Noir fiction for the modern reader.

WEB OF MURDER by Harry Whittington (1958)

Review by Mike Dennis

Charley Brower is a pretty smart guy.  That’s what he thought, anyway.  Shoot, a big, smart lawyer like him?  Shouldn’t be any trouble at all to kill his rich wife for her money, then make off with his secretary.  No sir.  No trouble at all.

Turns out Charley is maybe a little too smart.

That’s the general idea in Web Of Murder, a tight little noir novel from 1958 by one of the masters of the genre, Harry Whittington.

Charley saves guilty clients from the electric chair and has every material possession he could want:  a Cadillac, cashmere jackets, and a big home.  The home, however, is in his wife Cora’s name and that bothers him.

Cora spends her time straightening out her house and getting on Charley’s nerves.  They’re both in their middle thirties, but are already starting the physical slide into middle age.  You know Charley’s brain is ticking when he says, “I was showing my age, but with Cora, I had to look at it.”  You can’t sink any deeper into noir than that.

He becomes obsessed with Laura, a coy little babe who takes his dictation and types up his briefs.  Soon, they tumble into bed together and before the sheets are dry, Charley realizes that Cora has to go.

Harry Whittington, unfortunately, has been nearly forgotten in the sweep of time.  He was an incredibly prolific author, cranking out upwards of 200 novels during his career, which tapered off in the late 1960s.  At one point, he wrote 85 novels in twelve years, seven in one month!  He wrote under his own name, as well as some fifteen pseudonyms, and easily crossed genres from mystery into western and even pornography.

But his forte was noir.

Web Of Murder is a slim little book, probably fewer than 35,000 words, but it tells its tale extremely well.  The characters are well-drawn and the plot is never really rushed.  When it came to old-school paperback authors, Whittington was one of the best, and he holds up to this day.

DIE A LITTLE  by Megan Abbott (2005)

Review by Mike Dennis

Things are never as they seem.

That could easily be the subtitle of Die A Little, the 2005 debut novel by Megan Abbott.  The characters are shrouded in their own obsessions and desires, but the shroud is not easily lifted, so nothing is ever entirely clear in this stylish, neo-noir tale.

Set in Los Angeles of the mid-1950s, during the very zenith of the California-as-land-of-dreams era, Lora King lives out the dream in a little house in Pasadena with her brother, Bill.  They’ve always lived together, even as they passed into adulthood, in a kind of mutually protective, fairy-tale world:  childlike Lora the schoolteacher, parading through sunny kitchens, making ham-and-pineapple-ring dinners; square-jawed Bill, saving society as a crime-fighting investigator for the LA County district attorney.  There’s probably a twin bed in Lora’s room.

But Bill marries Alice, and everything is shaken up.

While Alice is all cleavage and plucked eyebrows, she seems to truly love Bill, but she carries the whiff of the tawdry world that Lora knows is out there, and doesn’t want to think about.

Alice tries hard to bond with Lora, referring to the two of them as “sisters”.  She invites Lora over for dinner parties, and otherwise insinuates herself into Lora’s life.  Lora wants to like Alice, but she has her suspicions.  Alice has no photos of her family, her life before Bill is cloudy, and darn it, she’s just so different.

Pretty soon, a couple of bodies turn up, as Lora finds herself dragged into the back-alley LA cesspool of the time, a world drenched in drugs, prostitution, and murder.  She learns terrible things she didn’t really want to know, as everyone’s true motivations eventually crawl out into the sunlight.

Abbott takes her time in the unfolding of the story, narrating it in Lora’s first-person, present tense voice.  I found the present tense to be somewhat off-putting, not bringing the dark urgency to the story that was needed.  If you can get around that (which I did), then you’re in for an unusual, noirish look at LA in the fifties.

Unusual because of Abbott’s distinctive feminine voice.  It’s not the hard-as-nails voice of say, Christa Faust, but it’s not trying to be.  It’s softer, but no less dark, and always hinting at something creepy behind the milk-and-honey facade.

One more thing:  if you don’t know anything about the story, then the cover, which is a hand-painted photograph, is almost worth the price of the book all by itself.

STREET 8  by Douglas Fairbairn

Review by Mike Dennis, 2010

“Nobody wants to come downtown anymore.  They tell you it’s like coming to a foreign country.”

That’s the sentiment expressed by a Miami native in Street 8, a  hot-blooded 1977 noir novel by Douglas Fairbairn.

The title street, an English translation of Calle Ocho, the main drag of Miami’s Little Havana, is the site of Bobby Mead’s used car lot.  Out of habit, Bobby still calls it by its original name, Southwest 8^th Street, and from the office window of his lot, he’s seen Miami transformed from a sleepy, one-season tourist town into a vibrant Latin city.

