This ambitious book attempts to recount, from scratch, the story of Charles Manson and his cult. It would be interesting, all these years later, to place Manson in the context of other cults and even benign movements, and get beyond the Hollywood hippie murders. As horrible as this modern Rasputin’s crimes were, we’re now far enough away to instead view Manson as a product of his time and society – a bubble riding a wave, rather than a powerful, independent force.
This is not that book. Manson is painted as a unique messenger from Hell, rather than just another stop on the kook continuum. The author assigns too much respect to a pathetic psychopath who was so maltreated in his youth that it’s no wonder he became what he was.
There may be some good material here, but it’s difficult to sort out. The text appears to depend wholly on previous works, with little or no new research, despite a wealth of primary sources waiting to be interviewed.
The design is poor, the editing is worse, and the author merges fact with myth in fitful third-person spasms meant to describe the raucous, drugged 1960s. Instead, it descends quickly into soft-core porn via “creative non-fiction”. Recounting an encounter with Mr Helter Skelter himself, “the little man led her in movements she’d never tried before. Gently, he guided [her] body through rhythmic and sensual variations. He moved closer, putting his arms around her waist,” etc, etc. Far out!
There are no attributions, no footnotes. The 100-plus photos all seem to be pirated.
MORE REVIEWS
Bookmark this post with: