As a devoted reader of Stephen King since childhood, I’ve always considered myself a lifelong fan. I’ve eagerly devoured nearly everything he’s written, drawn in by his unparalleled ability to craft compelling characters and spin captivating tales, even in his less celebrated works. However, my journey through the Stephen King Mr. Mercedes trilogy was, to put it bluntly, a frustrating ordeal. Completing these books felt less like enjoyable reading and more like a forced march to the finish line – a stark contrast to the page-turning addiction King’s narratives usually inspire. For a seasoned King enthusiast, admitting disappointment feels almost sacrilegious, but in this case, it’s unavoidable. While loyalty runs deep, it doesn’t blind me to what I perceive as significant shortcomings in this particular series. This isn’t the King I’ve come to admire; this is a pale imitation, and it pains me to say it.
My primary grievance, and perhaps the most fundamental flaw in the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, lies in its characters. King’s hallmark has always been his extraordinary ability to breathe life into his creations, forging an immediate connection between reader and character. He excels at painting vivid portraits with just a few strokes of his pen, a skill that many authors strive for but rarely achieve with such consistency. Yet, in Mr. Mercedes, this vital element is conspicuously absent. Instead of the richly developed, relatable figures we expect, we are presented with what feels like a collection of cardboard cutouts, devoid of depth and nuance. These characters are not individuals; they are plot devices, moved across the narrative chessboard to advance the story from one point to the next, serving a functional purpose but lacking genuine substance.
From the outset, the dialogue feels jarringly unnatural and stilted. Consider the initial encounter between Augie and Janice, two individuals waiting in line for a job fair, presumably both experiencing unemployment. In their very first exchange, Augie feels compelled to explain the term “downsized” to Janice, defining it as “the twenty-first-century way of saying I got canned.” This explanation is not only unnecessary, as the term “downsized” was prevalent well before the 21st century, but it also insults the reader’s intelligence and Janice’s presumed understanding of basic economic terminology. Even if Janice were younger, the context of a job fair line would strongly imply an understanding of job loss and related terms. This instance exemplifies a pervasive issue throughout the trilogy: an overabundance of needless exposition and clarification of the obvious. The narrative often treats its audience as if they lack basic comprehension skills, opting for blatant explicitness where subtlety would be far more effective. It’s a far cry from King’s usual nuanced approach, instead resembling a heavy-handed, unsubtle style more akin to a villain in a Bond film laboriously detailing their entire evil plan.
Then we are introduced to Janice, a character ostensibly designed to evoke sympathy – a young, single, unemployed mother facing hardship. However, her characterization quickly veers into the realm of the absurd. Her pronouncements about single motherhood as some profound act of societal apology are not only melodramatic but also ring hollow. The narrative seems to be striving for instant empathy, presenting Janice as a pitiable figure deserving of sympathy simply because of her circumstances. These initial characters, Augie and Janice, serve merely as sacrificial lambs, pawns positioned to trigger our emotional responses and set the stage for the pursuit of the antagonist. They are not characters in their own right, but rather tools to manipulate reader sentiment.
This shallowness extends to almost every character in the trilogy. They feel interchangeable, differentiated only by superficial labels and stereotypical traits. Janey is “the blonde,” Jerome is “the intelligent Black kid,” Bill Hodges is “the overweight ex-cop,” Mr. Mercedes is “the angry villain,” and Holly is “the mentally unstable but brilliant woman.” These labels are not starting points for character development but rather the entirety of their characterization. The dialogue further underscores this homogeneity. Swap the dialogue bubbles between characters, and you’d struggle to discern any difference. Everyone speaks with the same voice, the same cadence, the same tendency to over-explain and over-share.
The characters are plagued by an incessant need to divulge unnecessary details. A simple yes or no question becomes an opportunity for lengthy, irrelevant monologues. This tendency towards excessive exposition manifests in absurd ways, with characters offering rambling, tangential answers that veer wildly off-topic. These extended, detail-heavy responses, laden with pop culture references and personal trivia, feel forced and unnatural, further eroding the believability of the characters and the narrative. This constant barrage of irrelevant information not only slows the pacing but also actively detracts from any potential engagement with the story. It’s as if the characters are not conversing but rather reciting pre-written scripts filled with random details, undermining any sense of genuine human interaction.
Beyond character deficiencies, the trilogy suffers from a reliance on problematic tropes and themes, most notably an uncomfortable degree of fat-shaming. Bill Hodges’s weight, described as being roughly 30 pounds overweight, is presented as a grotesque and shameful condition. Both Hodges and the narrative itself treat this relatively minor weight issue as a significant personal failing, a source of constant self-deprecation and societal judgment. The narrative implies that his weight somehow diminishes his worth, making him less desirable and capable. Hodges’s internal monologue and interactions with other characters reinforce this negative perception, portraying his weight as a debilitating burden, almost a physical and moral defect. This relentless focus on his weight, and the negative connotations attached to it, feels excessive and uncomfortable. While King has touched upon weight issues in previous works, such as in “Thinner,” the fat-shaming in Mr. Mercedes feels particularly jarring and gratuitous, especially when layered upon the other shortcomings of the narrative. It contributes to a sense of unease and datedness, detracting from the reader’s ability to connect with and root for the protagonist.
