Noir Journal . . . investigating noir fiction and film

NJ 61: Eight Reviews from Ann Snuggs

Here we go: eight reviews by Noir Journal Senior Reviewer Ann Snuggs. Thanks to Ann and to the publishers, authors, and publicists for review copies.

And, here's one final chance to enter the contest to win copies of Nikki Dudley's two books Ellipsis and Semblance, both reviewed here. Just email noir_journal@yahoo.com or leave a comment here. 

In June 2011, I interviewed Nikki Dudley and reviewed Ellipsis for Spinetingler. Read the interview and review here.

One more thing--a plug for a new book review blog from Noir Journal regular, Kristofer Upjohn:

Book Devil, in which "a fiendish fan of the written word shares his thoughts on modern and classic literature."

Now the reviews:

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Ellipsis, by Nikki Dudley, Sparkling Books Ltd. (September 20, 2010) 

Semblance, by Nikki Dudley, CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (November 4, 2012)

Nikki Dudley

Nikki Dudley's first novel, Ellipsis, is an examination of the workings of the disturbed mind. Damaged by their pasts and/or their perceptions of it, neither Alice (or is it Sarah?) nor Thom has emotional stability.

The death of Thom's cousin Daniel brings them together. He has jumped or been pushed in front of an oncoming subway train. His legacy shifts Thom's life from the ordinary man-in-the-office to an obsessed creature seeking answers which will only send his psyche spiraling downward.

Alice/Sarah has reached the nadir of her insanity and through the connection she makes with Thom will try to begin the journey toward healing.

Told in two voices, Thom's and Alice's, the story ducks and weaves.

Thom goes back to the home of his childhood, the house of his Aunty Val, who raised him after his parents died. He is searching for who Daniel actually was. It's a troubling thing to lose a close family member and feel you never knew him. Thom can't let it go. Daniel reaches back from the grave to make sure Thom feels that way. Our boy Daniel was not an especially nice person.

Daniel has also marked Alice, who pushed him to his death under the wheels of a train. Why would the man's dying words be, "Right on time."? Alice is haunted and transfers her obsession with Daniel  to his family.

No one in this story is without dark, uncomfortable secrets. The tale is heavily layered and peels back raw wounds one page at a time until it seems that surely the truth has been found. Has it really? What other lies and deceptions will come to light?

 

In Semblance, the sequel to Ellipsis, the rest of the story unfolds.  

The voice shifts to Thom's cousin Richard, though Alice also continues her side of the narrative.

After Thom disappears, Richard cannot quit searching for him, though Thom obviously does not want to be found. Richard keeps notebooks and scribbles reflections of his efforts and his emotions. His pain and confusion are plain.

He is joined in the search by Thom's ex-girlfriend, Emma, whom Thom pushed aside after Alice came into his life. Emma and Richard, bound together by the feeling of responsibility to seek Thom, soon seek comfort from each other .

Meanwhile Alice's brother Michael has taken her in, found a new doctor for her and is trying to be a brother and protector to help her get on with her life. When she learns a deep secret, she shares that with him but still does not tell him her deepest, darkest secret. (Yes, there's a definite soap opera feel here.)

One of Richard's efforts to find Thom is to randomly visit the graves of Daniel and also of Thom's parents in the cemetery. When at last his determination is rewarded, it becomes a "be-careful-what-you-wish-for" situation.

Thom's damage is too deep. His return is the catalyst that brings this tale to its explosive end. 

Whose story is this? Alice's? Thom's? Richard's? The mother's? Even Emma's?

None of the above. This is Daniel's story. Even though he is physically present in only the first few pages of Ellipsis, his aura dominates both books. Had Daniel not held such sway over those he touched, the damage would not have been done.

Both of these dark novels, Ellipsis and Semblance, will have great appeal to readers who love to delve into psychological character studies of abnormal minds. 

 

The Consummata, by Mickey Spillane and Max Allan Collins,  Hard Case Crime (October 4, 2011)

From the hereafter Mickey Spillane is looking down and smiling with pleasure when he sees how completely his faith in Max Allan Collins was justified.

The Consummata is another of the pieces of his writing Spillane entrusted to Collins to work over and polish to publication readiness.

This is the second novel featuring Morgan the Raider, a character Spillane introduced in The Delta Factor with the intention of beginning a new series. Sidetracked, he handed it over to Collins. Now, courtesy of Hard Case Crime, Morgan the Raider is in action again.

The place is Miami. The time the late 1960s. The government men are closing in on Morgan on a trumped-up charge when help sweeps in from an unexpected source. Morgan dodges into Little Havana, seeking to lead his trailers as far from his supporters as possible, when Cuban kids swirl around him, squealing and running as they play their childish games. The net is about to drop when the kids swish back through and pin him against a building. From there an adult hand snatches him, jerks him inside and hides him within a false wall.

From his hiding place, Morgan hears the confused exclamations of the feds and learns his old enemy is the head of the pursuing force.

After hours in his cramped quarters, Morgan is released and feted with the best his rescuers have to offer. It seems they know his rep and are hoping he will do a little favor for them.

The Cuban exiles are constantly raising money to return to the island with an invasion army. Sure, they'd like a piece of the forty million Morgan is reputed to have stolen but they would be happy just to have back the seventy-five thousand taken from their coffers by the traitor, Jaimie Halaquez.

It's an offer Morgan can't refuse. The excitement of beginning a new adventure rushes over him as he makes the deal to try to recover the money, and perhaps the thief who robbed the Cubans' stash.

Morgan's guide to weave his way out his haven in Little Havana is the delectable raven-haired Gaita. Her age and experience peek through the youthful glow of first appearance. Exuding sex and savvy, if Gaita proves trustworthy, having her at his side may be all the back-up he needs.

The thief Halaquez has disappeared, but one clue may force him back into the landscape. He's a pervert. The traitor wants kinks with sex. So many kinks that he is well-known in the Miami area by the madams and girls. He's been banned from more than one establishment but rumor has it that  a woman known as "The Consummata" is coming to the city. This illusive--some call her mythical--dominatrix will take all comers in her temporary house that will run for a special short time in the area. Halaquez won't resist. If he can find it, that's the place for Morgan to trap him.

No matter how cut and dried the story sounds, The Consummata is so packed with shifting sand it is impossible to move much farther into the tale without spoilers. It does not disappoint in this aspect.

Rich, lurid prose. Vivid characters. Strong, honorable--in his own way--hero. Icky villains. Lush setting. Intense situations. Cunning, hot babes. Graphic but not too grisly details. It's hard to think of a critical element for the hardcase crime genre not within these covers.

A great, fun read for Collins and Spillane fans--and for some fans-to-be.

 

The Big Sin by Jack Webb,  Prologue Books (March 15, 2012)

There was a time when dark crime stories did not rely on trappings, like X-rated language, graphic sex and violence, to make them dark and ugly. The language was PG and details were less grisly and explicit. Jack Webb's The Big Sin (1952) is of that time. Made available once more by Prologue Books, this tale of murder and intrigue has a charm that makes it absorbing and hard to put down.

Rose Alyce is an exotic dancer. she killed herself because her lover was leaving her for another woman. It's cut and dried for the police. But the image presented in the press was just that--an image. The dancer was really Rosa Mendez, a good Catholic girl. Her priest, young Joseph Shanley, knows she could never commit "the big sin," suicide.

His interview with detective Sgt. Sammy Golden, a not-so-religious Jewish boy, slammed doors in his face but he left the office with a parting shot that moved the detective to call down for the file on the case.

Asking to see that closed file was all Sammy had to do to set the ball rolling against them. A call went out from records and the vacation Golden had mentioned was immediately granted. That juxtaposition would be enough to send any inquiring mind back to the priest.

Once Sammy is convinced that something is fishy about Rosa's death, the priest is willing to ride right along with the detective as they delve into the circumstances surrounding the killing, plunging them both into dangerous waters. The detective will be persona non grata in the department and the priest may be disciplined by the Church but the two are resolved to learn the truth.

Along the way they are joined in the investigation by a girl--one who knows all the ins and outs and is willing to team up with them to unravel the tangled mess of murder, mayhem and politics.

Written in a style both readable and of the era, The Big Sin will appeal to lovers of classic crime fiction and keep the attention of fans of more recent, more graphic tales.

It is one of a series of books featuring the good Father Shanley and solid Sammy Golden written by John Albert "Jack" Webb - not the Jack Webb of TV show Dragnet fame. Reading The Big Sin will inspire many readers to search out other volumes of the set.

 

The Case of the General's Thumb, by Andrey Kurkov   Melville International Crime (February 21, 2012)

Fascinating!

Reading Andrey Kurkov's The Case of the General's Thumb is like wandering through an enormous, ancient, crumbling house with no light. The halls are dark. The staircases twist as they rise. Hidden passages abound. The very walls seem to move and change the shape of the rooms before an exit can be made.

That's not a negative comment. The doors are accessible but who wants to escape this labyrinth? It's far too intriguing to run away.

Viktor Slutsky is a mid-level investigator in Kiev. Burglaries, muggings, an occasional arson fill his assignments. But when the body of General Bronitsky, former high-up in the government, is found hanging from the Coca-Cola balloon Viktor is put in charge of the case. This is exciting. An opportunity for perks, promotion, more pay.

Then Five Militia Academy cadets are presented to him for his choice of assistant. A car, a Mazda, peppier than the station cars, is given him. His supervisor, Major Ratko, tells him that a phone call had put Viktor in charge.

Now the excitement turns to unease. He shouldn't be the chief investigator for this. It doesn't even belong to his unit. The general was an important man. A higher authority should be on this case. What's going on here?

And, oh, yes, the general's body is missing a thumb.

Nik just wants a better life for his family and himself. He wants to leave Saratov, Tadzhikistan for Kiev. He was lucky to find Ivan Lvovich, who offers the chance for a flat--a scarce premium--but he'll have to work on the investigation first. Only a few months, thinks Nik, then he, Tanya and Volodya will have a new and better life.

First a rest in the country, says Ivan, but the rest is short as circumstances change and Ivan rushes him away with a caution about talking with any locals. You haven't? "No," Nik lies.

Nik, the new recruit, meets Slutsky and soon they've linked in an unorthodox way and are on the road. But what a road! No goal has been set for them; no contact is connected to any other contacts. It's a warped scavenger hunt with no clue.

Viktor is caught in his own web of anonymous connections. Who is Georgiy? How does he fit into the case and why is he aiding Viktor? What is Refat's role?

The reader is well into the book before Viktor and Nik emerge as the main protagonists. A multiplicity of characters dance through this convoluted tale. Some come and go so quickly they are almost invisible; others appear with enough substance to live, breathe and become a factor in the case.

Atmosphere is one of the best facets of The Case of the General's Thumb. In the aftermath of the breakup of the Soviet Union, all the republics experienced (and most are still experiencing) upheaval and turmoil. Knowing who to trust and trying to stay ahead of the purges was confusing at best. Twists and turns, blind alleys for an unknown mission, rapidly changing venues, dead bodies all along the way reflect the aura of the post-Soviet disorder and the struggles of those caught up in it.

Kurkov's prose is superb. The style andformat of The Case of the General's Thumb is of the time and of the place. The confusion the reader may feel in this morass is just what the characters feel as they try to stay ahead of this twisted game.

Kurkov's The Case of the General's Thumb is not for everyone. It requires patience and a taste for muddled puzzles, but for those who enjoy such a story it just doesn't get any better than this.

The Angst-Ridden Executive, by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, Melville International Crime (January 10, 2012)

The Angst-Ridden Executive is the first of the late Manuel Vázquez Montalbán's books featuring private investigator, Pepe Carvalho.

Carvalho has quite an interesting past. A former Communist during the Franco era who inadvertently found himself working for the CIA, Pepe now does small-time detective work in Barcelona. Or did.

Suddenly he finds himself back in the big leagues, but doesn't know it yet.

Antonio Jauma, an executive of a major international corporation whom he met years before, has been murdered. The widow doesn't believe the official version and hires Pepe to investigate her husband's death.

Details about the murder seem to indicate that Jauma was soliciting sex and ran afoul of either a prostitute or her pimp. He was a notorious womanizer and the setup is not too farfetched. But a few of the details don't add up in Pepe's eyes. He begins to dig deeper, and the deeper he digs the more he realizes the reason Jauma died was not a woman but what he knew about his corporation. Now Carvalho's life is in jeopardy but - like Chandler's Marlowe - the more he is warned off the case, the more determined he becomes to uncover the truth.

The Angst-Ridden Executive cannot be called a "page-turner." Slow-paced and filled with minute details, it meanders along through a world of interesting characters, international manipulations and explicit descriptions of Carvalho's culinary loves and hates.

