As career criminal, and bank robber extraordinaire, Jack Foley scans the prison yard, he can see how the rest of his life is going to play out and wanAs career criminal, and bank robber extraordinaire, Jack Foley scans the prison yard, he can see how the rest of his life is going to play out and wants no part of it. He’s done doing time and past his third strike, so his only viable option is to plot his escape. But nowhere in all that planning did he account for someone like Karen Sisco.
Karen’s a U.S. