling, irrelevant anecdote: “Yup. It’s a 2004 Toyota Camry which is burgundy (a shade of red) and I recently drove it after I started it with my key that I use to turn it on. Also I recently saw a movie with Will Smith in it! It was at the drive-in which is two blocks down on the left past the Burger King where Annie works the night shift and makes the best Whoppers. Also on that block is a movie theater (but that’s not where I saw the movie!), a pet store, three Starbucks locations, and a Yayogurt factory. There’s a shoe store 15 minutes from here. I like cheese. Kumquat.”
This relentless, brain-numbing exposition permeates the entirety of “Mr. Mercedes” books, leading me to genuinely question if Stephen King outsourced the writing to someone else entirely. It’s the only plausible explanation for such a drastic departure in writing quality. The thought that THE Stephen King could have authored THIS is almost unbearable.
So, we are left with flat, stereotypical characters, devoid of subtlety and afflicted with an incessant need to over-explain. And to add insult to injury, they are profoundly irritating. Firstly, the pervasive fat-shaming. Hodges is described as being overweight by a mere 30 pounds, yet both he and the narrative treat this as a grotesque and abhorrent condition, diminishing his worth as a person. He internalizes his weight as a debilitating burden, unable to fathom why a woman would find him attractive. While this insecurity might stem from his character, the constant reinforcement of his weight as a negative trait feels gratuitous and uncomfortable. This tendency towards fat-shaming isn’t entirely new in King’s work, notably present in “Thinner,” but it feels particularly jarring and unnecessary in “Mr. Mercedes.” The relentless focus on Hodges’s weight borders on caricature, making it seem improbable he could even function in daily life, let alone conduct an investigation. Being overweight is not a moral failing, and the constant subtle jabs at size are unequivocally fat-shaming and deeply off-putting. Perhaps this wasn’t King’s intention, but the effect is undeniable and unpleasant.
This segues neatly into my next point of contention, Janey’s bizarre sexual demands. She expresses concern about Hodges being on top during sex due to his weight (lest he crush her!), but her control extends far beyond positioning. She dictates a sex devoid of any reciprocal interaction – no touching, minimal talking (beyond her own pronouncements and exclamations), and absolutely no movement from Hodges. In fact, she might prefer if Bill simply detached himself entirely after penetration, allowing her to achieve satisfaction without his “pesky man needs” interfering.
Alt text: Janey and Bill Hodges depicted together, suggesting the romantic subplot and Janey’s significant role in the narrative of Mr. Mercedes books.
Some might interpret this as “empowered femininity,” a woman assertively defining her desires. However, her “demands” are unsettlingly controlling, bordering on non-consensual. It’s akin to drugging someone and exploiting their unconscious body, devoid of mutual engagement. Yet, Hodges, desperate for any form of intimacy, is simply grateful for the opportunity, thus normalizing this deeply problematic dynamic.
And far from being “strong and independent,” Janey is consistently reliant on Hodges for emotional support and guidance throughout the narrative. Despite her pronouncements of self-reliance, she leans on him for everything, even navigating interactions with her own family, whom Bill barely knows. Her supposed strength crumbles into dependence, undermining any pretense of genuine autonomy.
Furthermore, her post-coital inquiry, “How’s your cholesterol?” is astonishingly inappropriate. It’s intrusive and judgmental, especially considering Hodges is preparing breakfast for her. Her subsequent serving of “whole wheat toast and air” further reinforces her judgmental, fat-shaming tendencies. It’s not concern; it’s condescension. Why Hodges is drawn to her beyond mere physical gratification remains baffling. She is critical, unkind, and openly mocks him. Oh, but it’s “teasing,” supposedly endearing. Like her mimicking his use of “yeah,” a nouveau riche woman condescending to an ex-cop for his supposed slang. Their connection seems rooted in mutual unpleasantness.
Then there’s Jerome, whose character inexplicably resorts to stereotypical, jarringly racist speech patterns, seemingly to constantly remind the reader of his race. This caricature is deeply offensive and makes Jerome an incredibly grating character.
Holly initially lacks any discernible personality but eventually morphs into another iteration of the same generic character template. It’s as if the characters are being assimilated into a homogenous, personality-void collective. And her incessant need to announce her Lexapro use becomes a tiresome character tic. The arbitrary regression into childish tantrums – “Call him! Call him! Call him!” – feels forced and unbelievable, further detracting from her character.
Brady, the antagonist, is portrayed as menacing primarily due to his anonymity. But beyond the surface, he’s essentially a spoiled, angsty teenager stuck in a rebellious phase, fueled by daddy issues and mommy issues. His motivations and depth are disappointingly shallow.
Beyond the character flaws, the pop-culture references in “Mr. Mercedes” books are jarring and misplaced. While King has always incorporated pop culture, usually enhancing the narrative, here they feel forced and anachronistic.
Given the characters’ ages and the stilted dialogue, the book initially reads as if intended for an older audience, which aligns with King’s own age. However, it feels as though editorial intervention attempted to inject “youth appeal,” resulting in Jerome’s age being lowered and a sprinkling of forced, “cool” slang throughout the text. This attempt to modernize the narrative feels condescending and utterly ineffective.
Consider the reference to “tramp-stamps” when Hodges watches what is clearly Jerry Springer. A “tramp-stamp” is a specific type of lower back tattoo, stereotypically associated with promiscuity. It’s not a generic term for any tattoo, yet Hodges uses it in a contextually inaccurate way.
Alt text: Holly Gibney, a central figure in Mr. Mercedes books, showcasing her unique personality and investigative skills.
A 62-year-old retired white ex-cop using the term “moms” feels jarringly out of character and forced.
The line about women viewing car dashboards as collections of “cute little lights” is offensively stereotypical and sexist. The implication that women are too unintelligent to understand car functions is both outdated and insulting.
Hodges’s condescending term for Holly’s medication, “little white happy-caps,” trivializes her mental health and feels deeply insensitive. It’s not presented as lighthearted banter but as genuine condescension towards her necessary medication.
My frustration with “Mr. Mercedes” books escalates with each recalled detail. The accolades bestowed upon Hodges throughout his career feel unjustified. He largely relies on Holly and Jerome to solve the case, acting on hunches and intuition rather than sound investigative work. His reckless actions, “poking a dozing dragon,” without considering the consequences, are presented as heroic rather than irresponsible. The narrative centers everything around Hodges, reinforcing an inflated ego, as if only he is personally threatened by Brady’s actions because the letter was addressed to him.
The recurring plot device of Hodges’s former partner being perpetually unavailable due to conveniently timed “huge bustarinos” further strains credibility.
“Mr. Mercedes” books, for this long-time Stephen King fan, is riddled with eye-rolling moments. It’s a significant misstep, a far cry from the compelling storytelling and character depth that typically define King’s work. Frankly, it’s a disappointing read. Time to turn off the “glowbox” and seek solace in a genuinely well-crafted book.