 

 Temptation Town, by Mike Dennis, (Amazon Digital Services, Inc., January 15, 2012) 

Jack Barnett was a private investigator in L.A. until he leaned too hard on the wrong man. His target's high-level connections pulled Jack's license and when the man threatened charges, Jack took off for Las Vegas.

Now he's making a dollar here and there, gambling and trying to keep a low profile.

Jack is losing at poker when a stranger appears at the door and asks him to take on a case. When he protests that he is no longer in that business, the man makes him an offer he can't refuse. Find the man's daughter who has strayed, make a report --no matter how ugly--and earn five thousand dollars. That's it. The money looks big to Jack at this point, and he begins the search. He soon learns that he really doesn't want to go where this case takes him.

Temptation Town, the first Mike Dennis novelette and the first of the Jack Barnett stories, takes the reader through the down and dirty side of glitter city. This is something Dennis does well. His life experience knows the town. His gift for vivid prose brings it to life. Jack Barnett has a future in the realms of P.I. fiction.

 

Through a Shattered Lens, I Saw, by LA Sykes,  (Thunderune Publishing, December 2012)

LA Sykes's debut collection of short stories, Through a Shattered Lens, I Saw, is a diverse conglomerate of tales, all bleak but of varying appeal. From well-plotted and intriguing narratives of the dark side of the human psyche to short sketches filled with expletives are juxtaposed in this collection. Something for most readers of skewed, dark fiction is within.

The slightly modified title story, "Through a Shattered Lens, He Saw," is a sordid tale of police corruption with a twisted end. It will be up to the reader to decide in his/her own mind if anyone actually came out ahead.

"Diddler on the Roof," another of the pieces featuring police action, has some nice dark wit. It's not exactly funny, but grab a warped sense of humor then go ahead and laugh.

Competing for this reviewer's choice of the best story were "A Little Condescending" and "Helping Hands." Both deal with deep psychological issues, the former more objectively and the latter with more emotional pull.

Sykes is a young writer to watch. His prose is vivid--almost overdone at points--so that the reader sees what is happening. He has a talent for moving the story along through dialog, a true gift. With the potential to polish the rough edges he can become a dependable noir writer for the years to come.

 

About the reviewer, Ann Snuggs:

Ann Snuggs grew up in Southeast Arkansas. A born storyteller, she was regaling her mother with stories before she learned to write. As a child, she coerced her playmates into performing in short plays she wrote. 
A devoted mystery/detective fan, Ann began with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys and by late elementary school had progressed to Erle Stanley Gardner and Dashiell Hammett. She cried when Mickey Spillane died.
In college at Henderson State University at Arkadelphia, Arkansas, she worked on a campus literary publication.
After college she began her career as a Jill-of-All-Trades, teaching school--in grades second to junior college and subjects from social studies to English and speech to math to Spanish; working at newspapers as a photographer and feature and column writer; walking hots and rubbing horses in the barns as well as doing publicity work at thoroughbred race tracks; working in multiple positions at a florist; and on and on.

She has often said the only two criteria a writing job must have to be considered are:

1. Have I ever done this before? (Answer: No) and

2. Does it sound interesting? (Answer: Yes).
Through all this she has written - something. When asked at conferences, "What do you write?" The reply is, "What do you want written?"
At one time or another Ann has written poetry, skits, song lyrics, novels, short stories, essays, newspaper columns and feature stories, advertising copy, whatever someone needed to have written. She writes for the same reason she breathes - it is necessary for her existence. 
Ann is the author of two non-fiction books on Western movies, Riding the (Silver Screen) Range andUncredited: Cliff Lyons, On and Off Screen, and one Western novel, Donovan's Trail.

Noir Journal 60: Book Review Marathon, Part 2

First an announcement and a free book giveaway contest, then seven book reviews (six of them new books):

In June of 2011, I interviewed young British mystery novelist and poet Nikki Dudley for Spinetingler. I also reviewed her first novel, the gripping thriller Ellipsis. Read the interview and review here.

Now, Nikki has released her second novel, Semblance, a sequel to Ellipsis.

To win a free set of Ellipsis and Semblance, send an email to noir_journal@yahoo.com or leave a comment (and email address) to this post. One winner will be chasen randomly.

From Nikki Dudley's Web site: In this thrilling sequel to Ellipsis, Richard Mansen embarks on a desperate search for his missing cousin, Thom. Whilst Alice attempts to rebuild her life, she is haunted by Richard's suspicion and the secret that Thom has taken with him.

As both Alice and Richard struggle with conflicting emotions of loss, love, and acceptance; they are hurtled towards a dramatic conclusion that neither of them can escape.

The only question left is who will survive when the truth is finally revealed?

From the writer of psychological thriller, Ellipsis, comes its electrifying climax.
If you still haven't read Ellipsis, read more about it HERE!

About the author: Nikki Dudley is a novelist and poet from London, currently teaching English in Madrid. Nikki co-edits streetcake magazine, which publishes innovative writing.

 

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Now, the reviews:

Reviews by Richard Reeder:

NOIR(ish), by Evan Guilford-Blake, Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries (September 18, 2012)

NOIR(ish) As an homage to Noir, Evan Guilford-Blake’s new mystery, NOIR(ish), is absolutely ingenious. The author must have read the entire body of work of both Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett to create just the right genre phrasing and ambience. Los Angeles in the summer of 1947 is the perfect setting. The mystery’s gumshoe hero is Robert Grahame, an Indiana native and Word War Two veteran who moved out West, first to Frisco where he apprenticed for Sam Spade, before setting up a PI shop of his own in downtown LA. We first meet him about a year after he has broken up with the love of his life, and he’s hitting the bourbon a little bit too hard.

The plot centers on characters that may or may not have been involved with the murder of the notorious gangster, Bugsy Siegel. Every stock noir character appears in the story, each depicted brilliantly by Guilford-Blake. All characters have names with noir references. For example, the woman police lieutenant is Lauren Stanwyck. Even our hero’s cat has is called Greenstreet. Every noir fan will enjoy this conjuring up of the genre’s icons.

Readers may or may not find the story's conclusion satisfactory, subtle, or consistent; but that's noir anyway, no?  Overall, an excellent book.

 

Vengeance, by Benjamin Black, Henry Holt and Co. (August 7, 2012)

Vengeance is the fifth in a series of crime noir novels by Benjamin Black, the pen name of the Man Booker Prize-winning novelist John Banfield.

These novels set in the still staid and parochial Dublin of the 1950s feature Garret Quirke, a hard-drinking hospital pathologist. The book opens with a suicide at sea. Victor Delahaye, a prominent businessman shoots himself on his pleasure craft, accompanied by Davy Clancy, the son of his business associate, Jack Clancy. Although the Protestant Delahayes and the Catholic Clancys are partners in a successful garage business for three generations, it is clear that the Clancys don’t feel like equal partners. This perceived inferiority in the partnership leads to financial shenanigans on Jack Clancy’s part, which ultimately lead to his murder.

Also complicating matters between the two families is the romantic entanglement between Davy Clancy and Mona Delahaye, the promiscuous second wife of Victor Delahaye. Toss in Maggie Delahaye, the grief-stricken spinster sister of Jack. Add the playboy identical twins of Victor from his first marriage, the naïve James, and the sinister Jonas. And for seasoning toss in a dash of Sylvia, the long-suffering wife of Jack Clancy’s infidelities and the Delahaye-Clancy stew thickens.

Quirke, with the aid of Detective Inspector Hackett, tries to sort things out. If this is your first read in the Quirke series, you might like to know a little more on the pathologist’s past and possibly more on the details and mood of Dublin in the 1950s. Yet few authors today write crime tales with the elegance and grace of Benjamin Black.

In my opinion, his prose elevates a genre (noir) often characterized by clipped and staccato writing. Fans of noir and mystery in general will delight in reading Mr. Black’s work.

 

About the reviewer: Richard Reeder recently published his first book, Chicago Sketches. He is an instructor in the Oakton Community College Emeritus Program. He also runs the site A Literary Reeder. 

One review by Alan Michael Wilt 

Jimmy the Stick,  by Michael Mayo, MysteriousPress.com/Open Road (October 16, 2012)

Start with a narrator who introduces himself on page one as “a thief, a bootlegger, a bagman, and the proprietor of one of New York’s better gin mills.” His name is Jimmy Quinn. He’ll get around to explaining why he’s called Jimmy the Stick. But first, even while his girlfriend Connie tries to tempt him back to bed for an encore, the view from his window in the Chelsea hotel prompts him to run downstairs to the telephone, and minutes after he hangs up a Mob hit occurs at the drugstore next to the hotel.

It’s 1932. Prohibition is on. The Lindbergh baby has been kidnapped, and Walter Spencer, an old friend and partner-in-crime who has married well into the Pennyweight family, gone straight, and now runs the Pennyweight oil business, calls on Jimmy for some help. While he goes out of town to scout a business prospect, Spence needs some protection for his wife and infant son at the palatial New Jersey estate his marriage has yielded him.

Jimmy’s task seems straightforward enough, but in the Pennyweight mansion doors don’t always lead where you think they should, and it’s possible to come and go without being noticed. Every time you think you know where Jimmy and his plot are going, the trail that seemed so true goes suddenly false. Or, perhaps, not. Like the maze of a mansion in which much of the novel takes place, each supporting character adds to the texture and complexity of the story. All of them—from Connie to Spence’s wife and mother-in-law to the staff of the Spencer home (especially another Connie, the maid) to bungling and lustful lawmen—hold the promise of being the key that turns the novel. Or, perhaps, not.

With all this taken together, the reader never really gets a chance to relax. There is always something or someone coaxing you through what is likely to be the wrong doorway. While he ostensibly protects the Pennyweight baby from a copycat Lindbergh kidnapping, Jimmy becomes slowly aware that all is not as straight as it seems in the Pennyweight world.

Amid his tale of 1932, Jimmy Quinn tells also of his youth and his introduction to the New York City crime world. His immigrant parents long gone, Jimmy is raised by the saintly sinner Mother Moon. A schemer and a madam, she also takes care of a gang of kids who have no one else and picks Jimmy out for his potential on the schemey side of things. Work for Lansky, Luciano, and Rothstein initiates him deeply into the life from which, by the time the novel opens, he is trying to distance himself. Far from being a distraction from Jimmy’s adventures in New Jersey, these New York chapters provide both counterpoint and comparison with regard to what were, in the early 1930s, distinctly different places with widely divergent styles. Or, perhaps, not.

About the reviewer: Alan Michael Wilt is a writer and editor in Massachusetts. His novel The Holy Family will be published in October 2012. 

 

Reviews by Kristofer Upjohn:

Angel Noir, by Fred Zackel, Amazon Digital Services, Inc.

Fred Zackel's "Angel Noir" is a lethal mixture.  It's a delicious potion concocted of extreme horror and hard, bleak crime writing. Both blunt and smooth, Zackel's prose quickens  the character of Earl Dolan. As the story's  most noirish element, this central character is an anti-hero. At best.

Really, this is a story without a hero. The villain of the piece IS the central character, rather than the antagonist of a more traditional tale's hero. Dolan is a compelling figure, an atypical sociopath. He is extremely self-aware, understands his own psychological make-up. If you called him crazy, he wouldn't kill you because you called him crazy--he'd kill you because you knew.

He doesn't follow a modus operandi. He ruminates over his evil side. He doesn't keep trophies from murders--he steals from the dead to make a living from his hobby. It is best, after all, if you love what you do. And Dolan loves what he does. The novella starts out as a night-in-the-life-of story. A peek into a typical night of murder for Earl, though "typical" is a broad term, indeed, given that Dolan is mercurial in method, always changing, improving, and, very important, leaving behind no pattern.

Besides, what starts as a (relatively) typical night of prowling for a victim slowly bends into the most unusual kill of Dolan's career. Right from the start he senses something is different; his instincts warn him away. Find a different victim! But Earl is drawn in by his own prey, compelled. But tonight, murder is only the beginning. Zackel's style is gritty and piercing. Elements of the story we have seen elsewhere, but not put together like this. It's a twist on twists, if you will. It's both psychologically harrowing and physically grisly.

Angel Noir begins with a grim tone and only gets darker from there. It's nihilistic spiral and gut-wrenching denouement are among the story's most effective elements. It's the darkest of horror and the meanest of crime, all wrapped up in a relentless, insightful (hence all the more horrifying) descent into doom.

For the stout of heart and open-minded only, Angel Noir is an excellent foray into the shadow and id, an artist's expression of our universal dark side.

