The Wasp Factory (1984)

By Iain Banks
This edition by Abacus Press, 1990
ISBN: 0-349-10177-9

The early eighties were a good time for horror.

Out of the gore-drenched, exploitative and shocking sleazefests of the seventies emerged the modern slasher. VHS and Betamax allowed the release and distribution of movies that would never make it at the box office, sought out by gorehounds and teenage thrillseekers. It was the time of the video nasties, and despite the "think of the children!" brigade's efforts, some of the most iconic pictures of modern horror were produced in those years: A Nightmare on Elm Street, Poltergeist, Friday the 13th, and The Shining among them.

Horror would comment on the world around it, reflecting the cynicism of the decade, anxieties about the decay of the traditional nuclear family and often, gender roles. It was frequently darkly funny, without ever quite stooping to the self-parody that the endless sequels of the following years would bring.

Surprising, then, that a work of literary fiction would cause the controversy that The Wasp Factory did upon its release in 1984.

The story is told from the perspective of Frank Cauldhame, a teenage boy who lives an intensely secluded life on the small Scottish island owned by his family (this family having been reduced over the years to his father, an eccentric and distant character, and his brother Eric, who is away in a psychiatric institution).

From the beginning of the story we're introduced to Frank's unusual, quasi-religious rituals and talismans. Frank believes that the island is his domain, and protects it using Sacrifice Poles: literally poles in the ground which have been decorated and anointed with the disembodied heads of animals Frank has killed, and his own bodily fluids. In the attic of his home he has constructed the titular Factory, an elaborate wasp-killing mechanism that serves as the central item in his divinations. Despite his magical thinking and obsessive rituals and routines, Frank never comes off as an entirely unsympathetic character--everything he does has a reason in his own mind. He seeks symbolism and meaning in everything around him, including the many deaths he has a hand in.

Near the beginning of the narrative Frank is informed that his mentally ill, sadistic brother Eric has escaped from the institution he was being treated at, and is likely to be making his way home. Sure enough, it isn't long before Frank receives a phone call from his brother and we get a glimpse of his manic cruelty--similar calls are interspersed throughout the novel, making Eric's presence a looming and ever-nearing threat to the comparatively kinder, gentler Frank.

Like its film counterparts, the novel is unflinching in its depiction of violence. At its core, The Wasp Factory is a book about suffering, and that suffering--nearly always at the hands of its adolescent "protagonist"--is generally inflicted against animals and other children. It is not a pleasant read. Frank describes to us very matter-of-factly the ways in which he kills two of his cousins and his younger brother, Paul. The murders are absurd and surreal in their creativity, and would be darkly funny if not for the chilling lack of remorse and human compassion Frank demonstrates while performing them.

Frank, the reader must understand, is a deeply misogynistic character. At a young age he was involved in an incident that left him castrated, only half a man, as he occasionally laments, and closer to the women he despises for their alleged stupidity and overemotional tendencies. Men and women, he admits, each have their own strengths: women can give birth, and men can take life. And take life Frank does, often and without remorse, to prove to himself that he can be as much of a man as any other.

It is easy to understand why The Wasp Factory would have more impact on the reader in the eighties as opposed to now, almost twenty-five years later. Our generation has been exposed to the gritty, cinema-verite cruelties of the August Underground and Guinea Pig films, the over-the-top splatter of the Saw and Hostel series, and it's easy to take for granted just how desensitized we are. Sure, the seventies definitely had their share of really vile stuff, but it never quite approached the sheer volume and mainstream exposure our modern equivalents have.

Nevertheless, I found The Wasp Factory to be a compelling and disturbing glimpse into the mind of a very twisted individual. Not very long, at around 195-210 pages depending on the edition you pick up, it's also a quick and absorbing read. I'd recommend it highly for its shocking, Grand-Guignol style violence and its commentary on adolescence and gender.