The Cubans are everywhere.  They’re even buying cars from him, so for the first time, he hires a Cuban salesman, Oscar Pérez, to accommodate them.  Oscar, however, soon becomes embroiled in the hornets’ nest of exile politics, and the trouble begins.

The problem with Miami’s exile community in 1977 is that, while they’re committed to eliminating Fidel Castro, they also want to wipe out his sympathizers and spies who have infiltrated their organizations.  But exactly who is who?

Told entirely from Bobby Mead’s point of view, Street 8 allows him no letup.  His world is contracting around him, threatening to choke him, and not even his ratty South Beach hotel room offers him any sanctuary.  He has a teenage daughter, but his incredibly twisted relationship with her only serves to further cut him off from the city he once loved.

Fairbairn deftly ushers the reader through the dark fringes of the byzantine world of Miami Cubans.  These were the pre-cocaine-cowboy and pre-Miami-Vice days, and we eventually learn that some of them are more interested in acquiring power in Miami itself than they are in retaking their homeland to the south.

This little-known novel is an excellent noir tale, highly recommended, as it offers an uncompromising look at one man caught up in a city’s convulsive transition.

While surfing the blogosphere today, I came upon Rob Kitchin’s blogspot. Rob is an Irish author who’s in search of pre-1970 crime fiction classics to read. Okay, Rob, here’s my list, in no particular order.

1. The Grifters, Jim Thompson, 1963

2. Double Indemnity, James M Cain, 1936

3. The Maltese Falcon, Dashiell Hammett, 1929

4. The Long Goodbye, Raymond Chandler, 1953

5. The Asphalt Jungle, W R Burnett, 1949

6. Street Of No Return, David Goodis, 1954

7. The Killer Inside Me, Jim Thompson, 1952

8. 13 French Street, Gil Brewer, 1951

9. His Name Was Death, Fredric Brown, 1951

10. Branded Woman, Wade Miller, 1952 (back in print, thanks to Hard Case Crime)

Rob is looking for an introduction into pre-1970 crime fiction, so these are my recommendations. They all lean heavily toward noir and away from traditional whodunits, so no Sherlock Holmes or Nero Wolfe here. Holmes and Wolfe are fine, as are other much older novels, like The Woman In White. But these 10 books are what I feel would be a good intro to the darkside.

I’ve included two novels by Jim Thompson. The Grifters is a much more “standard” crime novel, but only as compared to everything else that went through Thompson’s twisted mind, while The Killer Inside Me is a sheer trip on the fast train to hell.

Anybody else got any good ideas?  Any good additions to this list?

A writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story.  He will never forget the sweet poison of vanity in his blood and the belief that, if he succeeds in not letting anyone discover his lack of talent, the dream of literature will provide him with a roof over his head, a hot meal at the end of the day, and what he covets the most:  his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that surely will outlive him.  A writer is condemned to remember that moment, because from then on he is doomed, and his soul has a price.

Carlos Ruiz Zafon (The Angel’s Game)

A few months back, I wrote a blog here called “Publishing and the Record Business”, in which I went on about the similar problems the two industries are facing today. There’s been a lot of talk lately in the blogosphere about this topic, so I felt it worthwhile to revisit it.

The record business has been largely decentralized, thanks to the digital revolution. It’s now at the point where a completely unknown artist or band can record their own album in his own software-based home studio, promote and sell it on the internet (if it’s any good), book tour dates as a result of sales, get “airplay” on internet radio, and carve out a modest career for themselves. This is happening over and over again all around the world, as thousands upon thousands of artists who would’ve had no shot under the dominion of major record labels are now following their dream with some success. And record stores? A distant memory.

As you can clearly see, under this scenario, the record companies are completely circumvented. They’re left with the big, big super-artists, who are really just putting out one bloated same-ol’-same-ol’ album after another, trying to hang on to their security within the record-label plantation system. Even major artists have liberated themselves by deserting the record-company sinking ship and starting up their own internet-based operations.

This is the future of publishing.

We shouldn’t worry ourselves about 100,000 free downloads of a Dan Brown book as much as we should be welcoming the opportunity for more writers to be published and read. I mean, does anyone really think that the future of publishing lies within the corridors of Random House?

I think the future lies much more substantially in the den at my house.

And your house.

And the houses of thousands of writers whose work would otherwise never see the light of day because agents and big publishers are too busy having lunch with each other to pay attention to them. Well now, they’ve got an outlet. And the publishing business as we know it is going to be ground into dust, exactly as the major record labels and the old Hollywood movie studios were, unless they get on board.

Now, I know there are many out there (myself included, actually) who say, “Whoa! I will never stop buying real books with covers and binding and all that other good stuff!” Well, if the publishing business gets their act together, we may be able to avoid an all-digital future, but that’s a mighty big “if”. In the meantime, we have to quit whining and start planning.

