Clive Barker, page 1 of 6

Having by now spent ten years publishing blockbuster novels that mix horror and fantasy on an often Biblical scale, Sacrament (first published in 1996) saw Barker taking a step back from the multiple worlds and earth-shaking events of Imajica, The Great and Secret Show and Everville to something less chock-full of entire carnivals of the fantastique. Here, he addresses some issues of concern in the real world around him. And though, this being Barker, there are still moments when it all strays into the metaphysical, fantastic and luridly horrific, it does, at times, even get a little autobiographical.

The protagonist of Sacrament is Will Rabjohns, a world-renowned wildlife photographer known for his images of animals brought up hard against humankind’s impact on their home environments. The novel opens as he’s finishing his latest project, on polar bears hunting through the rubbish tips of Balthazar in northern Canada. But a bear attack puts him into a four-month coma, during which he revisits the events of thirty years ago when, as a thirteen year old, he encountered a strange and beautiful pair of vagabonds, Jacob and Rosa.

Back then, Will’s parents had just moved from Manchester to the Yorkshire village of Burnt Yarley following the death of Will’s older brother, who had always been his parents’ favourite. Still left very much in the shadows of his parents’ affections, when he meets this strange pair, and finds Jacob taking a keen interest him, Will decides to run away with them.

Jacob has a strange avocation as “the Killer of Last Things”: he seeks out the final mating pairs of dying species, documents them thoroughly in his journal, then kills them, thus making what he sees as an irreversible impact on the world. Something passes between Jacob and Will, and the boy experiences some of the older man’s memories, including one of a dead painter, Thomas Simeon, from two centuries ago (Jacob and Rosa are, it seems, immortal, and have a Cenobitish air of ennui’d repletion about them), whose body, left in the wilds, was partially eaten by a fox. (In his coma, Will sees that fox once more and speaks to it—Lord Fox, it calls itself.) In the end, events transpired to prevent Will from joining this dangerous but alluring couple, but he left the town and his parents as soon as he’d grown up: a gay man, he knows his parents—and, indeed, most of society at the time—couldn’t accept what he was. He left England for America, settling in San Francisco.

Recovering from the coma, Will says he’s finished with photography, but has no plans for what he’s going to do instead. He returns to San Francisco, only to find himself in a community ravaged by AIDS. And Lord Fox, stirred into wakefulness inside him, starts visiting, enlivening his senses with a fresh acuity, and driving him to Barkerian excesses in the city’s gay nightclubs. Will realises he has to rid himself of this troublesome animal spirit just as Jacob, elsewhere in the world, decides he needs to rid himself of the connection he still feels to Will. To this end, Jacob and Rosa return to Burnt Yarley and assault Will’s father, putting him into hospital, thus sending the message that they want Will back for a confrontation.

As ever with Barker’s fiction, that confrontation doesn’t go according to anyone’s plan, and turns into a quest that heads further north to the Isle of Tiree, where Jacob and Rosa’s former master—perhaps, even, creator—the magician Rukenau, dwells in the magical structure known as the Domus Mundi, the House of the World.

Barker has said this is a novel infused with autobiographical elements (his biographer Douglas E Winter says “Sacrament is arguably the best of Clive Barker’s novels, and one of the most directly and profoundly autobiographical of his fictions”). It’s broad strokes stuff, though, as this is a novel about a creative gay man who has moved from the north of England to the West Coast of the USA. And Will’s critics say, of his art, what Barker must have heard many times himself: “Why did he have to seek out images that evoked despair and death when there was so much beauty in the natural world?”

The main fantastical element centres on Jacob and Rosa. (Winter writes: “The bloodthirsty scourge known as Jacob Steep is only the most recent of the light-bearing zealots who burn their way through the pages of [Barker’s] fiction,” which is a wonderful description.) Both have some power, most explicitly in Rosa’s case, as she has an animated string of rosary beads that does her bidding (usually murder). Like so many Barker figures, the couple exist in a twilight world, or perhaps an elevated version of this one, their concerns philosophical and aesthetic rather than the mundane ones of daily survival, blessed visionaries and cursed wanderers in one.

