I read Doctor Sleep in rehab back in November 2018. I’ve said before that rehab helped curb my minor physical dependence and plant the seeds of total, finally sobriety. But I didn’t reach this total, final sobriety until the following April (knock on wood; 295 days as I type this).
Despite this not yet total commitment to sobriety, I still reflect on Doctor Sleep as a companion, a friend during my time there. I may not have shown proper appreciation to this friend, the way I didn’t show proper appreciation to any friend or loved one during this not yet total commitment.
But a friend it was. In a time when a balance of healthy isolation and healthy community was paramount, it allowed me to be with someone by myself. Of particular importance was the fact that the majority of Dan’s struggles in the novel happen after he achieves sobriety. This friend was teaching me (or trying to, anyway) that sobriety will not fix my problems; it will help me face them.
In what could only be the result of divine timing, the film adaptation of Doctor Sleep released roughly about a year after I started reading the book. Even if it wasn’t a year of sobriety, a year tends to permit for reflection. And as I watched Dan go from page to screen, I was able to see what the seeds rehab had planted had finally become. It didn’t hurt that the significant (and brilliant) changes from the book included a scene where Dan gets to confront the ghost of his father. While the Jack Torrance in both of King’s novels redeemed himself, the one we saw in Kubrick’s film didn’t, and takes on the Lloyd persona in Doctor Sleep, not knowing he’s Dan’s father (supposedly).
As Dan talks about the death of Wendy Torrance and the impact this had on him, the man that should be his father repeatedly deflects the conversation, and tries to get him to drink.
“She was your wife, don’t you wanna know about it?” are the words that Dan speaks.
What he’s actually asking, is “why weren’t you better?”
When I look back on all of my time I spent drinking the time after rehab, the time I should have been sober, the time when the seeds I should have been watering were being drenched every two weeks by rebel yell whiskey, I ask myself the same thing. I ask myself that as I reflect on the entirety of the time I spent drinking, but especially that time.
But what was most important about that scene wasn’t my reaction; it was the reaction of two dear friends, Seth and Dylan. They, both being fond of the movie, didn’t just praise it. They made a point to tell me that they knew the film had a personal impact on me.
I didn’t even tell them it did. But it did, and they knew.
And so the story that helped me in isolation (even if I didn’t show proper appreciation) would go on to help me in friendship.
This is the power of storytelling, and it’s something Stephen King knows very well. It can allow you to see yourself, and allow others to see you. His emphasis on alcoholism in stories can range from giving life to a supporting character like Claude Bolton in The Outsider, or it can be out in plain sight for all to see like it is in Doctor Sleep.
But whether supporting character or core theme, it’s there.
I know Stephen King retracted his statements about diversity in art, so I’m not trying to pile on him anymore. But given this personal connection I had to both a work of art he created and a work of art he helped originate, it felt remiss to not speak about this connection, given the recent discussion he incited.
Just as it feels remiss to ignore the fact that I’m not the only one that needs to see myself.
There are so many people that need to, and so many people that aren’t. When discussions of diversity in art come up, it shouldn’t be seen as “meeting a quota”, but instead as denied opportunities of expression. Denied opportunities of humanity. The oh so common stance of “I don’t care about the race/gender of the character so long as they’re well written” (not saying King said this) denies the vast richness of humanity, as though our different experiences and gifts should be dismissed because “all that matters is if the character is good” (whatever that means).
Richer stories will come from our understanding of our rich humanity, and a richer humanity will come from these richer stories. And we ought to stop ignoring that.
devilsadvocritic 