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"Crime Fiction" certainly describes The Sweetwater Point Motel, and I'm sure this is what the editors were thinking when they published this paperback edition in 1983. But if you're going to make "The most terrifying novel since Psycho!" the tagline of your novel, I'm sorry, but I'one thousand going to assume it's horror and react accordingly. That'due south my story, I'm sticking to it, and if well-nigh-certainly-pseudonymous author Peter Saab wants to set the record straight, then he, she, or they are more than than welcome to speak. Given information technology's been thirty-five years and nobody'south been willing to stand up and have the credit/blame for this anal expulsion, it's safety to say we'll never know the truth. Rumor has it this is Peter Straub phoning it in under a pseudonym, merely I've read enough Straub to state confidently information technology's not him. The author puts plenty British turns of phrase into the mouths of his littoral Americans to accomplish two conclusions: starting time, whoever penned this resides beyond the Atlantic sea; second, Jove'south editors were laughably incompetent.
Premise-wise, The Sweetwater Point Motel starts out similar a low-upkeep, thoroughly-fourscore'southward version of Taken. Edith Burroughs and her 2 daughters (16-year sometime Abigail and 12-year old Katy) have flown to the United States to visit friends. Their plans were to arrive in New England, then drive down the declension to South Carolina. Overdue for their arrival, with no sign of them anywhere, Edith's brother-in-police Philip travels to the Usa to search them out and discover what happened.
Unlike Liam Neeson however, Philip is in possession of exactly zero special skills that brand him a nightmare to potential kidnappers. He's an over-the-loma physician who's never set foot in the United states before. What he hopes to accomplish is anyone'south guess, just since the police force have found no evidence of foul play in their investigation, they're treating it similar a typical missing persons' case and non a kidnapping or homicide. As far every bit United states cops are concerned, Edith skipped town with her daughters and went incommunicado to begin a new life in a new land with a new beau. All Philip has is a feeling this wouldn't have happened without at least a telephone telephone call or letter, only that'south enough to go him on a plane and behind the wheel of a rental auto.
The first seventy pages are from Philip's perspective as he encounters the civilisation shock of America's seedy obsession with pornography, aloofness from the constabulary assigned to the case, and a mounting fright something awful has happened to his sis-in-law and nieces. From there, the novel swaps to Edith's view to explain what happened to the trio as they made their way down the declension. On an unfamiliar road, Edith gets the automobile stuck in a ditch. At kickoff she's pleased equally dial when three teenagers, James, Candice, and Tommy, find them. James, it turns out, has family who ain a nearby motel. Sweetwater Point Motel is currently closed for the season, but his relatives won't care if they get inside and help themselves to shelter from the wretched weather. Thankful for the rescue, Edith and the girls bring together the teens for what they presume will exist one night, 2 at the most, of sheltering from the tempest.
As you lot tin guess from the cover image, things very chop-chop get downhill for Edith, Abby, and Katy.
Your book has to be a peculiarly special sort of awful for Kirkus Review to not only hitting it with a low rating but too spoil the ending, and that's exactly what happened to The Sweetwater Betoken Motel. The unnamed reviewer actually did not desire people picking up this book, which is described as "Foul, dumb, and sick-o" in their short-simply-roughshod evisceration. I hadn't read the review prior to picking up The Sweetwater Point Motel, but if I was told I had to continue my review to 300 words or less, it's the same template I would use. This book isn't the worst thing ever committed to newspaper, and I honestly can't say I enjoyed reading it beyond the noesis that my write-up afterwards might warn other potential thrillseekers to proceed their distances. That said, some people besides actually like pizza with anchovies, and then maybe you're the ane for whom The Sweetwater Point Motel is perfect.
You'll know if you're the intended target past how you notice yourself responding to phrases like "lesbian rape", "kid seduction", and "seriously, just so much sexual assail, you guys".
Despite the encompass's promises and the fact half the book takes place in a motel, The Sweetwater Signal Motel has nothing at all in common with Psycho. Cinema-wise the best comparing I could come up upwardly with is a flick like The Last House on the Left or The Hills Have Optics. It's a pessimistic downer of a story, where increasingly horrible things are inflicted on completely innocent victims--even if the cavalry evidence up (and the cavalry haven't fifty-fifty been dispatched), Humpty Dumpty ain't getting put back together.
Saab's a competent writer, wasting no time plunging into the depravity that is the homo condition, but he's got cypher eye for character development. Philip'southward arc has him talking nicely with prostitutes in New York, visiting seedy porno shops where he finds himself buying a muddied mag, and eventually crawling into bed with an underage waitress he meets at a greasy spoon joint who tries her best to assistance him detect his family.
All this is intercut with scenes of bad things near to happen to Edith and the girls, bad things happening to Edith and the girls, or bad things having but concluded happening to Edith and the girls. And past 'bad things', of course, I mean 'rape'. Each of the teenage villains has his or her own quirks and qualms: James thinks Edith's quite the looker for her historic period; Tommy'southward got the hots for Abigail big time; Candice has her bisexual tart optics firmly set on the undeveloped chest of twelve year sometime Katy.
Yeah, it's exactly every bit squicky as yous imagine.
In the hands of a better writer, say Jack Ketchum or J.A. Konrath, this story could take promise. Ketchum, for all the delight he seemed to have in seizing the worst humanity had to offer and chirapsia readers over the caput with it, still understood there was more to a stupor story than the daze. Characters have to come first--we accept to care nearly fictional constructs before nosotros care what happens to them in anything more than a tut-tut and shake of the caput fashion. Sadly, Saab (whoever he is) doesn't possess the stones to pull this off. He can deliver the awful settings, just he merely can't brand the reader care. As such, the volume ends pretty much the way you lot would imagine a book like this ends. I won't spoil it like Kirkus Review, merely suffice information technology to say you lot've read this one before and there's no signal in rehashing old downers unless, as I said earlier, those phrases hold some magical appeal to y'all.
Two stomach-churning depictions of child molestation out of five.
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