 

The Gemini Virus, by Wil Mara, Forge Books (October 2, 2012) 

Art, as Georges Braque said, is meant to disturb. Wil Mara's The Gemini Virus is a thriller about a virus that spreads as fast as the reader turns pages. Every once in a while you find a book that hooks you so hard you're yanked through its pages so fast that when you finally breathe and look at the little numbers up in the corner you're bona fide SHOCKED at how far into the book you already are. And at a lean less-than-300 pages, that makes The Gemini Virus burn as hot as the fevered characters who endure the wrath of this most horrid of new bugs. This one's almost ebola meets smallpox on steroids.

Mara manages a multi-layered story in the relatively short page count and juggles a complex plot and equally complex ensemble cast of characters. Much praise so far, but here is where I do get to play my reviewers' Insert Gripe card. Among the subplots/character arcs are: (A) Beck, of the Center for Disease Control, and Porter, a viral scientist, race to find the origins of and cure for, respectively, the Gemini Virus; (B) the political intrigue, tension mounting between countries as the possibility of terrorist involvement is pondered; (C) the story of an everyday family--they even have a pooch--on the run from the virus. There's lots afoot but those are the three main storylines--other than the general mayhem caused by an uber-deadly virus snuffing lives with a quickness. It's that last subplot that got on my nerves just a little. But that's just me. While I felt it was unnecessary--the political storylines served as sufficient breathers between scenes of Beck and Porter, etc.--many readers might connect with the all-American family caught in a horrid ordeal bigger than them and beyond their ability to control. Besides, their tale connects with the overall sweep of events in a most interesting twist.

Speaking of such, The Gemini Virus packs enough of those and pulls some clever, exciting and surprising denouements out of Wil Mara's hat of writing tricks. It's King's The Stand (minus the supernatural) filtered through the streamlining effects of Michael Crichton, with a bit of Koontz' humanity--and love for dogs.

Lest I leave you thinking this is a warm and fuzzy virus thriller, I'll note that this is among the gorier virus on a rampage novels I've consumed. Mara, though, while delivering grue slick as snot and blood, isn't lurid about it. His move-along writing delivers vivid imagery without over-the-top graphic prose. The Gemini Virus is a must-read for any fan of infectious books.

Resurrection Express, by Stephen Romano, Gallery Books (September 18, 2012)

Forgive me if I deliberately avoid plot discussion--other than in the broadest of ways--for Resurrection Express. Take my word for this: The book moves like the second half of its title. As for the first half, well ... If I'm not going to spill (spoil!) the beans about the stack of plot twists that keeps this novel barrelling from action sequence to action sequence, I'm certainly going to leave you curious about just what "Resurrection" is. 

Let's do our arithmetic here: Action plus pacing plus twists equals (already) one helluva list of ingredients. But the twists should point in your mind to the fact that there's plenty of story here with the action. A lot of it, and layered like a ginormous wedding cake. Besides the copious gunfights (complete with weaponry descriptions that have me thinking somebody's read their Mack Bolan), fistfights, explosions, brutality and so on, there is an intricate web of characters (along with their arcs) and mysteries crammed into enigmas packed to full in a big ol' box of holy freakin' crap!

Romano gives the reader no chance to find any footing. The plot persistently veers and curves like a mad Manhattan taxi driver, left turns with no blinkers keep the story simultaneously coiling in upon itself and unraveling, opening like a lotus flower to reveal more and more levels of a plot that goes deep. Way deep. The whiplash jerk-snap of the winding plot that packs not just guns but high tech hackerism, lending a (non-science fiction) cyberpunkish component to the novel.

The central character, Elroy Coffin, hardcase and computer whiz all in one package, is freshly freed from prison (through tenebrous means) and out to find his stolen wife. He finds MUCH more. Elroy is as much a victim of the hurricane of events with the bang-bang-bang and all the surprises as the reader. He's manipulated and harassed, chased and shot at. Romano puts Elroy through the same grinder as the reader, dishing out more hell on his head than that piled upon actor Bruce Campbell in director Sam Raimi's Evil Dead franchise. Resurrection Express is out of the gate like a rockethorse and the speed of the proceedings is relentless right up to the final page. The surprises, too, keep hammering away at you with no end in sight until the end - the very last @#^%# page! - of the book itself. I also appreciated the withering grimness that infuses Resurrection Express, a novel that is both intensely personal (Elroy's quest for his wife) and epic. Harrowing as any roller coaster slapped together minus a few bolts by a wicked carnie, the novel is a sucker punch of a book, laying on the blows from beginning to aaaaalllll the way to the END end, a boxer bound to take you down.

 

The Rustling of Leaves: An Adventure of Recovery, by Frank Costanzo, Writer's Showcase Press (August, 2000)

From the book's subtitle, you might be wonder what it's doing here at Noir Journal. This is, after all, a site devoted (mostly) to crime. It's not the homepage for a 12-step recovery program. But The Rustling of Leaves is  more than just a twelve-stepper's Step Five put down in print. The Rustling of Leaves is part confessional, part spiritual reflection--and part real-life legal drama.

Writing from inside Folsom Prison, Frank Costanzo shares more than his substance abuse recovery and spiritual self-discovery, he also gives outsiders and insider's look at life in prison. On that level alone, the book is a valuable first-person document of behind-bars existence. That a man busted for relatively small-time white collar crimes ended up at Folsom Prison, of all places, points to another aspect of Costanzo's deeply personal memoir. 

Costanzo's case is  a touching and infuriating account about how one man began his own self-destruction and how a court of law nearly helped finished the job. It's also about finding darkness in the light. It's a multi-tiered book told in plain language. Costanzo is not a professional writer; he is a human being with a real story and it's one told in his own words and I can think of no one more qualified to do the telling. His down-to-earth style brings us vividly into not only Costanzo's life, but also his mind and spirit.

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<Thanks to all the authors, publishers, and publicists for the review copies.>

NJ 59: Second Annual Book Review Marathon, Part 1

Here we go again. Noir Journal's second annual Book Review Marathon. In Part 1, we'll present these four reviews from Noir Journal's senior reviewer, Ann Snuggs:

Hard Bite, by Anonymous-9

Trinity Game, by Sean Chercover

The Cocktail Waitress, by James M. Cain

Driven by James Sallis

The Reviews:

Hard Bite, by Anonymous-9, Blasted Heath (October 20, 2012)

What a wild and crazy ride!

Dean Drayhart is a wheelchair-bound serial killer who uses a trained monkey to kill. This is a spoof, right?

Wrong. Our protagonist is a man with a mission. A hit-and-run driver put him in the chair, along with killing his daughter, so he is out to rid the world of as many of these scumbuckets as he can. He tracks them down like a bounty hunter.

Even though Dean admits that he loves to kill--as long as he feels that it's an execution--it's hard not to be on his side.

Admit it. Few, if any, people can claim to have never had the thought that the world would be better rid of certain people. Often it's a bigoted reaction to an ethnic category or political leaning, but this guy is acting on his vigilante convictions--from a wheelchair, no less.

The action kicks off with Dean and Sid--the monkey--heading out into the after-midnight Los Angeles drizzle to meet another hit-and-run killer on the pretext of selling a passport. It moves into high gear as the intended target backs off and Sid has to go into attack mode.

It turns into a messy night.

It is also the beginning of his undoing. Phrasing it to avoid as many spoilers as possible, the man he killed was not the man he thought he killed. Soon powerful forces in the underworld are hot on his track.

His apparently random killings didn't make the police radar but now certain powerful, felonious people are out for his blood.

Aided and abetted by his girlfriend Cinda, a lady of the night who finds him just what she needs for her personal relationship, Dean dodges his pursuers. But for how long?

For a short novel, Hard Bite is rich in complexities. Told by the killer, it grabs the reader from the first page. The characters--from the killer and his cohorts to his adversaries to the detectives mired in trying to untangle the web of information and misinformation--are well-drawn and vivid. The pace is excellent. The ending satisfies.

Using the adjective "delightful" for a noir tale seems discordant, but this book is quirky, dark, definitely noir, offbeat and utterly delightful in its uniqueness.

Personal note: When I read the synopsis of Hard Bite--wheelchair killer with monkey--I said, "Oh, please!" But after reading the first few pages that changed to, "Please let me review this one." I was not sorry. It's a re-reader. I can't wait to read it one more time to seek out nuances I may have missed the first time around.

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The Cocktail Waitress, by James M. Cain, Hard Case Crime (2012) 

James M. Cain's murky tales are a cornerstone of the noir genre. He died in 1977, leaving one unpolished novel to thrill his faithful fans. Thanks to Hard Case Crime, now The Cocktail Waitress is on the shelves, allowing devotees of the dark side one last chance to wallow in the mire of Cain's nasty characters' lives.

Poor Joan Medford. Pregnant and married at 17. A widow at 21. Her husband's family blames her for his accidental death. A police detective questions the circumstances of the accident. Her sister-in-law wants to steal her child. What's a poor girl to do but find any strategy that will bring her son back into her home and her arms?

Can she help it if the best job immediately available to a hungry young widow is that of a cocktail waitress? Or that she has a body that draws the attention of men?

Joan narrates the account. She's tired of taking the blame when everything that happened was bad circumstances. She wants to put down for the record the details of all that happened. If she was portrayed in a bad light, it was because others slanted the story. She wants to set it right. Now it's up to the reader to decide where the truth lies.

Cain gives Joan a plausible voice. Young girls can often be caught up in situations they fail to understand and find unexpected repercussions rippling through their lives. Is Joan an innocent caught up in the whirlpool and way in over her head? Or is she a conniving, scheming gold digger, using her body to gain her greedy aims?

Whatever Joan may be, Cain used his talents to create a tangled tale, sucking the reader into her story, no matter what conclusions may be drawn at the end.

And speaking of the end, there is a terrific, wicked noir twist in the last pages, easily grasped by older readers who remember the mid-1970s but possibly lost to younger readers. No court could ever punish with the harshness of this possible aftereffect. Any reader not immediately recognizing the consequences of Joan's actions should read the Afterward by Charles Ardai to understand the next crisis Joan may face.

The Cocktail Waitress is another gem for Cain fans - and all lovers of classic noir. Thanks, Hard Case Crime.

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The Trinity Game, by Sean Chercover, Thomas & Mercer (2012)

Father Daniel Byrne is a man with unresolved issues. His parents died when he was born. His uncle who raised him was a Bible-thumping con man. Discovering that, at thirteen he ran away. The Catholic priests who took him in taught him boxing to release the tensions within. When he went into the priesthood he left behind newsgathering, dedicated reporter, Julia Rothman, the love of his life.

Now he seeks miracles. As an investigator for the Vatican's Office of the Devil's Advocate he travels extensively to examine claims of miraculous demonstrations of the presence of the Lord on Earth. In his years of doing this he has yet to find the true miracle he seeks to confirm his faith.

Now he has been sent to investigate the uncle he abandoned. It seems that Brother Tim Trinity has begun speaking in tongues with a hidden message. No longer is his gibberish simply garbled syllables. When the recordings are played backwards and sped up one-third they are prophesies. AND they are coming true!

The Catholic Church must have this man discredited.

Unknown to the Church, two international organizations - competitors - with tentacles reaching into Catholicism as well as the offices of governments throughout the world, know of Trinity's accuracy and they to want to stop or perhaps use him.

Meanwhile others are discovering this phenomenon. Brother Tim predicts weather and accidents on the freeway, sure, but he also throws in a few sports scores and horse racing results. Now organized criminal elements that control gambling recognize him as a threat.

Is there anyone not after this man?

Daniel's first step is to contact speech pathology experts. How would a person learn to do this trick? How many recordings would it take to perfect this charade? Can't be done, they tell him and then set out to prove it.

Confronted with this evidence, Daniel has no choice but to go face-to-face with the uncle he never wanted to see again. What he learns takes him on a high speed quest for the truth. On the way he discovers things in his uncle's history he never could have imagined, reconnects with his one and only love, revisits the sites of his early years and grows in the faith via unexpected paths.

With unique and interesting characters, fast-paced page-turning, a plot chock-full of twists and shifts, The Trinity Game is fascinating and hard to put down. Sean Chercover has created a great read - and maybe a great RE-read.

A word to the wise: The book will not be for everyone. Conservative religious readers might feel some parts tinge on blasphemy. Anyone who gets caught up in the con elements of Brother Tim may do an occasional eye-roll. (Those who think he's over-the-top have no familiarity with the Southern preacher/con man circuit.)

To enjoy this book to the fullest, it's important to remember that this is Daniel Byrne's story. Yes, a LOT of characters with attention-grabbing qualities are in these pages but the bottom line is: If they weren't contributing to Daniel's life situation, they wouldn't be in this book. He's a wonderful, complicated character. I'm glad I met him.

