Gothic literature has been following the same tropes for centuries: old, dilapidated mansions filled with secrets; wealthy families fallen from grace; oil paintings illuminated by candelabra in a thunderstorm; young heroines, fleeing into the night in terror. Since the late eighteenth century, these tropes have been used time and time again to critique power, gender, and sexual mores, and they’ve done it well. After a while, though, the tropes get weary. The heroines blend together. Two hundred years is a long time to be afraid of the same creepy families in the same creepy houses. That’s why Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s novel, Mexican Gothic, is so compelling: it takes those tropes and gives them a facelift by pushing them into the 1950’s Mexican countryside. 

We’re introduced to our unlikely heroine, Noemí, as she leaves a party, having been called home by her father. Her newlywed cousin, Catalina, has sent a disturbing letter that could easily spell scandal for the affluent family. Noemí is sent to check in on Catalina with the promise that, if she returns successful in confirming her cousin’s health and marital stability, she will be allowed to attend college. With love for her cousin and hope for her future, Noemí sets off to her cousin’s new home, High Place, an old Victorian mansion in the mountains of rural Mexico. When she arrives, she realizes that not everything about her cousin’s new family is as it seems. The longer she stays, the more she realizes it’s not only Catalina who is in danger– but also herself. 

As I read Mexican Gothic, I decided to acquaint myself with another modern gothic tale, Guillermo del Toro’s Crimson Peak, that I’d read so much about in my research. Moreno-Garcia has mentioned in interviews that del Toro influenced her work, so I watched it for any direct references or imagery pulled for Mexican Gothic. When I was done with both pieces of media, I realized that influence wasn’t the right word for either story. Instead, both felt like love letters to old gothic literature, letters with the same adoration and dedication to the tropes that made gothic literature the powerhouse it was. They were also letters with many of the same problems between them, perhaps pointing to why traditional gothic stories aren’t as popular today. 

Where Crimson Peak chose to pay homage to old tropes by faithfully recreating them, Mexican Gothic chose to recontextualize them. As opposed to translating an old English estate and its creepy family into period-correct Mexican equivalencies, Moreno-Garcia decided to transplant each trope untouched into Mexico’s countryside. Half the book is spent wondering why this weird English family moved their entire home, dirt included, why they moved somewhere they felt was so inferior to their home country. The author builds on these tropes to take the classic gothic themes of societal power and gender inequality a step further by adding a heavy layer of colonialism to the power dynamics. Noemí isn’t only stuck with a creepy family, she’s stuck with a family who sees her and her entire country as beneath them, a means to an end.

Noemí is no stereotypical frightened victim. She bucks at almost every gothic heroine trope, being rebellious, non-religious, and not trapped in a false love. She didn’t come to High Place after marrying a mysterious, charming man like Edith in Crimson Peak; she came out of a love for her cousin and her wants and dreams (Granted, it’s hard to blame Edith. If Tom Hiddleston said he loved me and promised to whisk me away to a windswept mansion in the English countryside, I’d probably be a goner too). That’s what makes Noemí’s character so much more interesting– there may be a bloom of romance in the novel, but it’s not why she’s there. It makes her an unpredictable character with an independent streak not often seen in gothic heroines.

Turning these tropes on their head was what Mexican Gothic did best. If that’s what Moreno-Garcia’s goal was, she accomplished it wonderfully. Unfortunately, I did hit a few snags while reading, a few annoyances that stuck in my brain like a popcorn kernel stuck between two molars that you can’t dislodge.

At first, due to the prose and the content, I wondered if I’d stumbled into a Young Adult horror book by accident. The exposition was heavy-handed, and Noemí (who, up until a few chapters in, I’d thought was sixteen at most) felt pulled along by the plot regardless of her character or motivations. The oversaturation of foreshadowing led me to guess the “twist” in the last third of the book, which ended up making the first two-thirds a slog. It reminded me of Crimson Peak in that way; all the setup, the over-explaining, and the not-so-subtle hints made the “creepy mystery” section feel twice as long as it was. When you’ve figured out the basic idea behind what’s happening and all the exposition confirms it, the “mysterious” first half stops being exciting. 

That’s not to say the book doesn’t get exciting. Mexican Gothic and Crimson Peak manage to shake off their weak first halves to rally in the second. If the entire book/movie had been as good as the last hundred pages/forty minutes, I think I would have loved them both. I read the last hundred pages of Mexican Gothic in an hour or two, refusing to put the book down until it was done. But that’s the crux of the issue: the first half of any story is the setup and the second half is the climax and payoff. Have we, as a culture, read too many gothic literature setups? Is the way we consume media now making it too easy to predict where the setup is going? I don’t know. All I know is that the first half felt predictable and scripted; the second like a runaway flame. There’s a chance I’ve read too much horror, and my bias is showing. It’s difficult for me to tell. 

