The Stand opens on a relatively familiar world. Things are normal enough; it’s 1990 (updated from the original publication’s 1980). The world is then struck by Captain Trips, a weaponized flu strain that escapes military containment and has a mortality rate of roughly 99.4%. The book covers the superflu’s spread, the eradication of “normal,” and the fallout when an (un)lucky slew of survivors must make ends meet. Those survivors begin having dreams of two distinct figures: a gentle 108-year-old woman in a Nebraska cornfield or “the dark man” with no face. Two camps emerge, and the fabric of the new societies begins to stitch together.
This is a massive book in scope, themes, plot, and cast. It’s one of King’s biggest cadres, and the book requires no small effort to track it all. There’s Frannie Goldsmith, newly pregnant by a boy she doesn’t love and unsure what to do. Stu Redman is a soft-spoken factory man who gets hauled to a medical facility for study when he turns out to be immune. Larry Underwood is a singer embroiled in the sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll of it all after releasing a hit single. Nick Andros is a deaf-mute drifter taken in by a kindly sheriff, valued for his sharp mind in the new world when the old one was content to cast him aside. Harold Lauder is a 16-year-old precursor to the modern incel whose paranoia and bitterness lead him to some terrible choices.
There, now you know approximately 10% of the notable cast of The Stand. I’m being glib, of course, but it’s a worthwhile point. Be ready to keep a lot of characters straight. King makes each one so distinct in physical traits and personality that it’s not too difficult. It also helps that most characters fall into one of two camps. There’s Mother Abagail’s nice and honest folk, the “good guys.” Then there’s Randall Flagg (the aforementioned Dark Man) and his cultish band of misfits. These two camps reside in Boulder and Las Vegas, respectively, and they play into one of this book’s biggest strengths: its themes.
King loves to blur the lines between dichotomies. In 11/22/63, it was past and present. The Shining investigates sanity and lunacy, or corruption and innocence. Needful Things juxtaposes wanton desire and need. The Stand plays in these spaces too, but it’s mostly content to go for the big one: good and evil. King’s answer to it all, of course, is “it’s not that simple.” Same with free will vs. destiny. Do we rebuild society as it was or try something new to avoid certain mistakes? These issues are all a matter of perspective, and that’s where the massive cast functions as an unequivocal strength. King gives us a case study in every major character’s worldview and how it shapes their perception of what’s good, what’s evil, and what’s in between. He explores Harold’s inner conflict with some empathy for the kid, but also as an external observer who can see the boy is sliding down a slippery slope.
Even the big “bad,” Randall Flagg, has his merits. He welcomes those who were shunned, bullied, or cast away from “normal” society pre-superflu and gives them a community. He flips the “evil” switch when provoked, sure, but he’s able to paint an idyllic picture of what could be for those folks, and they give him their loyalty in return. Nurture someone’s faith in an idealized image of the future, and they may be blind to the harsh realities surrounding them, such as Flagg’s open crucifixions of followers caught doing drugs or breaking his myriad rules.
Consider this a cross-section of the labyrinth of themes King presents in The Stand. That brings me to my biggest nitpick, which is entirely subjective but worth mentioning for anyone on the fence about this tome. It’s a lot. A lot. I like Stephen King’s work most when he’s doing his version of a bottle episode. I don’t care if the bottle is pretty big. The Shining works in the relatively small space of the Overlook. Under the Dome works because it’s one big town beneath a bubble. The Stand, despite coagulating into two factions anchored in two cities, feels almost unwieldy in its scope. Tellingly, the book is at its best when it narrows: Boulder’s committee squabbles, Harold’s simmering resentment, the dread of knowing something terrible is coming. When it zooms back out to the whole country, the tension leaks. So much so that when the climax arrived, despite being literally explosive, it felt like a letdown to me. When your backdrop is an entire country rendered barren by a supervirus, even the most gigantic of climaxes can feel diminutive. For some readers, a deeper buy-in to the characters might solve this problem. I liked them (or hated them) all aplenty, but what should have been a crater-sized impact felt more like a gut punch to me.
Even so, my gripes with The Stand are about fit more than quality. This is King swinging as big as he ever has, and the swing mostly connects. The cast is memorable, the themes are rich, and the superflu’s spread is some of the most propulsive writing in his catalog. If you’re a King completionist, a post-apocalypse fan, or someone who loves living with characters for the long haul, The Stand is required reading. If you want King at his tight, claustrophobic, spooky best, start with The Shining or Needful Things and work your way here.
Give me a Stephen King book, and I know I’m signing up for “good enough” at the very least. The Stand clears that bar easily, even if it isn’t quite my King bag. I’m glad I read it, and I’m content to keep sifting through the pile in search of my favorites.
Rating: The Stand – 8.0/10