There’s a brave new world coming. And it’s coming sooner than we think.

Review by Mike Dennis

From the moment you see Richard Widmark running through dark alleys in the opening scene of Jules Dassin’s 1950 classic, Night And The City, you know he’s totally screwed. If only he knew it.

But such is the lot of film noir protagonists. Caught up in the backwash of their own bad choices, they can only hope to put off, not avoid, what inevitably awaits them. And they’re always the last to know.

Night And The City, adapted from the 1938 Gerald Kersh novel of the same name, takes a look at the London demimonde of the era, where Harry Fabian plies his trade as a nightclub hustler. He periodically “borrows” money from his girlfriend to finance his big dreams, not the least of which is setting up a life of ease and plenty without having to work. Standing in his way are the sinister fat man, played by Francis L Sullivan, pursuing a personal vendetta against Fabian, and the East End godfather, played by the dark-suited Herbert Lom, whose intense presence fires up the proceedings every time he walks onscreen.

This is truly one of the greatest films, not only of the noir genre, but of all cinema. Dassin’s direction is flawless, capturing perfectly the seedy filth of London’s underbelly, while telling the riveting story of one man’s misplaced dreams.

Max Greene, the Director of Photography, is superb, never allowing the viewer to get comfortable. The expressionist look of the film is all sharp black-and-white contrast and angular shadows, and this, along with his off-center camera angles, produces an unsettling effect throughout. This is never more evident than in a nightclub scene, where a mirrored disco-type ball casts its little gleaming points over the oddly-lit club, bleeding into the office above. Toward the end, as Fabian’s reckoning approaches, dawn breaks over London, and suddenly the film takes on a pasty, grayish cast. By then, I felt like I was covered with dirt and needed a shower.

Meanwhile, the stressful score of Franz Waxman pumps up the adrenaline in all the right places. As Fabian runs deep through the back streets of London, the music pulls you to the edge of your seat.

But most of all, this is Widmark’s tour de force. Fabian is a complex character, driven by his own twisted ambitions, and beset by deep emotions. When he whines to Gene Tierney, “I just want to be somebody,” he injects a whole new feeling, a real truth, into that tired line that has been uttered by countless lesser actors. Widmark makes it all look so easy, so real, that he pulls you with him, deep inside Harry Fabian’s head and heart, as he’s sucked down into the whirlpool. Never again would he be given a role so challenging, showing us how he was so tragically wasted through his long career.

Okay, so I’m browsing the blogosphere and I come across Linda Lou, Live from Las Vegas. I know Linda and I check in with her humorous blogs every now and then, but tonight I was stopped cold. I had found a soul mate. Someone who doesn’t think that Cirque du Soleil represents the ultimate, unsurpassable form of human entertainment in the entire history of the universe.

I started coming out to Las Vegas in 1998 to play poker, and by the time I moved here in 2006, I was coming for two weeks every month. And I can say without hesitation that the number one topic of conversation that I encountered in this town during all those years was the awesomeness of Cirque du Soleil, and the number two topic was how said awesomeness was not to be questioned.

At first, I didn’t know what Cirque was, but then it was explained to me. It sounded like just a bunch of acrobats jumping around to flashy lighting and edgy music, but no, I was told. It’s much more than that. It’s awesome. What a spectacle! You have to see it! Like, I’ve seen Mystere and O four times each. Oh, and Zumanity! So sexy!

I couldn’t put it together in my mind why an acrobat show would affect otherwise rational people in such a way. I mean, hadn’t they ever seen that stuff on Ed Sullivan? (Of course, then I remembered, most of them weren’t around for Ed Sullivan) But I wondered how the whole concept ever got a foothold in Las Vegas to begin with. Then I figured out the probable scenario.

Steve Wynn opens the Mirage in 1989 to great fanfare. He hates traditional Las Vegas entertainment. He wants desperately to break with the Jewish comedian/Italian singer syndrome that had the Las Vegas Strip locked in a choke hold for decades. Realizing that much of his high-end business will be coming from non-English speaking countries (ie, Asia), he searches for a form of entertainment which these people can appreciate (read: where they don’t have to understand English). Siegfried and Roy fit the description, and they become a hit, but then Presto! Along comes Cirque du Soleil and Wynn has reached Nirvana. Just use the same concept of acrobats jumping around over and over again in different shows with different lighting and music, and he’s struck gold!

So, I resisted these shows for years, but like Linda Lou, I was presented with the chance to see Love at no cost. Ooh, this one’s different, the Cirquers all said.  You’ll love it! This one is the Beatles! And it’s just…it’s just so different!