As so often in Barker’s fiction these are figures on a quest for deeper, or higher, knowledge. Like The Great and Secret Show’s Jaff or Weaveworld’s Shadwell the Salesman, their power derives from an awareness of another world, but one they are not the masters of. Jacob and Rosa, in fact, do not really understand what they are. They know they’re immortal; they’re haunted by certain memories (an ice palace they visited many years ago reminded them of something, though they can’t recall what). Jacob in particular is troubled and inconsistent. Despite his extinction-killings, he seeks forgiveness somehow, and a clear view of God—who is drowned out, in this world, he believes, by the “smothering, deafening fecundity” of its animal life, hence his need to kill it off—but, at the same time, he’s contemptuous of the deity, saying “God’s a coward and a show-off, Will… He hides behind a gaudy show of forms, boasting how fine His workings are…” Zealot he may be, but his faith blows hot and cold.

Jacob and Rosa know they owe their existence to the magician Rukenau, who dwells in the Domus Mundi—which they, somehow, helped build—and it’s when they, and Will, start to learn more about both Rukenau and the painter Simeon (who was, for a while, Rukenau’s partner in magical endeavours) that the novel really starts engaging with its ideas, and became much more fulfilling, for me.

Simeon’s is the clearer, more positive, vision, as he (in one of the memories Will has experienced) holds up a flower petal to Jacob and provides the novel with its title: this petal is “the true sacrament”, “the Holy of Holies… the Ark of the Covenant, the Sangraal, the Great Mystery itself”, as is all of the natural world. He has something of Algernon Blackwood’s panpsychism about him as he says: “God knows the world through us, Jacob. He adores it with our voices. He makes our hands do it service…”

But Simeon died centuries ago, and we only get to meet Rukenau here, living a squalid existence in the out-of-this-world structure known as the Domus Mundi. Whatever it is or was meant to be, this structure (I don’t recall it getting a full explanation) is a shining thing that seems to contain the essence of the world’s animal and plant life, a light full of “hints of living things”—or would do, but because Rukenau is unable to face its constant light, he has covered the interior walls in “mud and excrement”—the main image that lingered from my first reading of the book, making me wonder at the time just what Barker was saying. (I’m still not entirely sure. Perhaps it’s more by way of a complaint, that we live in such a wondrous world, but insist on polluting it in every way we can?)

One notable shift in Barker’s fiction that comes through in this novel is its attitude to death. In his previous fiction, death has only ever been a transformation, a change of state rather than an ending, and one it’s possible to return from (however painfully—think of all those half-made Uncle Frank-like “walking anatomy lessons” throughout the novels). In Imajica, a man who died from AIDS became a voice that spoke from the afterlife, an “angel” to one of that novel’s characters; here, when a man dies from AIDS, it’s the end. Resurrection has been a key theme of Barker’s fiction from the start, but “This is not a world of resurrections.” Rather, it’s a world of “early and unexpected goodbyes”, where “Life was not a reversible commodity. Things passed away, never to return: species, hopes, years.”

Jacob and Rosa, though, belong “to a race or condition which was in some unfathomable fashion beyond the frailties of disease, or even death.” In the end, though, they are revealed to be not human at all. They form part of another theme in Barker’s novels, of created beings, like the homunculus of his play The Magician, or the magical doppelgängers of Zacharias and Judith in Imajica.

What humanity they have, in particular their characters as a man and a woman, was acquired by “learning the cruel assumptions of their gender from what they saw about them”. Jacob, then, is death (“It was one of this appetites as a man; to love the hunt, the blood-letting and the kill”); Rosa is a combination of lust and a constantly-frustrated desire to have babies.

