Awful. Just really awful.
This isn't because the content of it is awful, though I'm sure if it was real, it would be. It was due to everything else. It was written in a faux chatty, conversational style, but Chuck Pallyho didn't manage to capture even the basic nuances of conversation. Sure, it was graphic, but my first problems with Guts came about when it tried to sensationalise anal play (what invisible carrot dude did was more akin to dildos than pegging).
What's more, it took an uninteresting view. I wanted to hear about Pallyho's sister, the virgin who became pregnant with her brother's sperm. That is horrifying. The visceral feeling of violation, of being a walking contradiction, of carrying something that should not exist-the narrative potential is there.
But Pallyho has fucked up views of women and likely did not think of this women's story as having anything of substance involved. I think it is very, very rare for a horror writer to have even the basic parts of feminist critique in relation to media down. Chuck Pallyho, unfortunately, did not escape unscathed from the masculine-centred environment of horror.
I feel like a lot of Guts inherently othered alternate forms of sexuality, which was pretty bleh. Pallyho was trying to be cute with it, but he didn't manage to make it any better. Reading it, the only sinking feeling I had was based on a thought midway-"what would he think of me?"
Rating: one star out of six (no artistic merit)
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