A Stephen King Superfan Delves Into ‘Stranger Things’

If you’re reading this, you probably already love Stranger Things. I know I do. It’s been called a throwback, a pastiche, a love letter to ’80s horror and sci-fi that wears its references on its sleeve. It’s all those things, sure, but the reason why it succeeds in the ways that, say, a movie with similar intentions (looking at you, Super 8) doesn’t always is that it doesn’t stop at homage. Remember, after Pulp Fiction came out and every upstart auteur with a little cash tried to clone the movie’s feel of cool, dropping pop culture references like they were fishing lures that would hook them success? The reason why most of those failed is because the concept of Tarantino-esque was misunderstood: You don’t just make pop culture references, you make an amalgam, you recontextualize, you devise your own narrative and only then can you lean on whatever cultural touchstones you need. The Duffer Brothers understand this, which is why Stranger Things can operate as a “Stephen King’s Greatest Hits” package without feeling stale or schticky.

Let’s start at the title sequence. The music is John Carpenter all the way, but it specifically brings to mind the attack music from Christine, all menacing, driving synthwork. Similar motifs crop up in Cat’s Eye and Maximum Overdrive (that trailer where Stephen King himself says he’s going to scare the hell out of you), even in the Tangerine Dream score for Firestarter. The slowly emerging title — the camera sweeping over the neon-red lettering — is The Dead Zone’s credits sequence set in motion, as the Cronenberg film opens with the novel’s title cutting chunks out of the pastoral scenery with its hard lines and serifs. Much has been made of the “Stephen King font,” and with good reason: in the 80s and early 90s, almost all of King’s New American Library paperbacks used it. It’s a little funny how something as simple as a font face can trigger such powerful associations, but for those of us who have grown up on Stephen King novels, it’s the easiest way in possible.

That’s all before the show even starts, and what a wealth of Stephen King riches this show is! At once, we’re introduced to the group of preteen friends, all outcasts, all bullied. It’s so Stephen King it might as well be a template: It comes first to mind, obviously, but the time period actually makes it more Dreamcatcher, especially when it comes to Eleven and her “freak/weirdo” status – she’s Duddits in female. A walk through the woods on a quest that ends with a dead body is almost too on the nose, especially since episode four is actually called “The Body,” sharing a name with the King novella made into the film Stand By Me.

Even more deeply fascinating: Eleven’s androgynous look actually echoes the appearance of River Phoenix in that movie, so her talk with Mike (who bears more than a slight resemblance to young Wil Wheaton) in the woods is a powerful visual reference. Still, because of the circumstances, Stranger Things posits a fantastic what-if scenario: what if the boys in “The Body” were stuck in a more traditional Stephen King story, one with sharp teeth and darkness and screaming? In this way, Stranger Things is like elevated fan fiction, or a shared-world experience in which the Duffer Brothers were given permission to write their own Castle Rock stories.

Speaking of Eleven: she’s basically Firestarter’s Charlie McGee, with a shorter haircut, less specific powers, and a merged father figure. In early novels, King’s surrogate fathers — Ben Mears in Salem’s Lot, Dick Hallorann in The Shining, particularly — aid and support in ways that actual fathers fail at. The motif is subverted (and perverted) in Firestarter, in which Charlie McGee’s good father, Andy, is taken out of the picture by The Shop, the shadowy government agency that medically creates psionic talents in its subject. John Rainbird, a disfigured agent disguised as a kindly janitor, manages to get close to Charlie, pushing her toward using her pyrokinetic powers while secretly harboring both sexual and murderous intentions.

Here, Dr. Brenner is a merging of those types. As Eleven’s past surfaces in a series of terrifying flashbacks — experiments testing the strength of her powers — we are subjected to Brenner’s overseer role. Though sexuality doesn’t seem to be a component of his abuse (though the fact that she’s barely clad in a hospital gown and handled roughly by grown men is unsettling), his function as both her captor/abuser and her “Papa” is perverse. Unlike Rainbird, Brenner isn’t secretive in his actions, making Eleven’s desperate craving for his approval all that more troubling, especially since her hatred and terror of him are right on the surface.

Shifting gears, we come to the teenage component of the show. Many reviews have likened Nancy’s story — at least before Barb’s disappearance — to that of a John Hughes archetype, and that’s correct. But the Stephen King connection goes deep here; one need only look at Christine to find analogues. In fact, out of all King novels and stories, it’s Christine (and maybe King’s own throwback novel, Joyland) that most informs the visual makeup of the series. Though the book and film are set in the late 1970s, both the novel and movie came out in 1983, the year in which Stranger Things is set. So much of Christine bleeds into this show: the clothing, the set design, the filmmaking technique. Nancy and Barb’s friendship is a female analogue to Arnie and Dennis’s — the nerd/outcast who’s best friends with the jock/popular kid — and while Barb is never bullied as Arnie is, she’s clearly only invited to parties and included in the elite social caste because Nancy’s friendship has grandfathered her in.

Jonathan Byers figures as an even more visceral Arnie Cunningham equivalent— an outsider from the wrong side of the tracks who has no idea how to fit into high school society. We also see echoes of Harold Lauder (of The Stand) — his early interest in Nancy borders on Harold’s more fanatical interest in Frannie Goldsmith — and his creepy peeping-Tom photography can be seen as a stand-in for Harold’s journal. But Harold’s sociopathic path isn’t where Jonathan’s story ends up; again gender-switching, Jonathan becomes something of a Carrie White as she was before the pig’s blood in Carrie. In the early moments of the prom, Carrie proves to be likable and even funny and personable when she’s with the popular Tommy; Jonathan’s growing friendship with Laura exemplifies what might have happened if Carrie hadn’t been triggered into rampage.

Finally, we come to the the Hawkins National Laboratory, which might as well be The Shop. Both Firestarter and King’s short-lived TV series Golden Years utilized this government research facility in similar ways: Its aim is to understand and exploit wild talents, and doesn’t concern itself with morality overmuch. The visuals of the researchers sealing up their hazmat suits with duct tape, though, is strictly out of the first third of The Stand (in fact, issue #2 of the comic book adaptation utilizes these ominous visuals exactly, starting with the cover). The more we understand about the parallel world threatening ours, though, the more our thoughts turn to King’s Dark Tower novels: there are other worlds than these, goes the series’ second most well-known quote, and the concept of “thinnies” – places in which the barriers between worlds are weak – is realized in its most horrific form here.

Other minor references abound. Hopper, the town’s sheriff, looks like ’80s horror mainstay Tom Atkins, and early in the series he has the feel of Atkins’ gruff father in Creepshow. Lucas’s wrist rocket is another It reference, as Beverly Marsh’s slingshot becomes the most powerful weapon against Pennywise. Lucas also says he’s going to shoot the monster in the eye and blind it: this is Cycle of the Werewolf (aka Silver Bullet) all over. References, atmosphere, a specific sense of place and time: these are the elements that Stranger Things bring to Stephen King fans, especially long-timers who remember the King hysteria of the ’80s and ’90s. As stated above, King’s own Joyland brought us back to the “early King” years, with a somewhat gentler and moving story that captured the feel of his writing back then. Stranger Things evokes that same feel… but it is not gentle, and the things moving most are the things that move in the dark.

[Watch Stranger Things on Netflix]

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[Photos: Netflix & Everett Collection]