Overlapping with this Barker theme of the created being is another that’s closely allied to it, the relationship between fathers and sons. Here, it’s dealt with in entirely non-fantastic terms in Will’s relationship with his monstrously unemotional father, a philosopher whose response when his son says they should try to talk his mother out of her mournful depression, is to go on about the inadequacy of words to express any sort of meaning. “Nobody can ever feel what somebody else feels,” Hugh tells the boy, which is basically his excuse for doing nothing. His mockery of the idea of human emotion reaches its nadir when, pushing the question to its absurd extreme, he asks Will to imagine “a portion of excrement which may be dubbed loving”, and thinks that this disproves love, when it in fact only invalidates his methods of enquiry. Will finds a far better father-figure in the murderous Jacob, who at least, for a while, is interested in the lad (even if he later wants to kill him).

Sacrament received some friction at the time for centring on a gay character, both from critics and its first (soon-replaced) editor (who apparently asked Barker if he couldn’t swap Will’s boyfriend for a girlfriend, scared it would hurt sales). Surprisingly, for a book that depicts the gay community as Barker knew it, and so which presumably could have provided it with a de-stigmatising voice at the time, the sequences in San Francisco are a little bleak, and not just because of the presence of AIDS. (Douglas E Winter writes: “its take on gay lifestyles is by no means a gentle or encouraging one”.)

Kirkus Reviews, though, gave the book a mostly-thumbs up critique:

“By turns suspenseful, intellectually exciting, wildly melodramatic, turgid, and bombastic, Barker’s novel is charged—in its complex development and surprising resolution—with very real, very human emotion. A weirdly absorbing and entertaining tale that offers more disturbing delights from one of our most inventive and risk-taking writers.”

I certainly enjoyed it, perhaps more than the first time around, as I can maybe appreciate its maturity and depth a bit more. The first half felt a little unsatisfying, perhaps because of the lack of Barker’s usual profusion of fantastic images and ideas suddenly leaving his characters with nothing to be beguiled by, but as the themes kicked in, in the second half of the novel, it certainly grew on me.

Some questions seemed unanswered, particularly about Rukenau (just what was he up to when he had the Domus Mundi built?), but ultimately it’s a book that retains Barker’s usual visionary concerns, just versed in slightly less fantastic terms. Inclusionist that he is, Barker sees the wonders of creation at all levels of existence, in all aspects of being human, and in the natural world:

“The creators of the world had not retreated to the heights. They were everywhere. They were stones, they were trees, they were shafts of light and burgeoning seeds. They were broken things, they were dying things, and they were all that sprang up from things dying and broken. And where they were, [Will] was too. Fox and God and the creature between.”

First published in 1994, Everville is the sequel to 1989’s The Great and Secret Show, and so the second Book of the Art. It is, according to Barker himself, “the first of my large novels written on my adopted soil” (the USA), and it’s also the first of his novels to return to a world and characters he’d written about before (not counting Harry D’Amour’s appearance in The Great and Secret Show, after his introduction in the Books of Blood story “The Last Illusion”).

Everville opens with a prologue set in America’s pioneer days. A wagon train is heading west from Missouri to Oregon, floundering as it encounters the Blue Mountains. Among its number is Harmon O’Connell, a man who has created in his mind, and in countless drawn plans, the shining city of Everville, which he intends to found once they reach their destination. He has a gold cross, given to him by a man named Owen Buddenbaum, to plant as a foundation to the city—not a crucifix, but the fellow to the one owned by Randolph Jaffe in the previous novel, emblematic of the magical Art, showing a human figure at the centre of four paths: “One to the dream-world, one to the real; one to the bestial, one to the divine.” When this seemingly Satanic cross is discovered by his fellow travellers, Harmon is blamed for all the ill-fortune that has befallen the trip so far and is killed. His 10-year-old daughter Maeve takes the cross and escapes, to found her father’s dream-city herself.

