As a devoted Stephen King reader since childhood, I consider myself a lifelong fan. I’ve eagerly devoured nearly every book he’s penned, always captivated by his storytelling, even in his weaker works. However, the Mr. Mercedes trilogy presented a unique challenge – it was a struggle to finish. For the first time in over two decades of reading King, I found myself forcing my way through, driven solely by a completionist desire rather than genuine engagement. Usually, even King’s less compelling novels possess that page-turning quality, a need to know what happens next. But with Mr. Mercedes, that was absent. Disappointment doesn’t even begin to cover it. My issues with this book, the first in the trilogy, are numerous, and while this might turn into a somewhat incoherent rant, I’m determined to articulate my frustrations. Stephen King remains one of my favorite authors, but that doesn’t excuse a truly subpar book. And in my opinion, Mr. Mercedes falls squarely into that category, kicking off a trilogy on a decidedly weak note.
One of Stephen King’s greatest strengths, and usually the most compelling aspect of his novels for me, is his character development. He possesses an almost unparalleled ability to breathe life into characters, making them relatable and instantly engaging. King has often been lauded for achieving in mere lines what many authors fail to accomplish in entire novels – crafting believable, resonant characters.
But in Mr. Mercedes, this crucial element is profoundly lacking. It feels as though King populated this book with cardboard cutouts, devoid of depth and genuine personality. Not a single character approaches his usual standard; instead, they are flat, cliché-ridden figures, moved mechanically to advance the plot from point A to B to C, and offering little substance beyond that functional role.
From the very outset, the dialogue feels unnatural, stiff, and forced. Consider the initial encounter between Augie and Janice, two individuals camping out for a job fair. The scenario suggests both are unemployed and seeking work, yet Augie inexplicably feels the need to explain “downsized” to Janice, defining it as “the twenty-first-century way of saying I got canned.” This explanation feels jarringly unnecessary. Even if Janice is young, the term “downsized” isn’t exactly cutting-edge jargon; it’s been in common usage for decades. The dialogue exemplifies a pervasive issue throughout Mr. Mercedes: constant, needless exposition and confirmation of the obvious. Subtlety is completely absent, replaced by a blunt, almost insulting level of explanation, reminiscent of a Bond villain meticulously detailing their entire nefarious plan. Conversations lack nuance and ambiguity, leaving little room for genuine character interaction or reader interpretation.
Alt text: Two-dimensional cardboard cutout figures of Augie and Janice, representing the flat characters in the Mr. Mercedes novel, part of the Stephen King trilogy.
Then we are introduced to Janice, a character seemingly designed to evoke pity – young, naive, unemployed, and a single mother. However, her pronouncements quickly become absurd. She expresses a desire to apologize to “the world and all of history” simply for having a baby out of wedlock. This self-flagellation feels contrived and frankly, ridiculous. It reads as a transparent attempt to manufacture sympathy for a character who is already thinly drawn. These initial characters, Augie and Janice, function as little more than sacrificial pawns, deployed solely to trigger our empathy and set the stage for the apprehension of the sadistic killer, Mr. Mercedes.
Every character in Mr. Mercedes speaks with the same voice, reinforcing the sense that they are interchangeable cutouts. The only distinguishing features are superficial labels. Janey gets a blonde wig and a “Hi! My name is Janey” tag; Jerome is identified by his race and a tie to signify intelligence; Bill Hodges is overweight and wears a fedora and badge; Mr. Mercedes sports angry eyebrows and carries villainous props; and Holly Gibney is defined by her Lexapro and dowdy appearance. These are not characters; they are caricatures. The dialogue bubbles could be swapped between them without any discernible change in tone or content.
The characters exhibit a bizarre tendency to overshare. Simple yes/no questions elicit lengthy, unsolicited autobiographies. Examples abound: asking about a safe deposit box leads to a detailed banking history; inquiring about a mother’s well-being prompts a recitation of restaurant preferences and DVD selections. One character, when asked about car ownership, launches into an excruciatingly detailed description of their vehicle, local landmarks, and random personal preferences, including a fondness for cheese and kumquats.
This incessant, irrelevant detail plagues the entire book, inducing a kind of mental exhaustion. It’s difficult to believe that Stephen King, the master of concise characterization, actually wrote this. The sheer volume of unnecessary information suggests a ghostwriter, perhaps Dean Koontz’s gardener, or even the ice cream man, might be responsible. It’s a struggle to reconcile this book with the Stephen King I admire.