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Driven, by James Sallis, Poisoned Pen Press (April 3, 2012)

When James Sallis' novel, Drive, first appeared in 2005, critics called it "perfect" . . . "a masterpiece" . . . "essential" . . . and a host of other superlatives. It's hard to challenge any of the praise.

This story of Driver--like Clint Eastwood in the spaghetti Westerns he has no name - has layer after layer of depth built into it. The sparse, lean prose suits the protagonist. Driver is laconic, focused on what he does--drive --and has little concern for the niceties of life.

Placed in foster homes when his family disintegrated - read book for details--Driver discovered as a teen what he did best--drive. He raced a few cars but escaped his last foster home to run to L.A. There he found a new use for his talent - stunt driving in films. As a sideline he also took on a little criminal driving.

A heist gone bad takes him deeper and deeper into the dark side. He is caught in a web that requires more of him than just driving in order to survive--yet survive he does.

Seven years later Sallis presented the waiting world with a sequel to Drive--Driven.

Driven begins six years later in Driver's life. He has put the world of crime behind him, developed a success business in Phoenix and is moving toward marriage with the woman he loves.

His past comes back in a rush, out of the blue, when one Sunday morning he and Elsa are attacked. He kills both the attackers but not before they kill Elsa. It soon becomes plain that something from his previous life has come after him. Driver just doesn't know what or why. Unless he can unravel the wherefore and who, he may not get out of this one alive.

Using his ability to live with the bare necessities and the help of a few good friends he manages to stay a step or two ahead of his pursuers.

Both Drive and Driven give the reader fast action and a tangled tale to weave through.

However, read Drive first. Though it is possible to follow the action in Driven without reading Drive, part of the picture is missing. Much of the back story is fleshed out in Drive.

For this reviewer, much of the appeal was in the compactness of the narrative. Drive--with all its action, complexity, flash backs , and philosophy--took less time to read than the run time of the film based, - VERY loosely, on the book.

And there's a caution. Anyone who thinks, "I saw the movie. Why should I read the book?" is far off the mark. Buddy, you don't know what you're missing if you skip the print.

These books are riveting. The little nuggets of philosophical comment tucked amid all the fast action are intriguing. Existentialism? You bet. In spite of the feeling of constant movement and rapid pace, there is a rich, thoughtful texture that makes them a real pleasure to read - with one little complaint.

Driven has one of those "write the details yourself" endings--always a bit annoying. A book is the author's story, not the reader's. From this viewpoint, an author has not completed his job if he does not present the reader with his unabridged vision.

And one last picky comment from a noir purist: Though these have been categorized as noir, they don't meet a purist's criteria. It seems that nowadays any dark crime tale gets dumped into the noir bin, but pure noir requires certain elements. Driver has an almost tragic aspect in his persona. He is what he is and reacts as he does because he is what he is. He can no more alter this than Antigone could let her brother lie unburied. (Character essence is what makes the difference between melodrama and tragedy.) While there can be an element of tragedy in noir, pure noir must also contain a moral facet. Drive and Driven are definitely not morality tales.

For all who want skip the philosophy and just cut to the chase--nice suitable phrase here--go read these books. You won't regret it.

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About the Reviewer

Ann Snuggs  has written everything from advertising copy to poetry; newspaper columns to novels. She wrote her first novel, Donovan's Trail,  a number of years ago; but it is available to the public for the first time this year,  in Kindle format. Currently, Ann is working on memoirs with child star of the 1930s Dick Jones and is editing a second novel for Kindle.

 Click here to buy Donovan's Trail for your Kindle.   

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Thanks to all the authors, publishers, and publicists for review copies of these four novels and many more.

Coming soon: Book Review Marathon, Part 2.

 

 

 

Noir Journal 58: Donovan's Trail, a Western by Ann Snuggs

Noir Journal's ace reviewer, Ann Snuggs, just published her own first novel. 

Donovan's Trail,  by Ann Snuggs

  Donovan's Trail, written by Ann Snuggs, is now available in the Kindle format at Amazon.com. A traditional Western, definitely PG-rated, Donovan's Trail tells the story of Tom Donovan, sheriff of Sundown, whose devotion to duty and the letter of the law conflict with personal considerations when his finance's brother goes wrong and the man who killed his father reappears in his town.

Donovan's Trail

Reviewed by Kristofer Upjohn

   There are probably a lot of arguments among fans of the Western. At least, there's definitely some generation gap, culture clash, whatever you want to call it. You see, it has been argued by some that there is the classic Western and then there is the new Western. Cinematically, you can point back to [fill in the blank of John Wayne movie here] and witness classic Western cinema. You can turn to the likes of Sergio Leone and his "spaghetti Westerns" as a watershed moment for the Western. Now you have "modern" Westerns such as "Unforgiven" or the "3:10 To Yuma" remake, the likes of which stick in the craw of fans of more vintage stylings.

    The same could probably be said about the Western novel. L'Amour, Luke Short, Max Brand, Zane Grey, et al, have huge canons of fiction to represent the old guard. Then you have Larry McMurtry and others representing the more contemporary Western (by "contemporary" I mean style, not temporal setting of the story, but you probably figured that).

    At any rate, the Western has changed.

    So it will come as a joy to long-time Western readers of the if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it variety to know that such a novel as Donovan's Trail by Ann Snuggs has ridden into town. Doffing its hat and introducing itself, the novel reveals to the reader that there's lots of introducing in the works. Snuggs has filled her exemplary novel with a full cast of rich characters. No fear, though; the reader needn't chug through page after page after get-on-with-it-PLEASE! page of introductions. The characters are deftly integrated into the story as their presence is required and we get to know them through the much-lauded/oft-ignored show-don't-tell method.

    Which is to say, Snuggs by no means tortures the Western fan with laborious exposition.

    That's good. Great, in fact. Sure, a huge historical epic with a massive temporal scope, such as James Michener was wont to write, warrants lengthy passages and a heady page count. Not so the traditional Western.

     And that, folks, is what we have here. I was reminded strongly of the character depth and economy of words that are hallmarks of great Western fiction (that same economy applies to crime/noir, as well, but that's a different review, isn't it?), and Louis L'Amour came to mind more than once. However, let's dispel any inferences that Snuggs is just following the L'Amour template. No, her book invites qualitative comparisons to L'Amour but Donovan's Trail is hardly derivative.

    For a genre that's been around for a long time and which has produced a boggling number of slender--and some not-so-slender-- volumes for the gazillions of oat opera fans to consume, it says something for Snuggs as a storyteller that one doesn't feel like he (or she) is retreading the same old ground. Despite the assertion I've heard more than once that there are something like six basic Western storylines, I credit the author with a healthy serving of originality, heaped up like a cowboy's hard-earned dinner. By now, the Western palate ought to be thirsty for suchy a book, like an outlaw crawling in from the desert craves agua.

    One disclaimer is in order: Just because I consider this old-school Western writing should not suggest that it's (a) inaccessible to contemporary readers or fans of the modern Western, or (b) wordy like some of the REAL old-school Old West writers. Snuggs' prose is as lean as her book is packed. The prose is economical yet vivid, and the story gallops forward with nary a stumble. The reader isn't given the chance to be bored. There's nothing but meat here - no fat. Everything is in place, from a story tapestry woven out of several engaging plot threads (none gratuitous) to a colorful cast of characters, each imbued with depth and dimension. Standouts are a dastardly bastard of a villain, mean as hell and just as cunning - and no cardboard cutout. Katie, Sheriff Tom Donovan's love interest, is more than just a pretty face in a pretty dress wringing her hands, awaiting rescue from the guy in the ten gallon.Donovan's sidekick Ben is a particularly robust character, especially given his co-starring role. 

   And, of course, there's Donovan himself, who must be at the very least an interesting lawman for the readers' sake. Snuggs meets and exceeds that bar as she does all others. Donovan is a great Western lawman, moral quandry or no. But his soul-deep wrestling with trying to get his black-and-white morality to jibe with all the grays is at least as compelling as the surface story with which it is entwined. Further, in the course of learning that there's a spectrum between good and evil, he has to be careful to accept shades of gray without sliding all the way over to the evil himself and becomng the very thing he hates.

 

About the Author

Ann Snuggs was creating stories from the time she could talk. Her mother transcribed then - for family enjoyment only.  A lifelong writer, she has written everything from advertising copy to poetry, newspaper columns to novels. She considers herself a true writer-- one who writes like she breathes, no matter what she writes, because it is necessary for living.

Donovan's Trail is her first novel, written a number of years ago but available to the public for the first time this year. Currently it is available only in Kindle format but Ann hopes to have a print edition available before the end of the year.

She has two other books to her credit, Riding the (Silver Screen) Range and Uncredited: Cliff Lyons, On & Off Screen, both non-fiction on the topic of Western movies.

Having an interest in design, Ann also created the cover art for both Donovan's Trail and her book on Cliff Lyons. 

At this time, Ann reviews for Noir Journal; is working on memoirs with child star of the 30s Dick Jones, who was the voice of Pinocchio for Disney; is editing a second novel for Kindle availability; and, of course, journals.

Click here to buy Donovan's Trail for your Kindle.  

 

 

Noir Journal 57: Loren Kantor's Noir Woodcuts

Noir Journal 57 features a guest post by noir woodcut artist Loren Kantor from L.A. as well as a sampling of his work and links to his site.      

Loren Kantor

Loren Kantor on His Noir Woodcuts 

      I was first exposed to film noir  as a child through the Warner Brothers cartoons. There was a Bugs Bunny cartoon from 1946 called Racketeer Rabbit that featured animated gangsters based on Edward G. Robinson and Peter Lorre. I used to mimic the cartoon voice of Edward G. without knowing who he was or where he came from.  My father was a film editor at Columbia Pictures and in the early 70's he borrowed 16mm film prints and screened them in our living room for the neighborhood. This is how I saw my first true film noir, DOA. From the moment Edmond O'Brien walked into the police station to report his own murder I was hooked. There was something twisted and mysterious about the film, an edge I couldn't find in the boring Hardy Boys books I was reading.

            On Saturday nights, my dad took me, my brother, and my sister to a revival film theater in Hollywood across from Fairfax High School. We watched vintage silent comedies (Chaplin & Keaton) and old Republic Serials (Flash Gordon, Captain Marvel). My favorite movies were the detective classics like Murder, My Sweet  and The Big Sleep.  I became obsessed with Bogart and I often stayed up late watching Bogie on tv.

Lorre

 

Robinson

Bacall

Bogart

            During my college days at UCLA, I took a film noir class and immersed myself in the classics: Sunset Blvd., Double Indemnity, The Big Sleep, Laura.  I fell in love with the stark black and white photography, the sinister shadows, the cynical heroes and enticing femme fatales. My favorite film noir was Fritz Lang's The Big Heat.  Police detective Glenn Ford takes on a syndicate boss and his evil henchman Lee Marvin. When Glenn Ford's wife is killed by a car bomb intended for him, you realize you've entered a film world that does not play by "happily ever after" rules. Lee Marvin's character takes pleasure in burning women with cigarette butts and throwing hot coffee in his girlfriend's face. The movie is ruthless and intense and the hero is only able to carry out justice after resigning from the police force and living by his own moral code.

            The heyday of film noir (post-WWII through the mid 50's) equated with an America that was emerging from a decade of depression and four years of war. People were ready to be happy again and with the advent of inexpensive houses, cars and appliances, America was a fantasyland of possibility.  But beneath the surface there were rising tensions of racism, anti-Communist paranoia, and fear of the nuclear age. Film noir allowed writers and directors to explore the dichotomy of the period; the dark shadows beneath the bright lights; the collusion between police departments and organized crime; the commonality between violent thugs and successful businessman.  Noir showed the audience that the old America filled with honor and truth was not to be trusted.  The system was corrupt and only those who forged their own way following their own moral code could emerge with their soul intact.

Cagney

Palance

           I think this was my attraction to film noir. Protagonists such as Bogart and Robert Mitchum embodied the rugged individualism I admired.  I was always more of a loner and I never trusted groupthink.  I was born the year JFK was killed and I remember when Nixon resigned.  I guess I was raised in a period of cynicism and noir movies seemed to resonate with my outlook.

 

            My interest in woodcuts began in the mid-1980's.  I attended a German Expressionist art show at LA County Museum and I encountered the woodcut prints and paintings of George Grosz, Kathe Kollwitz, and Karl Schmidt-Rottluff. I was mesmerized. I loved the stark lines and bold imagery. I was also blown away by the dark subject matter.  Characters expressed emotional angst and images focused on the violent and unpleasant aspects of society.  I was writing screenplays in those days and I never envisioned attempting woodcut carving myself.  But the images remained in my subconscious and whenever I saw a woodcut print I felt a sense of excitement.