Skip to the present, where five years have passed since the events of The Great and Secret Show. Tesla Bombeck, carrying the spirit of the evolved monkey Raul within her, has been ranging across America, and picks up rumours that Fletcher, whom she’d immolated at his own request back in Palomo Grove, has somehow returned. Meanwhile her old friend Grillo, now holed up in Omaha (where the previous novel began), is using a bank of computers to collate the endless stream of weird news stories popping up throughout the nation. Both, along with noir-ish private eye Harry D’Amour in New York, are drawn to the Oregon town of Everville, just as it’s holding its annual festival. Also arriving there are Owen Buddenbaum—still alive after all these years, and ready to reap what he sowed when he gave that gold cross to Harmon O’Connell—and that figure who some think is the returned Fletcher, but who turns out to be something much darker. Added to this are some new characters, drawn from the ordinary folk of Everville, and yet to be introduced to the weird wonders coming their way: solicitor Erwin Toothaker, who uncovers a scandal in the town’s past; teen Seth Lundy, who “can hear angels hammering on the sky from Heaven’s side”; and Phoebe Cobb and her lover Joe Flicker, whose affair, once discovered, leads to Joe having to go on the run, and his finding an open doorway to the shores of Quiddity in the mountains above the town.

One thing to ask about Everville, it being the second book in a trilogy, is whether it’s worth reading, given that the third book of the series has yet to be (perhaps is never to be) written. I’d say that, just as the first book, The Great and Secret Show, works on its own, Everville could easily be the concluding part to a duology: it picks up characters from the previous book (I’m not so sure you could start with Everville), but finishes what it starts in terms of character and plot. The only way in which Everville doesn’t feel like a satisfactory conclusion is in terms of its themes. There’s so much going on, so many characters, so much incident, and lots of ideas offered up along the way, but none of those ideas is really pursued to the sort of depth you’d expect of an overall central theme. As such, the book doesn’t end with the feeling that it’s just delivered a big novel’s-worth of meaning—which Barker certainly did in Imajica (with its meditations on the need for balance in the spiritual and divine powers that govern us) or The Great and Secret Show (which could be read as a fable about the imagination being a battleground between fears and dreams).

There’s plenty that Everville could have pursed to greater depth. The Great and Secret Show was about the glitzy, glamorous side of America; Everville addresses itself to the complimentary small-town side of petty prejudices, small scale dreams and local scandals. The series itself has some ideas baked into it, for instance about evolution, whether physical or spiritual (as Raul says in this book: “We’re born to rise. To see more. To know more. Maybe to know everything one day.”), but Everville doesn’t take those notions any further than The Great and Secret Show. There’s the corresponding idea of change, and how things don’t end but merely transform (and this is a novel where at least two major characters spend a good time of the book as ghosts), but this feels more like an aspect of Barker’s world in general than something he’s directly addressing here.

Even on the plot level, big ideas raised in The Great and Secret Show don’t seem to get much further examination. The nature of the Iad Orobouros, for instance, which in the first book we were told thirsted “For purity. For singularity. For madness.”, and again represents the main ticking-bomb threat as their dark wave travels across Quiddity towards our world. Although there are speculations about the nature of the Iad (is it created from the dark side of the human unconscious, or were humans in fact created from its depths?), there are no answers, and the Iad sort of peters out at the end, more of a maguffin to drive the plot than a carrier of meaning.

Two of Barker’s key strengths, I think, are his depiction of believable human beings encountering realms of the fantastic and having their lives transformed, and his creation of fantastic cosmologies that capture some essence of the human experience untouched by many authors. But in a way, Everville, being the second book in a series, is setting itself up not to play to those strengths. We’ve already been introduced to the cosmology, and as I say, it’s not really explored to any greater depth (though there is a lot more paddling about); and, as many of the novel’s key characters are returning from the previous book, they’ve already had their transformative moments—and the new characters’ encounters with the fantastic are got over more quickly, as Barker no doubt felt it was material he’d already dealt with.