These flat, verbose characters, devoid of internal filters, become intensely irritating. Adding to the frustration is the pervasive fat-shaming directed at Hodges. He’s described as being thirty pounds overweight, a seemingly minor detail that is treated as a grotesque and defining characteristic. Hodges and others act as if this slight excess weight renders him less worthy, a burden he drags through life. His insecurity about his weight, particularly in relation to Janey, feels exaggerated and tiresome. While King has touched upon weight issues before, notably in Thinner, the relentless focus on Hodges’s physique in Mr. Mercedes is particularly grating. The constant judgmental remarks make it seem improbable that Hodges could even function in daily life, let alone conduct an investigation. Being slightly overweight is not a moral failing, and the constant jabs feel like unnecessary and offensive fat-shaming.
This leads to the awkward and disturbing sex scene between Hodges and Janey. Janey expresses concern that Hodges’ weight might “crush” her during sex, but her control extends far beyond positioning. She dictates a bizarrely hands-off encounter, forbidding touching, talking (except for her own pronouncements), and any movement from Hodges. The scene reads less as a depiction of female sexual empowerment and more like a disturbing scenario of non-consensual exploitation. Hodges, pathetically grateful for any sexual attention, raises no objections, implying consent where there is none. Janey’s subsequent behavior further undermines any notion of strength or independence. She becomes utterly reliant on Hodges for emotional support, even in situations involving her own family, people he barely knows. Her supposed assertiveness crumbles into dependence, making her initial pronouncements ring hollow.
Alt text: A classic fedora hat, similar to the one worn by the character Bill Hodges in the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, symbolizing his outdated and somewhat stereotypical persona.
The morning-after dialogue is equally cringe-inducing. Janey’s opening question, “How’s your cholesterol?” is intrusive and inappropriate, especially considering their nascent relationship. Her subsequent breakfast offering of bland toast and air, devoid of bacon (which Hodges desires), comes across as passive-aggressive and judgmental. This isn’t concern; it’s thinly veiled fat-shaming and an attempt to assert dominance. It’s baffling why Hodges is attracted to Janey; she is consistently critical, unpleasant, and mocks him, even for his casual speech patterns. Their connection seems rooted in mutual dysfunction rather than genuine affection.
Jerome, another key character, resorts to stereotypical and jarringly racist dialogue, seemingly to constantly remind the reader of his race. These moments are deeply uncomfortable and feel like a harmful caricature. Holly Gibney, initially devoid of personality, eventually merges into the same homogenous voice as the rest of the cast. Her defining trait becomes her constant, repetitive announcements about taking Lexapro and her bizarre habit of repeating phrases three times in a row. While her mental health struggles are acknowledged, the portrayal veers into caricature, particularly with the tantrum-like repetitions.
Brady Hartsfield, the titular Mr. Mercedes, is ultimately underwhelming. While the concept of a faceless, anyone-could-be-him killer is initially unsettling, his characterization devolves into a stereotypical portrait of a spoiled, rebellious teenager with daddy and mommy issues. The potential for genuine menace is lost in cliché.
The pervasive pop culture references throughout Mr. Mercedes are another significant misstep. While King has always incorporated popular culture into his work, usually adding depth and relatability, in this instance, the references feel forced, dated, and often inappropriate. Given the characters’ ages and the overall tone, the book seems geared toward an older audience. However, there’s a jarring attempt to inject “youthful” slang and references that fall flat and often come across as condescending.
Examples abound: Hodges, a 62-year-old retired white ex-cop, uses terms like “tramp-stamps” and “moms,” which feel anachronistic and out of character. The dialogue includes condescending remarks about women and cars, with a character implying women view car dashboards as collections of “cute little lights,” requiring male explanation. Holly’s medication is dismissively referred to as “little white happy-caps,” trivializing her mental health condition.
Ultimately, Mr. Mercedes fails to justify the accolades and praise attributed to Hodges throughout the narrative. He relies heavily on Holly and Jerome to solve the case, acting more on hunches and intuition than actual detective work. His reckless actions, such as provoking Brady, feel irresponsible and ego-driven, endangering himself and others. The plot contrivances, like Hodges’s partner always being conveniently busy, further detract from the story’s credibility.
In conclusion, Mr. Mercedes, the opening book of the trilogy, is a deeply disappointing entry in Stephen King’s vast bibliography. Every page seems to offer a new reason for eye-rolling exasperation. From the flat, irritating characters to the stilted dialogue, forced pop culture references, and questionable plot devices, the book is a significant misstep. It’s hard to recommend starting the Mr. Mercedes trilogy based on this initial offering. Hopefully, the subsequent books in the trilogy manage to improve upon this deeply flawed foundation.