            I became an Assistant Director and worked on films, commercials and tv shows through the 80's & 90's. In the early 90's, I moved from Los Angeles to San Francisco where I became a freelance writer and videomaker. I lived near the San Francisco Mission District which housed small art galleries on every block. I came across a new generation of woodcut & linocut artists, most of whom were Latino. Again, I was enthralled.

            I moved back to LA, met my future wife, and got married. Several years ago, my wife surprised me with a woodcutting set for my birthday. I checked out a few online tutorial videos and I dove in, head first. The carving process was difficult at first. I cut myself often, the blocks were ragtag and I felt like a kindergartner with his first set of finger paints. But before long I got the hang of it.

            The idea to carve images from Classic Movies and Noir Films came about because we needed art for our walls at home. I realized the stark imagery of black & white films was a perfect match for the carved lines of a woodcut.  The roots of film noir cinematography came from German Expressionist movies so this provided a nice link to the woodcuts.

            I'll soon be carving a series of femme fatales (Barbara Stanwyck, Bette Davis, and Rita Hayworth) as well as woodcuts based on the film noir posters of Director Jules Dassin (Rififi, The Naked City, Thieves Highway, and Brute Force).  

            Film Noir continues to inspire me.  Hopefully film preservationists will continue to unearth new gems that I have yet to experience.  I can't wait.

Brando 

Buscemi

BIO:

Loren Kantor is a screenwriter and woodcut artist based in Los Angeles.  He loves classic movies and old Los Angeles.  His woodcuts are featured on his blog woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com

WOODCUT LINKS (from my blog)

http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com/2012/07/bogart.html

http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com/2012/07/lauren-bacall.html

http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com/2012/03/edward-g-robinson.html

http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com/2012/02/cagney.html

http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com/2012/07/peter-lorre.html

http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com/2012/04/brando.html

http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com/2012/05/david-lynch.html

http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com/2011/09/jack-palance.html

http://woodcuttingfool.blogspot.com/2011/07/macguffin.html

 

Noir Journal 56: Conspiracy of Angels, by Laurence MacNaughton

Laurence MacNaughton recently released his debut novel, the supernatural thriller, Conspiracy of Angels (NLA Digital Platform LLC, June 14, 2012).

 

Noir Journal thanks MacNaughton for the following guest post, info and reviews, as well as a sneak preview: Chapter One of Conspiracy of Angels.  

Guest post by Laurence MacNaughton

The Long Way Down

Before I became a full-time writer, I had a day job test-driving prototype vehicles. Trucks, luxury cars, experimental hybrids, you name it. We covered them in black padding to disguise their body contours, then wired them up with sensors to track everything from how many hours the headlights lasted to how much vibration we got when we slammed the door. Those hand-built vehicles sometimes cost the manufacturers a half-million dollars or more. So we tried to crash as few as possible. But sometimes, accidents happen.

My driving routes brought me through areas of Denver that few people ever dare to visit: abandoned factory buildings, mud-choked construction sites, railroad yards covered in graffiti. By the end of the day, my mind was a labyrinth of dark and dirty places, populated by the odd people I'd sometimes see there. I'd often write about them deep into the night, until they ended up populating my debut novel, Conspiracy of Angels.

But not all of my test drives were confined to the city. One crisp October day, we had an assignment to take a prototype SUV on a high-altitude test. Some Detroit engineer who had never set foot in the Rocky Mountains had made up a test route that took us up an old mining trail through an undeveloped mountain pass. My driving partner and I dutifully threaded our way up past the treeline around boulders and washed-out ditches, trying to cope with the fact that the "road" that we were supposed to follow basically didn't exist. The track was so narrow and steep that when you looked out one window, all you could see was rocks and tundra. Out the other window, nothing but empty air and steel-gray clouds.

As we neared the top, it started snowing. The visibility dropped. The temperature plummeted, and the rocks we were driving on got slicker by the minute. Right then, I knew that no one belonged there on that mountain trail. Not in a 4x4 truck, not even on foot. I stopped and checked our surroundings, but I couldn't see much more than rocks and falling snow. Something about that place was so lonely, so forbidding, that it's still frozen into my memory. We could die up here, I thought. And weirdly enough, at that moment I knew how my book would end. Funny how the mind works.

I think the best stories are born in moments like that. When we push beyond the boundaries of our everyday lives, we reach a limit that we never knew existed, and we have to make choices. Those choices define us.

I chose to abort the altitude test. My partner and I were professional drivers, and we got down off of that mountain without incident, but in hindsight we never should've gone up there. Not in those conditions, not in those vehicles. Our overconfidence led us up into that rarefied air near the mountain top and kept us going, even when one slip could have sent us plunging over the edge into nothing.

Moments like that never leave you. I don't know how everyone else makes sense of them, but I write stories.

Conspiracy of Angels is a story about what happens to people when they step up to the edge of the abyss, and they look out, and the decisions they make in that moment change them forever. You come down from the mountain just a little bit changed. And that's the moment I try to capture every time I sit down to write a story.

 

Author Bio: Laurence MacNaughton

Laurence MacNaughton's articles and stories have appeared in Writers' Journal, The Rocky Mountain Writer, Pyramid Magazine, Cabal Asylum and The Inkwell. He teaches fiction writing at YouCanWriteANovel.com. For more information please visit http://LaurenceMacNaughton.com.

Conspiracy of Angels

Just out of prison, ex-convict Mitch Turner is determined to put his life back on track and find out the truth about his daughter’s mysterious death. But when his daughter’s best friend, Geneva, discovers a cryptic piece of top-secret technology, the two of them are thrust into the cross-hairs of a deadly living weapon.

It’s known only by a code name: Archangel. It’s fast, invulnerable, inhuman. And its next target is Mitch.

The Archangel is more than just a relentless killer. It’s a gatekeeper of the dangerous boundary that divides this world from the next. And it’s Mitch’s only chance of learning the dark truth about what happened to his daughter.

Outnumbered, outgunned and on the run, Mitch and Geneva race to outsmart an elite force determined to silence them. Can they uncover the conspiracy before the Archangel unleashes its deadly secret on all of humanity?

 

Reviews

"Killer dialog, plenty of action, and an uber-cool cast of characters make this a must-read."

—J.A. Konrath, author of the Lt. Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels thrillers

"Conspiracy of Angels is a terrific read, a white-knuckle thrill ride that grabs you by the throat—and the heart—and doesn’t let go."

—Jenny Siler, author of Flashback and Shot

"Laurence MacNaughton's Conspiracy of Angels is a thrilling adventure--a mix of horror and thoughtful intrigue. A debut of a new talent well worth exploring deep into the night."

—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of the Sigma Force series

 

Conspiracy of Angels

CHAPTER ONE

            When Mitch heard the crash in the backyard, he thought about getting his .45, and then remembered it was all the way upstairs in his bedroom. He set down the plate of barbecue ribs on the kitchen table and picked up the big steel spatula Bryce had given him as a parole gift. As quietly as he could manage, he crept over to the back door and peered outside.

            The backyard was knee-deep in weeds, the leaves shaking in the cold Colorado rain. A big tree limb had busted off the apple tree just inside the wooden fence. Bare splinters of wood littered the ground. As he watched, a girl climbed out of the branches, trailing leaves. She had straight black hair and eye shadow he could see from across the yard. The rest of her was lost inside an old black overcoat. She looked young, barely out of her teens. About the age Jocelyn would've been, if she were still alive.

            She spotted him through the clear glass door, so he slid it open and stepped out onto the chilly back patio. As she brushed off the leaves, she never took her gaze off him. She had eyes that were older than her years. Tense, but not scared. Her breath steamed in the cold air.

            Mitch had the impression she was sizing him up. A sleepy-eyed ex-con pushing fifty, sandy hair edging toward gray, arms thick from killing too much time lifting weights. She didn't look too impressed.

            She brushed long strands of wet hair out of her face. "Your name Mitchell Turner?"

            He walked out to the grill, ignoring the rain, and shut the lid. He leaned on the warm handle, suddenly conscious of the fact that he was still in his bathrobe in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, when ordinary decent people were at work. It embarrassed him a little. "Tell you what, kid. First, maybe you should explain to me why the hell you're trespassing in my backyard."

            She came closer, her chin thrust out, trying to look mean. Like maybe she didn't trust a big, half-dressed ex-con who was old enough to be her dad. Of all things.

            Her gaze went to the open door behind him, checking it out, then back to him. That seemed more than a touch suspicious. He didn't know what she was planning, considering she was half his size. Maybe she had friends out front. Mitch straightened up.

            Quietly, she said, "Are you Jocelyn's dad?"

            It caught him off guard, this punk kid bringing his daughter's name back from the dead, like it was no big deal. Like maybe Jocelyn had just run out for cigarettes and she'd be back any minute now.

            Sometimes, he felt like that. Like she would just walk in, the door would bang, and she'd be home. Mad at him for something or other.

            But she wouldn't. She was dead, four years now, died in a hospital in some mountain town he'd never heard of. He'd been called out of his cell and told by a counselor. He'd had to use the grimy prison phone to arrange the funeral.

            "Hey, hello?" The girl waved a hand in front of his face. "Are you Jocelyn's dad or not?"

            He cleared his throat and looked down at the girl with the eye shadow and black lipstick. "Jocelyn's passed away. I'm sorry."

            "But you're Mitchell Turner. You're Jocelyn's dad. Yes or no?"

            That caught him off guard. "You knew my daughter?"

            "I'm the one asking the questions here."

            "Excuse me?"

            "You heard me."

            Mitch felt his temper lighting up. "Look, what the hell do you want, kid?"

            "I want to know what they told you. About Jocelyn's death."

            Mitch wanted to ask, What who told me? But he felt himself going into a slow boil. "Listen, kid. Whatever business my daughter had with you, it's finished. It's done. Now get the hell out."

            "It was your project that killed her. It was your fault."

            "You turn around and get the hell out of my backyard. Better yet, how 'bout I throw you over the fence myself?" He took a step toward her, went to grab her by the arm.

            She stepped back out of reach, quick, and brought up a chunky black pistol in both hands. "Don't even." She didn't blink. The pistol didn't shake. She aimed it right at his chest.

            It made Mitch hesitate.

            He held his hands up slowly. This changed things. But he figured that as long as she kept asking questions, she wouldn't really shoot him. Not yet, anyway.

            "Drop the thing," she said.

            "What?"

            She pointed with her chin. "The thing."

            The spatula. He was still holding it. "All right, fine." He reached over to set it on the grill.

            "Drop it. Now."

            "Take it easy. This is my favorite spatula." He set it down gently.

            "Whatever." She glanced at the open doorway, then back at him. "You know, you don't look much like a scientist."

            This kid just kept getting weirder. "Science wasn't my best subject. But I'll tell you what. I'll say 'billions and billions' a couple times. How's that?"

            She didn't even hint at a smile. Probably didn't get it. And she was still aiming that funny-looking gun. Mitch didn't recognize it. He figured maybe it was one of those plastic guns, the kind that fooled metal detectors.

            He tried a different tactic. "Honey, look. I just got out. Okay?"

            "Out?"

            "Of prison. You obviously got me mixed up with some other Mitch Turner. There's a lot of us in town. Just look in the damn phone book. I'm not a scientist. I'm not anything."

            "Yeah? Well, I'm not your honey."

            "Okay, fine. Long as we understand each other, you can put the gun down, huh?" He waited. "No? All right, listen, why don't we get in out of the rain, at least?" That way, Mitch figured, maybe there was a chance Bryce would pull his head out of the computer long enough to hear them and do something. God only knew what. Hopefully not call the cops. That was the last thing he needed, giving the cops an excuse to crawl around his house and find the guns he'd just bought.

            She didn't budge. "I want to know why you started Project Archangel."

            "Project what-what?"

            "Don't play games with me. You're Jocelyn's father. You were in charge of the program."

            "Honey, I never been in charge of anything. And that's a good thing. A guy like me takes charge, things get a habit of turning all screwy."

            She started to look a little unsure of herself. She glanced back over her shoulder, the way she'd come in. But with the tree limb busted off, there was no climbing back out. She was stuck here.

            "So what's your name?" Mitch said.

            She looked all around, like she was weighing her options. "Geneva."

            "Geneva. That's a place."

            "Ha. Ha. No, really, I've never heard that before."

            He shrugged. "I'm going inside. You want to come in, you better put the hardware away. You like barbecue ribs?" She didn't answer, so he stepped inside and leaned on the door handle. As she walked by, he got a good look at the gun.