What I’d say Everville is, is a generous slice of Barker: it’s well-written (more readable than The Great and Secret Show), full of interesting characters, weird images and situations, and constantly sparking off ideas (there’s enough ideas to fuel another couple of Books of Blood, if he’d wanted), but it’s not doing anything new. It reads like a horror-fantasy adventure, written with a great deal of invention and verve, which would be enough for any other author. But I think Barker is capable of going deeper. Perhaps, this being the second book of a series, he didn’t have the elbow room to really turn it into something new.

In the novel, Tesla finds a note Grillo left himself on how he should address his attempt to write up what happened in Palomo Grove (the events of The Great and Secret Show): that he should let the telling “be ragged and contradictory, like stories have to be.” Perhaps that was Barker talking to himself here, too, giving himself permission to let the story sprawl, like the growth of that meant-to-be shining town of Everville itself. If so, perhaps the permission was needed because he perhaps felt, at some level, he should have been pushing Everville into some sharper focus, some more definite meaning, some higher level than the previous book of the series? (It’s towards the end of the book that Barker takes up the idea of “the story tree”, and how every human life is a telling of one leaf of that tree—an idea, I’d say, that would definitely have given this book the thematic weight it was lacking, if only it had been woven in from the start. Instead, from what I’ve read of Barker’s intentions, this is actually the idea he’s going to pursue in the third Book of the Art, if it gets written.)

There are plenty of recurring Barker tropes, in Everville—something I always like to keep track of—sometimes changed in new and interesting ways: the showman/salesman semi-villain, in the figure of Owen Buddenbaum; the “walking anatomy lesson” of a painfully reforming being, in Phoebe Cobb bringing her dead-but-not-dead lover Joe back to corporeality and being interrupted halfway, resulting in him existing for a while in “an agonised and unfinished state”; the massacre of a secret group of beautiful creatures; the intolerant mob roused into action by incursions of the fantastic; a key character turning out to be the offspring of a human mother and a monstrous (or non-human) father—a theme from some of the earliest Books of Blood—though in this case the progeny is itself monstrous in the moral sense… And most of all, the feeling that one should embrace every aspect of the human condition: the transcendent and the bestial, the fantastic and the normal. Barker is a thorough inclusionist, a celebrator of the entire human carnival. (It’s such a Barker-ish thing that Maeve O’Connell kicks off her father’s dream city by opening a whorehouse. In any other writer’s hands, this could be a satirical commentary on America’s being driven by money and selling the idea of a certain type of unrealistic dream; but for Barker, it’s just a carnal counterbalance to the ideas of spiritual transcendence behind the “shining city”: for him, there has to be both sides of the flesh-spirit equation.)

Everville isn’t a bad book. All the same, I’m looking forward to getting on with the later, mid-career Barker novels, each of which was standalone, and written by a man who has now very much found his place as a purveyor of wild, weird, transcendent and carnivalesque fantasy-horrors. Though actually it’s with his next novel, Sacrament, that I remember stumbling as a reader of Barker the first time round. I’m interested to see how I feel about it on a second read.

I thought I’d take a side-step from re-reading Barker’s novels to look at some of his plays, written in the days prior to the publication of (but in some cases alongside the writing of) the first Books of Blood stories and The Damnation Game. A good selection are currently published in individual editions from the Clive Barker Archive, complete with Barker cover art, photos, and informative afterwords.

