The Stand By Stephen King, A review (serious spoilers)
A Reckoning Begins
I’ve never been so emotionally confused by a story as I was with The Stand. I love it. I hate it. It transforms the world, builds unforgettable characters, and then—destroys them. Just like that.
It has this incredible setup: a plague that reshapes civilization, a cast of characters thrown into impossible scenarios, and a spiritual war that feels both biblical and intimate. And yet, despite all this, the ending left me hollow. Not because it lacked spectacle—but because it lacked resolution.
The Heroes as Vessels of Grace
King’s greatest triumph, in my view, is his characters. He crafts emotionally resonant, archetypal figures and drops them into deeply human circumstances.
Mother Abigail: A holy lightning rod who draws the best out of people. She’s less a character than a spiritual force.
Larry: The impulsive, reluctant saviour. He watches his world crumble before finding peace within himself.
Nick: Deaf, mute, and half-blind—but tough, intelligent, and tragically kind. A perfectly flawed hero.
These are mythic vessels, not just survivors. They undergo moral journeys that feel earned, painful, and transformative.
The Villains as Echoes of the Fallen
Even the villains are layered. Take Lloyd—Flagg’s right-hand man. He doesn’t begin as a monster. He’s a career henchman, locked up and starving when Flagg saves him. His descent into darkness is a perfect storm, a tragic inversion of Larry’s arc. Lloyd is the reluctant villain, shaped by circumstance rather than ideology.
The Atypical Agents of Change
One of the most fascinating aspects of The Stand is how the most A-typical characters become the agents of the villain’s destruction and the heroes survival.
Trashcan Man: A chaotic force whose meticulous progression suggests deliberate design.
Tom Cullen: A gentle soul whose simplicity becomes divine intervention.
Their roles suggest that King was building toward something profound. Which makes the ending all the more difficult to accept
I’ve heard the ending described as a “cop-out.” I understand why. It’s hard to believe King simply couldn’t figure out how to end it, so he dropped a bomb on the whole thing. The character arcs are too careful, too emotionally rich, for that to be the case.
But here’s the problem: the story is built on moral journeys. It invites us to believe there’s wisdom between the words. And then, in the end, nothing matters. Everything comes down to God’s will.
It seems that the will of God is to sacrifice people. I believe in personal sacrifice—but only when it leads to transformation. That’s why Jesus rises after crucifixion. Sacrifice must birth something greater. Otherwise, what’s the point?
Stu Redman and the Problem of Survival
Don’t worry—I didn’t forget about Stu Redman. I’ll only say this: it’s frustrating that the flattest emotional arc belongs to the only survivor. Stu seems to exist solely to be Frannie’s love interest.
And let’s not forget: King chose to have someone not immune to the plague father Frannie’s child. It heightens drama, yes—but it weakens the stakes. If Stu were the father, their story would carry more weight.
Stu also witnesses the destruction of Flagg and his followers. But who was going to miss an atomic explosion? More poignantly, he witnesses the deaths of the three pilgrims who did everything right—and still died needlessly.
Closing: The Question That Remains
The Stand had the potential to be a groundbreaking contemporary myth. But in the end, it became a little too real, a little too messy. I’m all for realism and messiness—but it still has to have a point.
Perhaps The Stand doesn’t fail. Perhaps it mirrors the apocalypse too well—messy, unresolved, and full of unforgettable tragic heroes. But I still find myself asking:
If the end is only destruction, what was the point of the journey?
I’ll always love this story for its characters—for the way they help each other, suffer together, and interact with a world that’s falling apart. But I don’t think I’ll ever forgive King for destroying them and then refusing to offer any kind of resolution or comfort. Maybe that was his intention. If so, he did it brilliantly. But it’s very cruel.
And maybe that’s the final truth of The Stand: that even the most mythic journeys can end without justice, without clarity, without peace. That sometimes, the gods are silent. And the heroes die anyway.
Author’s Note
I believe stories are sacred. Not because they comfort us, but because they challenge us to become more than we are. When a tale builds its world on moral transformation, I expect it to honour that journey with resolution—even if it’s painful, even if it’s ambiguous.
My critiques are not born of disdain, but of devotion. I hold art to high standards because I believe it can change us. That’s why I write fiction that guides, interrogates and explores. Stories are memories that help us navigate humanity and our short lives. Millions of years have been spent learning about the world and stories is how we pass that knowledge on. Horror has the potential to transcend the commercial and become mythic—a vessel for emotional truth and cultural empathy.
The Stand gave me unforgettable characters and a world worth grieving. But when a story refuses to offer meaning, I mourn what could have been.
E. D. Grey