            It wasn't real.

            It was made out of plastic, for one thing, and a little green light glowed near her thumb. The barrel didn't end in a hole, but a lens, like one of those video game guns Bryce kept up in his room.

            Mitch let out a long breath. Every muscle in his body seemed to unclench, and he felt like bursting out with a laugh. At least now he knew what he was dealing with. Some nutball kid with a toy gun.

            She looked around the kitchen. "Nice place." The sarcasm was obvious.

            He went around to the table and sat down. "Yeah? My brother kept it up while I was inside. All the comic book stuff, the Nintendo in the living room, that's all his. Don't touch it."

            "So. Prison. What did you go for?"

            "Breaking into people's houses and asking them stupid questions." Mitch picked up the biggest rib on the plate. The steam coming off of it made his eyes water. It looked so good, so charred and spicy and perfect, he had to swallow before he opened his mouth. "I been waiting five years for this rib. You know that? Five freakin' years."

            He sank his teeth into it, and for a moment his mouth was overloaded with sensation. It was every bit as good as he hoped. Spicy, but not too hot. Tangy, with a touch of smoke. When he opened his eyes, the girl was still standing there, glaring with eyes thickly lined in black.

            Still chewing, he pointed at the plate. "You want one?"

            "Why'd you do it?"

            "Do what?"

            "Project Archangel."

            "Oh, for the love of . . ." Mitch put the rib down and wiped his mouth. Damn, it was good. And she was ruining it. He talked around a mouthful of barbecue. "Look. I'm going to say this one last time. And that's it. So listen. I'm no scientist. I don't know any angels. And no amount of you standing there giving me the Morticia Addams is gonna change anything. You got that? So you can either get out of here, or sit down and have a rib. Either way, shut up and let me eat. That's the deal."

            "Nice performance," she said, a hint of fake sweetness in her voice. "You get an Oscar."

            Mitch hung his head. This kid was going to give him indigestion.

            He heard Bryce come out of his bedroom and come thumping down the stairs. Please, Mitch prayed, let him be dressed. The last thing he needed to add to this mix was his three-hundred-pound brother walking in wearing tighty-whities and a Superman shirt.

            Bryce stopped midway down the stairs. He was wearing pants, thank God.

            Bryce looked at the kid, then Mitch. Mitch figured Bryce couldn't see the toy gun from the stairs, not with the way she was holding it down by her hip.

            Bryce looked completely at a loss. Not used to visitors. "Who's this?"

            "Bryce, this is Paris."

            "Geneva," she said.

            "Whatever. She was just leaving. You wanna get the door for her?"

            She squared her shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers."

            "What are you gonna do? Change my channel?"

            "You don't want me to shoot you."

            "Oh, yes I do. Go ahead." Mitch held his arms open wide. "Come on, you can't miss me from here."

            She brought the plastic gun up in both hands.

            Bryce gripped the banister like it was going to fall off. "Dude, she's got a gun!"

            Mitch sighed. "It's not a gun."

            "That's right," Geneva said. "It's a pulse weapon. Just like the one your people designed. It's the only thing that can hurt the Archangel. But it can't kill it. And that's what I need to know."

            "You lost me in the middle there."

            Slowly, she said, "How do I kill the Archangel?"

            Mitch turned to Bryce. "You see what I'm up against?"

            Bryce's forehead wrinkled up. "I think she's serious."

            "Oh, for the love of God. You." Mitch stood up and came around the table. "Get the hell out of my house. Right now."

            She backed up, the gun aimed steady at him. "Don't make me do it."

            "You know, this was funny for a little while. Now you're pissing me off." He grabbed her arm.

            The world went instantly white, like an insanely bright flashbulb had gone off with him in the middle of it. A bolt of lightning scorched through his body. Time stopped. All of his thoughts crashed into each other in a mad jumble of white heat. His body hung in the air, suspended in the blinding light. Behind him, glass exploded into ghostly crystalline whispers.

 

 

Noir Journal 55: Potboiler, Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye, Last Call for the Living, False Negative

Potboiler, by Jesse Kellerman  (Putnam, July 2012)

 Reviewed by Ann Snuggs 

So many adjectives to use! Jesse Kellerman's Potboiler is quirky, absurd, intriguing, engrossing, surreal and utterly delightful. Believe me! Many more words would fit this entertaining tale.

Suspend disbelief and come along for the fun read of the summer.

Arthur Pfefferkorn is a college professor of creative writing with one lone published book in his vita - a serious novel from his youth, praised by some critics but not a great seller.

His buddy from junior high school, Bill Kowalczyk, nom de plume William de Vallee, has the life Arthur would have wanted - famous author of many best-sellers, married to the woman Pfefferkorn loved first, wealthy, prestigious. Now Bill is missing in a boating accident, presumed dead.

Despite the cost of the trip, Arthur knows he must go to the funeral. It's invitation only - and he has one. He knows he will incur expenses other than transportation and hostelry. Among other things, his wardrobe must be spruced up before going. But whether or not he can afford to go, Pfefferkorn must see Carlotta, the love of his life, now the widow of his best friend.

Carlotta is as beautiful as ever and grateful that Bill's oldest and dearest friend came.

Potboiler could have turned into a nice little relationship novel but things are not what they seem. Before Arthur knows what's happening, he is giving in to his baser instincts and finds himself caught up in danger, intrigue, conspiracy, international plotting - he's way over his head.

My opting to review this book was chiefly prompted by the profession of the protagonist. Just as

Jesse Kellerman

filmmakers have a deeper appreciation of films about filmmaking, so writers have a built-in empathy for books about writers. Probably I did relate to Arthur better than the reader who has no interest in writing his own stories. When he looked at what he was experiencing with the thought, "this could be a good premise for a book," I laughed out loud, knowing the feeling only too well.

However, all readers who enjoy a well-plotted - but over-the-top - story will find this a fun read. Yes, I did react with an "oh, brother," and roll my eyes at some of the absurd plot turns and also knew from the get-go where in the world this story had to take us, but who cares. It was too much fun to quibble and there's not a single thing wrong with escaping into a fantasy world for a few hours of pure amusement.

Arthur himself ponders that ". . . the stuff of bad novels was far more likely to occur in real life than the stuff of good novels. . . ." If he's right Potboiler is a very good novel indeed. This is not real life.

The only problem with calling Potboiler a beach novel is that sitting on the beach long enough to read the whole book - it's not easy to put down - would result in third-degree sunburn. Stay out of the sun to read and don't miss this one.

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Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye, by Horace McCoy  (Open Road, ebook, 2012)

Reviewed by Ann Snuggs

The ebook publication of Horace McCoy's Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye - basis for the 1950 James Cagney movie of the same name -  is good news for fans of noir fiction.

Ralph Cotter lies in his bunk in prison awaiting the dawn with great anticipation. This is breakout day for him, courtesy of Holiday, a woman who wants a smart operator with her brother to help him escape. Details have been carefully timed and laid out, but Cotter has a few plans of his own that were not in the program - including killing a man or two, either for revenge or expediency.

He knows he can pull it off. After all, he's a college grad - Phi Beta Kappa. Much smarter than anyone he meets.

Cotter escapes, but the brother and others die in the process.

Using Holiday's connections, including her wheel man Jinx, Cotter begins planning new crimes. It's all about the money and he wants it all.

He's crafty. He's conscienceless. His answer for loose ends is "kill 'em." But like all noir protagonists, Cotter is too smart for his own good.

He plots carefully and convinces reluctant associates to go along when they doubt, but he can't outsmart the world. Nor can he control the two women for whom he lusts.

Satisfied that he controls the mechanisms - from the police to his fellow criminals - he boldly strikes out to have his own way, but he can't see all the contingencies. Following the story of his twisted maneuverings is gripping.

Written in 1948, the Golden Age of noir - if "golden" may be applied to the dinginess of the genre - its brutal protagonist, Ralph Cotter; no, Paul Murphy; no, whatever name was inscribed on his birth certificate, has no milk of human kindness anywhere in his being.

His arrogance is that of the classic noir male. He can beat the odds. Everyone he meets is a lesser man. However, unlike many noir characters, he needs no femme fatale to entice him. Corruption and viciousness seethe within him. He may seem to be caught in some dark female's web but, in the end, he is his own man, self-made and self-deluding.

McCoy's dark story is fascinating noir, of another era. And therein lies the rub. His writing style is of another time when readers of even the pulps had a vocabulary of greater depth than many readers of the twenty-first century. Dated and esoteric words are sprinkled throughout the novel. His prose, though strong, holds a wordiness characteristic of writing styles of the past.

A definite plus to the techniques of yesteryear is the lack of graphicness. All of the sex and violence is there but the scenes don't beat the reader over the head with explicit details. Leaving a little to the imagination makes the story much richer and more effective.

On a personal note: I loved the writing. It was a return to the language of literature classes. Still, it is unfair to review without noting such aspects of a book to make those who want basic, explicit and streamlined aware before they plunge in, only to be irritated rather than entertained.

Lovers of classic noir have a great opportunity with the release of Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye in ebook format. It is not to be missed.

***********************************************************************************

Last Call For The Living  (Forge Books, May 2012)

Reviewed by Ben Springer

 Peter Farris’ debut novel “Last Call For The Living” is definitely a book
you’re going to want to seek out for your summer reading pleasure.

Fresh out of prison Hobe Hicklin, a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, decides to betray his “brothers” when he takes the jump on a bank robbery that they had planned in Georgia, doing the job himself, and keeping all the money. Things don’t go quite as planned, and Hicklin’s forced to shoot one of the bank tellers, and take the other one hostage where they hide out in a cabin in the deep woods.  What follows is a cat and mouse chase between Hicklin, the law, and the angry Brotherhood trying to get back what’s theirs.

 

A novel this well seasoned, with the rich characterization, tight plotting, and poetic prose doesn’t happen very often with debut works.  Even veteran authors would be hard pressed to outdo this.

I really liked the way Farris made each character, even bit parts, feel fully fleshed out and real. He also managed to take the lush Georgia backdrop almost come alive as another character in the book.  It really made you feel engrossed in the story.

I urge everyone to pick up this great novel if you’re looking for a violent, gritty, action-packed Southern noir. You won’t be disappointed.

 

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TWO REVIEWS OF:

False Negative, by Joseph Koenig (Hard Case Crime, June 2012)

Review #1, by Richard Reeder

Joseph Koenig

Joseph Koenig was the master of the sensationalist stories that appeared  in potboiler “true crime” magazines so prominently featured at newsstands three or four decades ago. Most of Koenig’s stories appeared in Front Page Detective, perhaps the best of that now long-gone magazine genre. Koenig also wrote three novels that were basically expanded crime stories, receiving some notoriety for these, and then he disappeared from the literary sleaze scene for over twenty years.

Now Koenig has resurfaced with a new novel, False Negative, set in the Atlantic City and New York City of the early 1950s. It was the time of Senator Joe McCarthy and Charlie Parker, an era of paranoia and indulgence. Koenig captures this time and place brilliantly, and the reader is taken on a titillating rollercoaster ride for 251 pages. The protagonist, Adam Jordan, is a crime writer turned magazine editor. A quirky guy and jazz aficionado, one wonders how much of Jordan’s persona reflects Koenig himself.

Jordan becomes involved investigating and reporting two murders of beautiful young women in and around Atlantic City. One victim is an aspiring Miss America beauty queen married to a major league ballplayer. The other is a showgirl entertaining wealthy men in the private entertainment venues of Atlantic City. Both of these young women are hustlers, and both fall victim to an unlikely predator. Jordan, the cool hipster writer/editor finally finds the perpetrator, making him the book’s unlikely hero.

So welcome back to the contemporary noir scene, Mr. Koenig. False Negative is a fun read, that I truly enjoyed, and I highly recommend it to others.     

**********************************************************************

False Negative

Review #2, by Ann Snuggs

It's amazing how what seems to be an insignificant decision can completely change a life.

So Atlantic City Press police reporter Adam Jordan learns when he decides to skip a routine political speech in favor of a few hours of rest. After all, his recent stories - one covering an execution, the other the discovery of dead girl at Little Egg Harbor -gained the attention of a New York pulp magazine editor, who has offered him the opportunity to write for Real Detective. No one will ever notice if he tacks a new lead paragraph onto a rehash of this politician's old speeches.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The congressman double crosses him and drops dead before ever opening his mouth. Jordan is fired for fabricating a story detailing the man‘s speech that was never given.

Suddenly the magazine offer is more appealing, though still beneath his talents - in his opinion. But for now, Jordan uses his meticulous research skills and his gift for writing to create tales for the readers of Real Detective.