Adding to the discomfort is the bizarre and off-putting portrayal of sexuality, particularly in the interactions between Hodges and Janey. The sex scene described is less sensual and more akin to a clinical, almost predatory encounter dictated entirely by Janey’s peculiar demands. Her stipulations, which preclude any active participation or even touch from Hodges, are depicted as empowering and assertive, but they come across as unsettling and dehumanizing. Janey’s control over the encounter borders on coercion, reducing Hodges to a mere object for her gratification. The narrative frames this as a display of female agency, but it reads more like a disturbing power imbalance, where one partner is entirely objectified and silenced. This depiction is far from empowering; it’s simply creepy.
Furthermore, Janey’s character, despite initial claims of strength and independence, quickly devolves into dependency. She constantly seeks Hodges’s reassurance and support, even in situations that should fall well within her capabilities. Her supposed strength is repeatedly undermined by her need for constant validation and assistance, particularly from Hodges, whom she has only recently met. This contradiction between her proclaimed independence and her demonstrated dependence creates a confusing and ultimately unconvincing character. Her morning-after interrogation of Hodges about his cholesterol levels further cements her unpleasantness. This intrusive and judgmental question, posed to a man she barely knows, is not framed as concern but rather as a thinly veiled attempt to shame him for his dietary choices. Janey’s constant mockery and condescension towards Hodges, disguised as playful teasing, make their supposed romantic connection baffling and unappealing. Her nouveau riche background and condescending attitude towards Hodges’s perceived lower-class slang (“yeah”) further solidify her as an unlikeable and unsympathetic character.
Jerome’s character is marred by stereotypical and jarring dialogue choices. His frequent lapses into what can only be described as stereotypical, almost minstrel-show-like vernacular are deeply uncomfortable and borderline offensive. These moments, intended perhaps to highlight his Black identity, instead devolve into caricature, reinforcing harmful stereotypes and undermining the character’s credibility. Each instance of this jarring dialogue feels like a punch to the gut, alienating the reader and detracting from any potential investment in Jerome as a character.
Holly Gibney, initially presented as quirky and socially awkward, ultimately succumbs to the same character homogenization that plagues the rest of the cast. Her defining characteristic becomes her repetitive dialogue and reliance on Lexapro, neither of which contribute to genuine depth or complexity. Her sudden regressions into tantrum-like behavior, marked by incessant repetition of phrases, feel contrived and cartoonish, rather than indicative of genuine mental health struggles. These exaggerated portrayals reduce her character to a caricature, undermining any attempt at nuanced representation of mental illness.
Even the antagonist, Brady Hartsfield, falls short of compelling villainy. Despite being positioned as a terrifying and unpredictable force, Brady ultimately comes across as a petulant, spoiled teenager trapped in an extended rebellious phase. His motivations, rooted in daddy issues and mommy issues, are cliché and underdeveloped, lacking the psychological depth that typically characterizes King’s most memorable antagonists. He is more pathetic than menacing, a far cry from the truly chilling villains King is capable of creating.
Finally, the pervasive pop culture references throughout the trilogy feel forced and anachronistic. While King has always incorporated pop culture into his narratives, in Mr. Mercedes, these references feel less organic and more like a desperate attempt to appeal to a younger audience. Given the age of the primary characters and the overall tone of the narrative, the insertion of trendy slang and contemporary references feels jarring and out of place. Terms like “tramp-stamp,” used by a 62-year-old ex-cop, feel particularly inauthentic and condescending. The portrayal of women as incapable of understanding car dashboards and the dismissive term “happy-caps” for Holly’s medication further contribute to a tone of condescension and datedness. These references, rather than enhancing the narrative, actively detract from its believability and immersion, creating a sense of disconnect and artificiality.
In conclusion, the Stephen King Mr. Mercedes trilogy stands as a significant disappointment within Stephen King’s extensive bibliography. From its shallow and stereotypical characters to its problematic themes and forced pop culture references, the trilogy fails to capture the magic and depth that define King’s best work. The narrative feels uninspired, the characters unlikeable, and the overall experience frustrating. For a long-time fan, this trilogy is not only a letdown but also a perplexing departure from the storytelling prowess expected from Stephen King. It’s a trilogy that, regrettably, does not live up to the high standards he has set throughout his illustrious career.