The Love sound system, which was the greatest I’ve ever heard, was truly the star of the show. But basically, it was what I had feared:  acrobats jumping around and flying through the air to Beatles music and flashy lighting. The live presentation drew absolutely no connection whatever to the Fab Four, despite their very left-handed, European attempts to do so. I’m quite sure the upcoming Viva Elvis show will be more of the same.

I know that, as Las Vegans, we’re all supposed to genuflect at Cirque’s altar, spending $150 each time out. We’re supposed to bring all of our out-of-town friends there, and then we must dutifully spread the gospel of how we very nearly saw God at the Ka show, or how our lives were totally, awesomely nourished and renewed at O. But like Linda, I just don’t get it.

Sorry, everybody.

Not long ago, I spotted a blog which ruminated about politics and fiction-writing.  The question was whether or not an author’s personal political views belong in a novel.  The blogger, a successful published author, felt they should belong, that he shouldn’t be restrained from making his views known. He claimed to “lean left”, and said that as long as the story is compelling, the writing is good, and the characters breathe, well then, what’s the difference if a little politics gets thrown in?

Here’s what I see is the problem. Most people really don’t admit to the extremities of their own political views. Not that this author (or any other) could rightfully be called an “extremist”, but that someone who “leans” left is likely to be quite a bit farther to the left than the centerish word “lean” would imply. Ditto with those who “lean” right.

Not only that, but this author was basically saying that his writing is so good, he can get away with preaching politics and those readers who “lean right” will just have to sit there and take it. In fact, I think what they’ll take is a permanent vacation from the novel, and tell all their friends not to bother with it.

Lost: many readers just because an author couldn’t resist the opportunity to preach.

I also think that most people who “lean left” tend to regard anyone to the right of Olympia Snowe as a member of the Ku Klux Klan. Likewise, those who claim to only “lean right” quite likely believe that anyone to the left of Joe Lieberman is a communist radical. And neither one realizes how out-of-whack his/her perception really is.

It’s these kinds of misperceptions that can slice great chunks from an author’s readership, causing them to disappear into the mist, if he/she gets political. And like the author in the blog who thinks he’s being quite reasonable not only in his politics, but in his decision to trumpet them, he completely misunderstands the perceptions of his “right-leaning” readers, who will probably regard him as a disciple of Stalin. I also have the sneaky feeling that he would himself put down any book written by a proselytizing author who “leans right”.

Contrary to popular myth, we don’t really live in the Information Age. We live in the Perception-Of-Information Age, and we would all do well to beware its many pitfalls.

Today I saw an intriguing post by Russel D McLean on the Do Some Damage blogspot regarding the creation of characters.  Seems he’d written some PI short stories, which were published in national mystery magazines. Feeling he had something going with this character, he wrote a novel around him, which his agent promptly rejected, saying the character had too much backstory.

So Russel peeled away all the backstory, changed the character’s name, and took away his support network, including his one true love. This resulted in a much tougher, darker figure. Russel saw the humanity in this new character, he got into it, and presto! A novel, and probably a series, was born.

Like Russel, I’ve had characters spring from nothing more than whole cloth. The central character in my upcoming novel, The Take, was born one night in a New Orleans bar. I saw a guy who looked like a young Jack Palance sitting there with a gorgeous date. Overeager, he did everything to try to impress the girl–bought her expensive drinks, danced with her, etc–but all to no avail. She basically blew him off right to his face. The guy had “loser” written all over him. I remember wondering what his story was, what he did for a living, his background, and so on.

I wasn’t even writing at the time, but I never forgot that guy. So when I sat down to write The Take, he leapt to the front of my mind, and Eddie Ryan came to life. As every situation in the book arose, each time the stakes were raised on Eddie, I asked myself, “What would that guy in New Orleans do?”

One night, my girlfriend forced me to watch The Nanny From Hell on TV. Said nanny was up against a family with two girls and a boy, all between the ages of five and eight, with the boy being the oldest. The girls played horrendous tricks on him, blaming him for their own misdeeds, setting him up for punishment, and other awful things. The mother believed everything the girls said, and mercilessly chastised the boy every time, reducing him to a whimpering little blob, while the girls sat by, smiling wickedly. Watching this in disbelief, I thought to myself, “this is how a rapist-murderer is born”.

Next short story I wrote, I told the story of a guy who had these kinds of childhood experiences and grows up a psycho.

Another one of my novels was based on a friend of mine who was a best-selling author. He was very rebellious against his upper-crust family, and this led him perversely into a long life of crime before he discovered that he could write. He never resolved his family conflict, and killed himself as his first novel reached the NYT best-seller list. I changed him from an author to a 1950s rockabilly singer with similar lower-crust family problems, who did plenty of drugs and alcohol before committing one big crime. I found him to be every bit as human as his real-life counterpart, and every bit as tragic.

Anybody out there got any unusual tales of how their characters sprang into being? I like these stories, and I think others like them, too.