Some stories are suggested and some he digs up on his own. One won't let him alone, even though he's been warned off.

Jordan's tenacity in investigating a series of murders of young, beautiful women - beginning with one of his last stories for the Press, the Little Egg Harbor killing - takes him into dangerous waters. The dead are of different backgrounds, associations, races - but they have something in common: All are beautiful and ambitious.

Adam knows the killer is the same person - these are not random killings - and is determined to find out who and why. Proving it may be the last thing he ever does.

Joseph Koenig's False Negative is classic crime material. Reporter Adam Jordan is not an official investigator but he works in a manner that would do credit to a private detective of the old school. Set in the early 1950s, the novel utilizes the aura of the time. Nicely paced, the story engrosses the reader and keeps the pages turning as Jordan delves into whatever connections may exist between the women who died.

False Negative is a great read for fans of crime fiction. (I sat up late to finish it.)

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<Thanks to the publishers, authors, and publicists who provided the review copies for all of these books.>

Noir Journal 54: The Vanity Game

First, announcing a new book just out from Blasted Heath: The Vanity Game, by HJ Hampson.

Let's start with a guest post from Hampson herself, then some info about the book straight from Blasted Heath, and finally a preview from the book.

Comedy and Noir

Guest post from HJ Hampson. author of The Vanity Game

My debut novel, The Vanity Game, has just been published by Blasted Heath. It’s a dark satire about celebrity culture and features a footballer who becomes involved with a dodgy cartel of gangsters. 

Now Blasted Heath, founded by the very noirish Allan Guthrie, may be open to publishing different genres of books (though I can’t really see them going down the Mills and Boon route any time soon), but their current roster of authors are predominantly crime/ noir writers (Ray Banks, Douglas Lindsey to name a couple).  When they picked up The Vanity Game I was of course delighted, but also a little surprised as I hadn’t thought of it as crime or noir. Sure, it features some grisly violence, it has a detective in it, it’s dark all round, but it’s also, I have been told, funny. So I’d been pitching it myself as a black comedy, or a thriller.  Genre is a funny thing – there are no hard and fast rules, especially for books. 

For me, the word ‘noir’ conjured up private eyes slinking about dark and dirty city streets, predominantly in the 1940s or 1950s. ‘Film Noir’ is certainly associated with that period, and adaptations of Raymond Chandler or James M Cain… so much so that modern films with noirish tendencies are considered as ‘neo-noir’. 

I’m a big fan of writers like Bret Easton Ellis and Chuck Palahniuk, and I never thought of their books as ‘noir’ either, but apparently they are. What I liked about their writing was the black comedy and the subversive stories, and I’d say The Vanity Game is in the same tradition. And this got me thinking, if books like Fight Club, or American Psycho are considered to be noir, is it because of the comedy in these works?  If American Psycho wasn’t satirical it would surely have been classed as horror… certainly you can imagine that if the satire is completely removed in the rumored re-make of the film adaptation, the action will be turned into a torture-porn fest à la the Saw films.

I’ve recently been reading Alan Ayckbourn’s book, The Crafty Art of Playmaking.  Writing theatre may be a totally different kettle of fish to writing novels, but Mr. Ayckbourn makes an interesting point when he talks about drama and comedy.  He stresses the need for comedy and drama to co-exist and says: ‘the darker the drama, the more you need to search for the comedy’, his reason being that as humans, we can’t keep serious for long, and if dark drama has no comedy in, people will laugh at inappropriate bits anyway.

For me, this made a lot of sense. I think even hard-boiled detective novels have a certain comedy about them, as the protagonists wryly observe the screwed up world around them, and I think this is one of the reasons why noir is such a hugely popular genre.  It seems to me that novels that firmly sit in the ‘thriller’ genre are less likely to have cynical, dry-humored protagonists… think of self-righteous bore, Robert Langdon, in The Da Vinci Code.  Who would be more fun to hang out with, him or Philip Marlowe? Obviously The Da Vinci Code was hugely popular, but Philip Marlowe is a much more loved character.

So I now I realise why The Vanity Game has been designated as ‘noir’ as I am very glad that it has! 

************************

Now, let's learn about The Vanity Game, from Blasted Heath.

THE VANITY GAME is a satirical black comedy that's as disturbing as it is hilarious.

For professional soccer ace Beaumont Alexander, life couldn't be better. He's rich and famous and living a life of A- class luxury in his Essex mansion, The Love Palace, with his beautiful pop-star girlfriend, Krystal McQueen. Idolised and envied all over the planet, he's an international megabrand; seemingly invincible and every bit as vain as you might expect from a man who has the world at his fingertips as well as his feet.

But a celebrity party kickstarts a chain of events that turns his dream lifestyle into a waking nightmare. It begins with too many drugs and an attractive waitress, and leads to an argument with Krystal that doesn't end well. Then a shady cartel steps in and changes his life forever.

Beaumont Alexander is about to discover that substitution is a fate worse than death.

******************************************

"Take a pinch of TOWIE [The Only Way Is Essex], add a measure of vapid sleb culture, throw in a few dark temptations, lob the lot OTT, and you've got a recipe for a premier league winner."

— Val McDermid, international best-selling author of The Retribution

"As black as black comedies come and twice as audacious, HJ Hampson’s The Vanity Game eviscerates celebrity culture with the incisiveness of an expert surgeon—but with a giddy, over-the-top pleasure that’s exhilarating."

— Megan Abbott, best-selling author of Dare Me

***************************

HJ Hampson is a novelist and screenwriter from Runcorn, a bleak industrial town in northern England. She went to Sheffield University where she was the music editor on the student paper.

Whilst dossing around in Sheffield after university she formed a rock band called The Lousy Virgins – who were indeed quite lousy – and began writing short stories and novels. She currently lives in London, where she hangs out at literary haunts and drinks lots of gin.

***************************

 Now here's a preview from The Vanity Game.

A fat, balding face on the CCTV screen scowling up at the camera. Huge bushy eyebrows that make him look a bit like an owl. I press the buzzer and watch Owl Face as he carries on staring at the screen, the scowl turning to this gormless look, and then he must notice the gates are opening because the eyebrows suddenly raise and he vanishes from the screen, obviously rushing back into his car. That would be kind of funny if he wasn't the Old Bill. Owl Face obviously ain't used to hanging out at gaffs with high security gate systems.

I'm at the door before he's even driven down the drive, and open it to watch him pulling up in his plebby little detective car and get out. The eyebrows rise again when he sees me standing there. Awe-struck probably. His body is fat to match his face, well middle-aged, plump at any rate, and his face is flushed red, as if he's an alky. And he's wearing this crumpled shitty, grey suit that looks cheap as hell, with a maroon and cream tie that could have been nicked off a school kid.

"Detective Inspector Dante," he says flatly, flashing me a police badge with a photo of his face on it, in the same scowling expression that I saw on the CCTV screen.

"Beaumont Alexander," I say back. "Aye." He just nods, furrows the brows and gestures we should go inside. Great, he's northern, ninety per cent likely to be a Hater then. We don't speak as I lead him through to the lounge, passing the kitchen

which makes me shiver a little and I pray to God he doesn't sense it. "I've come to ask you a few questions about your girlfriend's

disappearance, Mr Alexander," he drawls as he settles himself into a cream leather arm chair.

Makes me shudder to see a suit that cheap sitting on a chair that expensive and I hope it don't leave any marks on it.

"You say it were about six o'clock when you noticed she were missing?" "Yeah, about that." I feel that it comes out a bit stand-offish, but I can't help be wary of this

guy. He just nods though, as if he's expecting me to say something else. "Any idea why she might just take off like that?" he says, when he realises

I ain't going to. I shake my head and try to look miffed. "Well...she was a bit messed up I

guess." "Messed up?" he asks, narrowing his eyes, the eyebrows meeting. "She's

a recovering drug addict, isn't she? You think she's still using, you know, on the quiet?"

It's good he's thinking on that track. "Well yeah, I suppose it's possible." "Hmm..." he nods, "And you say 'was'?" "What?"

He's cocking his head to one side, and I've got this weird feeling, like something is falling through me.

"You said 'she was a bit messed up', as opposed to 'she is'. I mean, presumably she still is messed up, wouldn't you say?" One eyebrow, raised.

"Oh yeah, well of course...I mean, she was a bit messed up, last time I saw her, when she was here. I went through this with the other police."

"Right, yeah. So who was her dealer?" "Her dealer?" "Her drug dealer. Where was she getting the coke from?" He's speaking to me like I'm a kid, and I'm bricking it big time, hoping this

mess inside ain't showing through on the outside. This guy is snidey, no question. And shit, what do I say now? I weigh up the likelihood of CJ, our dealer, taking a hit out on me if I grass him up, but figure that it's pretty unlikely.

"Erm, a guy called CJ I think. He's pretty small time." Exclusive, CJ would say: A list only.

Dante writes the name down, and sighs. What the fuck is this guy thinking?

"And was there anything else that might have been troubling her? Messing her up, as you say."

Thankfully, he seems to have forgotten the 'she was/ she is' thing. I pretend to be thinking for a while and then finally say:

"Well, she did complain about the press attention and being in the public eye so much."

Owl Face scribbles this down and nods, which is good.

"Actually, only the night before she ended up in tears when we got back from a party. She was talking about how she couldn't take it any more and saying we should give all this up. I just thought she was drunk, but maybe there was more to it."

He cocks his head, frowns and nods, which I take as a sign that he's buying it.

Seems that I'm okay at this acting business. Maybe I should try my hand at a film part after this has blown over. Old Owl Face is still writing and nodding.

"Mind if I have a look around?" he asks, looking up from his notebook. "Er, no, go for it mate." The last thing I want is this guy snooping around. These police fuckers

have eyes for any kind of evidence, I've seen it on those cop shows, where all

the eagle-eyed bastards have to do is spot a tiny fleck of blood from a mile off and then the game's up for the suspect. Am I the suspect yet though? It's hard to tell.

He hauls his fat ass out of the chair, and where's the first place he heads? The kitchen. Perhaps he can smell blood. I feel my legs getting weaker as I follow him and when we get there, I have to lean on the worktop to steady myself. He just glances round though, and I hold my breath as I watch his eyes scan over the place where she died, between the fridge and the breakfast bar. Nothing. No comment. We leave the kitchen and walk through the dining room, and then to my games room, the utility room, the pool area (no floating bodies, much to my relief), and then upstairs. He sticks his head into every guest room and I'm starting to think the guy just wants a nosy round my gaff to see how bling it is.

"This the master bedroom then?" he asks when he gets to our room. He goes in and starts looking through the cupboards, like he's maybe expecting a corpse to fall out of one or something. I almost say this, but hold my tongue as the Old Bill ain't ones for jokes.

Finally he gets to Krystal's underwear drawer, and the sleazy bastard starts lifting out lacy bras and kinky thongs, admittedly with this complete look of total boredom on his face. Then he pulls out something else – a square thing tied with a ribbon, a book. I've never seen it before.

"This her diary, then?" he asks, tugging at the ribbon. I have to clear my throat to speak because my mouth has gone so dry. "Er, yeah, I guess so. I didn't know she kept one." I watch in silence as he flicks through the pages, frowning. "They always keep 'em with the knickers." "They?" I ask, trying to laugh, but it comes out more as a cough. "Aye. Missing girls, what else?" He doesn't lift his eyes from whatever gripping content the bitch wrote in that book. Then he snaps the book shut and pulls a clear plastic bag from his pocket. "I'll take this back to the station if you don't mind. It might give us some clues about where your lass has gone." Are they allowed to just take things like that? I'm sure they need a warrantor something? But what can I do? If I question him he's likely to get suspicious, so I just keep schtum and hope that it's just a load of girly crap about shoes and food in there. Christ, I feel I've said enough already.

We go back downstairs, and just as I'm thinking the worst is over and beginning to relax a bit, he asks:

"You got a garage here? Mind if I have a look in that?"

Fuck. I'd forgotten about the Land Rover. What if it's still there? And what if it's not? Will he notice?

"Yeah, course you can."

I lead him down the passage towards the garage and hope he doesn't notice that my hands are shaking as I turn the key to unlock the door.

I flick the lights, illuminating my gorgeous collection of beauties: the black Brabus Merc, the blood-red Invicta, a silver Aston Martin, a Harley Davidson motorcycle and a large space where the Land Rover was. So they've taken it. Dante the Owl raises his eyebrows.

"Nice cars you've got here, mate," he says, stroking the Invicta as if it had fur. So that was it. He's a car man and he knew I'd have some classy machines. Damn it, why did they have to send a car man? Another detective wouldn't have wanted to see the garage. He makes a kind of whistling noise as he goes over to the bike. For fuck's sake, what does he want? A test drive?