Barker had been creating plays since his days as a teenager at Quarry Bank School in Liverpool, which from the start were both horrific and fantastic in nature. According to Douglas E Winter in his Barker biography The Dark Fantastic, Voodoo (1967) was “a living horror film”, Inferno (1967) a “weird reinvention of Dante” complete with “Hell and Nazis and God knows”, and the title of Neongonebony (1968) refers to our current neon-lit age descending into a bone-choked post-apocalypse. The Holly and the Ivy (1970, when Barker would have been eighteen), was a three-hour take on the King Arthur story, ending with the revelation of a homosexual relationship between two of its main characters, which caused some consternation among the school staff—not for the first time, with Barker. These early works were collaborative and partly improvised (an approach Barker would encourage even in his later works, as he says in his introductions to the published editions: “These plays are not finished things, they’re invitations to collective work.”). Nevertheless, he was the one who assigned parts and determined the purpose of each scene within an overall narrative. Playwriting, acting and production continued for Barker throughout his time at university (where he switched from philosophy to English Literature), in first the Hydra Theatre Company, then the Theatre of the Imagination, and for a short while the Mute Pantomime Theatre. These all seem to have been small groups, mostly of the same people (Pinhead actor Doug Bradley, and Hellraiser II scriptwriter Pete Atkins, for instance). They all moved to London around 1977, and formed the Dog Company, where Barker, now out of university, concentrated entirely on the stage. He continued to act in his own plays for a while, but gave that up in 1980 to concentrate on writing and directing, and in 1982 gave up directing too.

The three plays I chose to read (and I’ve seen none of these performed, so I’m sure I’m missing a lot of how they’d actually be experienced) all had the more obviously fantastical titles. First among them was The Magician: A Farce in the Style of the Commedia dell’Arte, which was first performed from November to December 1978. As the title says, this is a take on the traditional comedy form the Harlequinade, with its set character-types (Pantalone, Columbine, Pierrot, and so on). Here, Pantalone is the governor of an unnamed European city-state, where rumours arrive that the great magician Cagliostro is on his way. But is he a real magician or “all reputation, no power”? It turns out he did perform one genuine act of magic many years ago, the creation of an homunculus, which he proceeded to drown, in horror at what he’d made. But the creature survived, and was raised in ignorance of what it really was, to become the governor of this city-state. The play ends with a reconciliation between the father/creator Cagliostro and his fantastical “son”.

The History of the Devil was first performed in September 1980, and went on to have a run at the Edinburgh Fringe, where it was listed among the twelve best plays of the festival. It would be the Dog Company’s most performed play. In it, the Devil has himself put on trial in the hope that, if found innocent, he’ll be allowed back into Heaven. Witnesses (most of them summoned from the grave) appear, and their testimonies turn into on-stage enactments, including the story of the Devil’s first arrival on Earth (in what seems to be medieval Russia), his encounter with Christ in the desert, his attempt to get a Renaissance architect to build him a palace (if not on Earth, then in Hell), and his freeing some women accused of being witches in Puritan America. For me, although these episodes provide plenty of variety, they don’t really add up to an argument for or against the Devil as a source of evil, and it’s the court scenes that are the best parts of the play. The Devil’s ultimate justification is that none of this would be any different if he weren’t here:

“Is there a moral sky over me? No. Does this dirt suffer morality? No. In all the natural world there’s no moral thing. You ask why you are unhappy. Why, why? Morality. You go against nature.”

Frankenstein in Love was first performed from April to May 1982, after which it was taken to Holland, Belgium, and again to the Edinburgh Fringe. It’s set in an unnamed South American country at the point where its current dictator, Perez, is being overthrown by the revolutionary forces led by El Coco. Perez’s chief executioner, it turns out, is Doctor Frankenstein (who has been allowed to experiment to his heart’s content on the regime’s political criminals), while El Coco is actually his first creation, the famed “monster”. After the revolution, El Coco is assassinated, but, being dead already, cannot die, and returns to revenge himself on Doctor Frankenstein, arriving on his wedding day (where the doctor is marrying one of his experimental subjects). Of the three plays, this is the most out-and-out horrific, dripping in gore, death, shock and transgression, including a man’s heart being ripped out on stage, another having his head trapped in a box of knives, and another having a new face sewn on, all wrapped up in an air of political oppression, medical experimentation, plague, cannibalism, and the misuse of corpses (“hardly the standard ingredients of British theatre” as the reviewer for The Scotsman put it).