That’s not to say the book doesn’t get exciting. Mexican Gothic and Crimson Peak manage to shake off their weak first halves to rally in the second. If the entire book/movie had been as good as the last hundred pages/forty minutes, I think I would have loved them both. I read the last hundred pages of Mexican Gothic in an hour or two, refusing to put the book down until it was done. But that’s the crux of the issue: the first half of any story is the setup and the second half is the climax and payoff. Have we, as a culture, read too many gothic literature setups? Is the way we consume media now making it too easy to predict where the setup is going? I don’t know. All I know is that the first half felt predictable and scripted; the second like a runaway flame. There’s a chance I’ve read too much horror, and my bias is showing. It’s difficult for me to tell. 

All that said, my experience with Mexican Gothic was an enjoyable one. Prose and heavy-handed exposition aside, the author kept me turning the pages. Seeing this love letter to the gothic format in such a unique light made it worth the effort. It may not be Keep-Me-Up-At-Night Scary, like my coworker said, and may not do much for veteran horror readers, but if you’re new to horror, this might just scare you enough to try out more. It was a good, easy read for the switch over into fall and a fun take on an old genre. 

If you’d like to hear me ramble on for a short time more about the themes present in Mexican Gothic, scroll down. Be warned that there are spoilers down there. If you’re all reflectioned-out, I’ll see you next week to introduce the Book of the Month for October. See you then! 

The reflection above is intended for people who have not read or completed the book. For that reason, it is spoiler-free. The following section will discuss plot points and themes in the book not otherwise described in the summary or book blurb. That means there are SPOILERS BELOW. This is your warning.

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Last Warning! Spoiler Time!

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Original female-written gothic fiction centered around the patriarchal power structure women were subjected to in the eighteenth century. A lady’s expectation was to be devoted to her father until she was married, her husband until she was pregnant, and her children until she died. This claustrophobic trap became mirrored in gothic fiction as the houses they couldn’t escape, their walls and inhabitants restricting. Throughout these stories the heroines would be subjected to wrathful old families and sexual assault, standing in for the lack of freedom afforded by society and the lack of sexual freedom afforded to women, respectively. Gothic fiction exploded in popularity among women for these reasons, so much so that you can even find Jane Austen referring to the phenomenon in some of her works. They’re themes that have captivated audiences ever since. 

Translating these themes, along with tropes of the genre, like the haunted mansion or the old-money British family, isn’t seen as much in the modern day. The fears they once elicited don’t resonate anymore, as our day-to-day no longer relies on advantageous marriages or the passing down of inheritances. They’ve become silly tropes in old movies and rarely something to take seriously. Yet Moreno-Garcia managed to take these tropes through a time portal and recontextualize them, giving them new meaning and relevance. 

For instance, I mentioned earlier that Noemí is not a typical gothic heroine. She has no interest in romance and would rather party and go to college. Her parent’s wishes for her to settle down and find a husband loom over her, threatening her dream of going to college. Visiting High Place and seeing the circumstances her cousin is in after marrying seems to reinforce Noemí’s fear. As the book goes on, we see even more marriages that were doomed: Francis’s father, Virgil’s first wife, the string of deaths among the original Doyle women, and the ultimate betrayal of Agnes, buried alive to birth the immortal fungus. Every single person who marries into the Doyle family is trapped. It mimics Noemí’s fears about commitment and the role of a wife taking the joys out of her life.

The author manages to transform some tropes, like the haunted English mansion or the wealthy British family obsessed with careful marriage, into new themes of colonialism and fetishization. Howard’s interest in eugenics, his lack of care about the miners he once employed, and his possessive nature towards Noemí all meld together to paint a picture of a racist old man coming into a country and using the “inferior” culture to his benefit. Unable to continue his line with incest, he must look to the culture he has tried to subjugate and, in his constant comments about Noemí’s skin and hair, fetishizes that culture. It’s a great way to put a twist on the old themes of tradition and careful breeding for a country that lost many of its old cultures to western meddling. 

That said, some of these themes–and the twist– were so slap-you-in-the-face that I groaned occasionally. Pages would be devoted to the description of moldy rooms and books, Francis’s mushroom prints and drawings were brought up several times, and yet I was supposed to be surprised that the “twist” was mushroom-related? Even the more interesting themes, like Noemí’s fear of marriage, had some of these ham-fisted exposition moments. I don’t mind a “The Yellow Wallpaper” reference, but Noemí examining the wallpaper and thinking how she could go insane looking at the patterns was a bit much. Mexican Gothic had no subtlety when it came to messaging, which was a shame because the things that were being said were interesting. I just wish the author didn’t feel the need to spell it out for me. 

Overall, Mexican Gothic was a decent romp through the gothic woods. It reimagined the quintessential spooky ghost story into a different time and place. For that, I applaud it. It may not have been my favorite book this year, but it’s one I can acknowledge did its best to do something different.