"Ah, a Harley. I used to ride myself, when I was a lad...not a Harley of course."

Great, big whiz, just get the fuck out of here.

"Did she drive then?" he asks suddenly, looking up, fixing his eyes on me, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, she did sometimes." "So, there's no cars missing then?" I take a deep breath, and try to think, think, think. Obviously, the house is in the middle of the Essex countryside. You couldn't even walk to the nearest commuter village, and Krystal wasn't one for walking anyway, not with those heels she'd wear. How the hell would she have got to wherever she's supposedly disappeared to? Beads of sweat form on my neck and back. I'm going to have to put on a damn good act to pull this off. "Shit, well now we're in here, yeah, the Land Rover's missing," I say, and then put my hand over my mouth as if I'm shocked, "it was there, parked in that space. I'm sorry, I hadn't noticed before, I guess I'm not thinking straight at the moment."

I run my hand through my hair and wait for his reaction. He stares between the empty space between the garage wall and the Invicta and back to me.

"You never noticed 'til now? But you drove to your mother's in that Merc after you reported her missing."

How the fuck does he know that? And then, as if he could read my fucking mind: "I saw the pictures on the web."

I'm floored, don't know what to say. Damn the paparazzi bastards – are they in league together, them and the pigs? It wouldn't surprise me. I'm standing here like a mug, might as well paint 'murderer' across my forehead, and I can't think of anything but the flash bulbs going off and the thugs pressed against the car windows.

"I just didn't notice... I often lend my cars to friends, so I guess I just forgot, it's, erm, it's hard to keep track sometimes."

The words just come out. Bollocks, it's a stupid lie because if they do any research they'll find out that I never, ever let any of my mates use my cars. I can feel Dante's owl eyes burning my skin, scanning my face, my body language, looking for signs of betrayal. A dog fixing on a scent, I imagine the saliva forming behind his heavy cheeks. He's pulling out his notebook again.

"Registration number?" is all he says. I give him a number, I don't know if it's the right one. It feels like the whole thing has spiralled out of control. It seems ridiculous now that I ever thought I could get away with it.

"Mr. Alexander, would you mind coming down to the station to give an official statement? Routine procedure, you understand."

A roaring sound fills my ears, but above it I hear myself telling him that no, of course I didn't mind going down to the station.

Contact Blasted Heath: info@blastedheath.com | Kyle MacRae 

 

Noir Journal 53: From Factory to Hockey Rink

He Died With His Eyes Open (Factory 1) by Derek Raymond (Melville International Crime, October 4, 2011)

Reviewed by British crime writer and poet Nikki Dudley

I was very excited to read the first instalment of Raymond’s Factory series and I am pleased to say I wasn’t disappointed. This is one of the most thrilling and satisfying reads I have had for a while.

 

The Factory series is set in Thatcher’s London, with a nameless sergeant from the Unexplained Deaths department of the London police as the protagonist. In the first page, we meet the murder victim, Charles Staniland, a tragic character who leaves behind recorded cassettes of his thoughts and a whole lot of mystery. In time, the Sergeant realises the cassettes are more important than he first thought, providing key information to help him identify the culprits.

 

The city is represented as gritty and desperate, hinting at the employment problems of the 1980s and a ruthless pursuit of self-interest. In turn, the grittiness is also present in the array of characters – for example Harvey Fenton, the brute who apparently only ‘mocked’ Staniland; Barbara, Staniland’s girlfriend who drove him to distraction with her cruelty; Staniland’s stepson, Eric who is addicted to hard drugs; and many more who are similarly loathsome and pathetic.

 

Despite all of this, the nameless Sergeant remains focussed, if not a bit obsessed with the case. The dialogue is sharp and witty, especially of the Sergeant. Sometimes it did seem like he had a joke for every occasion but I enjoyed it nonetheless. Also, for someone who isn’t familiar with the East End London slang, it might be a little difficult to always understand what the characters are actually saying, but it doesn’t take a genius to do the translation.

 

Overall, it was a thrilling read. The culprits weren’t exactly shocking but the investigation itself was always absorbing. The twists and turns were accomplished through believable and exciting methods. I even enjoyed the presence of the retro piece of technology, cassettes, as a way to impart information and give more of a sense of who Staniland was. Furthermore, I thoroughly enjoyed being in the company of the nameless Sergeant and will certainly be getting my hands on the next Factory book in the series (The Devil’s Home on Leave).

 

Much recommended. A noir novel with a no-nonsense investigator who can generate a laugh, plus the added twist of the grittiness of 1980’s London. What more could you ask for?

 

By Nikki Dudley:  Ellipsis - a psychological thriller . Available in hardback, paperback and electronic formats.

Read more: http://ellipsisnovel.blogspot.com
 

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Trail of the Spellmans, by Lisa Lutz (Simon & Schuster, February 28, 2012)

Reviwed by literary blogger Richard Reeder

San Francisco has always been a great venue for detective and police stories. Hilly streets, foghorns and cable cars somehow manage to create a fairy tale aura within a costal urban setting. We have seen Sam Spade and Harry Callahan emerge as iconic fictive heroes in the City by the Bay. Now we see that Isabel Spellman, the mid-thirtyish private investigator in Lisa Lutz’s Trail of the Spellmans, is already becoming a San Francisco legend of her own with apparently a growing cult following fueled by a major publisher in Simon &Schuster.

Trail of the Spellmans marks the fifth book by Ms. Lutz featuring Isabel and her zany family. This book can best be described as comic detective in genre, with the risible idiosyncratic characters much more interesting than the various story lines.

Isabel comes across as resourceful woman who can manage very well by herself.  Henry, ex-boyfriend #13, has just left her because Isabel has opted for not wanting to have children. Perhaps she has made this decision by witnessing how a child has transformed her Stanford law-degreed brother into a didactic nursemaid.

Isabel’s cases are rather prosaic. There are the parents wanting to keep an eye on their college-age daughter. Another client is a neurotic man who keeps on asking her to check out his apartment to see if the faucets and stove burners are turned off. There is one case that looks like potential extortion, but Isabel skillfully intervenes before any crime takes place. No murder and mayhem in this book.

Her characters, however, are far from prosaic, and that is why this book is an interesting, if not a memorable read. I particularly liked Demetrius Merriweather, a man who was wrongly convicted of murder and served fifteen years in prison. After his release, Demetrius becomes a valuable member of the Spellman investigative team.

I assume a sixth book about Isabel and her family is in the works. Will she eventually marry and have children? Will David leave the nursery go back to his law firm? Cutesy stuff, but somehow I prefer Sam Spade and the search for the Maltese Falcon.

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I Hate Hockey,  by François Barcelo, Translated by Peter McCambridge  (Baraka Books, February 1, 2012)

Reviewed by Noir Journal Senior Reviewer Ann Snuggs

François Barcelo's I Hate Hockey might be subtitled: Inside a Man's Head.

Antoine Vachon hates hockey all right, but that's not the characteristic that moves this story. What he fantasizes concerning every incident or fact that assails him is far more important to this novella. (It's a short, fast read.)

Poor hockey-hater Antoine not only married a devout hockey fan but fathered a son who is caught up in the madness. Of course, that's due to the influence of his ex-wife Colombe, who indoctrinated the poor boy at an early age.

Now Jonathan's coach has been murdered and no other male parent is available to fill in on the sidelines to keep the boy's team from forfeiting tonight's game. And, of course, hockey is much more important than a dead coach. The president of the sports association has rebuttal for every excuse Antoine can offer. What's a poor dad to do but sigh and go along - that's for a three-hour bus ride in addition to his time in the arena.

Having no knowledge about his son's team and only a minute understanding of hockey would make for an uncomfortable night at best. But Vachon's real problem is his psyche. No matter what he sees or hears, his imagination takes him away into a fantasy of what could have happened - the coach was murdered, after all - or might possibly happen and he acts on these inventions of his mind. Unfortunately he always imagines the worst, so his actions are absurdly over-reactive. Much of this book is all in his head.

I Hate Hockey is a hard book to classify. Parts of it are laugh-out-loud funny but it can't be called pure humor. It has a dark underbelly, but it lacks the basic essentials to call it noir or thriller. If it must be categorized, file it under black comedy.

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Thanks to Melville International, SImon & Schuster, and Baraka books for the review copies.

 

 

Noir Journal 52: Renegades

Renegades: My Wild Trip from Professor to New Journalist with Outrageous Visits from Clint Eastwood, Reggie Jackson, Larry Flynt, and other American Icons

by Robert Ward   
(Tyrus Books: March 17, 2012) 

 Reviewed by Ann Snuggs

Robert Ward went from professor to author to journalist to television scriptwriter. Renegades is a collection of pieces from his journalism era when he interviewed some of the biggest names of the time--the 70s and 80s. From sports stars (Pete Maravich, Reggie Jackson) to music and film stars (David Allan Coe, Clint Eastwood) to a few hard to classify(Larry Flynt, LeRoy Neiman), Ward--something of a renegade himself--visited with headlining renegades.
Two of the Ward's rebels fit the scope of Noir Journal--Lee Marvin and Robert Mitchum.

Ward's first impression of Lee Marvin was viewing The Big Heat as a ten-year-old boy. For those who missed the 1953 Glenn Ford film, Marvin played the vicious, conscienceless Vince Stone. In a scene shocking for the time, he rages at Gloria Graham and scalds her severely by throwing hot coffee in her face.

 Ward was prepared to deal with a rough man when he connected with Marvin but was surprised by his depth, the indelible scars left on his psyche by World War II service in the Marines, and his kindness. No, Marvin was not a pussycat, but neither was he the barbarian who crawled up out of some gutter that some of his finest screen performances might suggest. It was a class actor who created that illusion.  

Ward's profile of Marvin is interesting and touching. The respect and love Ward felt for Marvin radiates from the words.

Robert Mitchum was one of those men who have the magic charisma irresistible to women. Ward's description of the reactions he saw in women 18 to 80 when Mitchum walked into the room or down the hall confirms that. 
The article on Mitchum in this collection was written during the promotion for That Championship Season. Mitchum was no spring chicken at that point but was still drinking heavily and exuding his well-known aura of sexuality. 
In all of the interviews, Ward was able to establish a rapport with his subjects and produce a portrait showing them as three-dimensional beings. However, it's intriguing to compare the Marvin and Mitchum pieces. It isn't that Ward did not respect Mitchum for his talent but, while the affection he felt for Marvin stands out, the picture of Mitchum was written by a man doing his job. 
The corollary is: I learned much about Marvin as a person that I had not known. Nothing about Mitchum was a surprise. I was smiling and nodding all the way.
Which selections from Renegades will appeal to the reader will depend on each one's tastes. The variety of men profiled offers something for all interests.

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Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey by Colby Buzzell (Harper: August 23, 2011)

Reviewed by Jim Rosenfeld 

As free as you think you are in today’s society there is a constraint that tethers you to your home, your roots and yourself. Whether you are a stranger to yourself or a malaise to your wife. Which Colby Buzzell may have been at some juncture of his journey through America? He tells a story of dismay and dismal America and happily tells his editor to fuck off as he takes his own journey, not east to west, but from the crack smoke infestation of San Francisco’s Tenderloin to Monsanto’s infested corn fields of the  Midwest to the United States Rustbelt. A trip I would wish on no one, especially knowing and spending time in all three places in my lifetime.

I read, true or not, that Colby was told to create his version of Kerouac’s pessimistic and rumpus review of America in a time of great worry. I disagree with this editor or mentor; this is not possible in today’s world. I agree with Colby to take his own trip to discover what he thought was his unleashing. Yet, again today’s constraints win. In an overconnected and underappreciated atmosphere we dwell. In this the 21^st century America where do we find ourselves creating something out of the past literary past?

That touch of brilliance we once read, Buzzell has not. The true harsh reality he so aches for he hammers home, the whole book. I think the harsh impact of his life renders him faceless when he is tasked an assignment. One that might take thought and charisma, something the Beats possessed and Buzzell shows. That romanticism of the open unknown world will never exist again. Though through his chapters he seems to enjoy every cigarette more than the next. Every beer and corner brings him new characters, as it did for Kerouac when he set out.

Similarities? Sure. What Lost in America shows and allows me to believe is that somewhere within all of us beats an emotion that wishes we could leave work and our families for the open road. That idea helps us to work hard no matter the conditions of our government or if we have seen friends pass away from war or other sad measures. In that I take solace. Colby Buzzell gives me that in this worthwhile read of what my generation feels and wishes to speak about.

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 Thanks to the people at Tyrus books and at Harper for the review copies of these books.