Despite the political background, Frankenstein in Love doesn’t feel like a political statement (unless it’s in the overall tone of misused power and constant backstabbing), but rather presents a vision of a world in which all is merely flesh and death, but in which flesh is not ended by, but transformed by, death. As Veronique, one of Frankenstein’s experiments, says:

“Yes, I’ve learned that lesson. Flesh is trash. Its natural state is meat. Everybody is just meat. The rest is the will to be more than meat.”

Or, Frankenstein himself:

“We look at our bodies and we see them putrefying around our living minds and we know, finally, that the enemy is our flesh. The body is a prison and must be escaped by metaphysics, or changed by wit and knife and courage.”

Far more relentlessly grim than anything Barker put into his fiction—perhaps doubly so because it was being put on live, on stage, where the horror is unrelenting—it was actually written shortly after the most powerful of Barker’s initial Books of Blood stories, “In the Hills, the Cities”.

Aside from the general air of horror, these plays are speckled with hints of what was to come in Barker’s more well-known works. For instance Christ, in The History of the Devil, when planning his means of martyrdom, asks “Isn’t there something they do in the East with hooks in the skin?”, which recalls the hooks in the skin in Hellraiser. In Frankenstein in Love, after El Coco’s assassination (by fire), he becomes a skinless walking corpse, “A walking anatomy lesson”—which recalls Frank from Hellraiser, as well as the “anatomy lesson, raw and wet” of Gentle’s homunculus in Imajica.

More generally, I think it’s possible to see how Barker’s approach to writing fiction has been informed by his background as a playwright. All three of these plays feature a narrator who speaks to the audience and interacts with the characters, and who talks knowingly of the events being played out as a drama (somewhat like Puck when he addresses the audience at the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, only in this case throughout the play), and there’s certainly a similar tone in Barker’s fiction, where he’s always highlighting archetypal aspects like character roles and story-types (it’s so ingrained in Barker’s prose style it’s hard to isolate in a good quote, but here he’s describing Gentle and Judith’s love affair in Imajica: “one death short of tragedy, and one marriage short of farce”). In addition, I think his penchant for making his monsters such eloquent, often philosophical beasts, is rooted in writing them as characters for the stage.

The theme that kept standing out for me, even if it wasn’t the main one of each play, was that of monstrous sons and their fathers/creators. I’ve already mention the reunion of the homunculus and his creator in The Magician, but there’s also the Devil seeking reconciliation with his father/creator God in The History of the Devil, and El Coco/Frankenstein’s monster seeking revenge on his father/creator (he calls him his father, but it’s pointed out a couple of times that, no, he’s his creator) in Frankenstein in Love. In the latter two plays, these attempts at reconciliation (if the last one can even be called that) end in failure, if not tragedy. This is a theme I thought popped up in some of the early Books of Blood stories, too, such as “Skins of the Fathers” and “Rawhead Rex”, and now I think about it can also be found in The Damnation Game (most explicitly in the character Breer, who’s resurrected by Mamoulian, and so in a sense becomes his “monster”, though the Faustian pact-that-isn’t-a-pact between Whitehead and Mamoulian perhaps makes more sense if read as a father/creator-son relationship) and in Gentle’s created double in Imajica.

The end of the Dog Company came, ironically, not through failure but success. As well as Frankenstein in Love (the first of Barker’s plays to be directed by someone else, which was partly done to ensure the Arts Council took the company more seriously), they put on another Barker play at the Edinburgh Fringe, The Secret Life of Cartoons. This was enough of a hit that the troupe recognised they’d need to bring in other people to give it its full due if they were to take it further (which they did), and this meant leaving the days of a six-actor, one-playwright fringe group behind. Barker continued to write plays (for the Cockpit Youth Theatre), but was already working on The Books of Blood and The Damnation Game, with Hellraiser and international bestsellerdom looming fast.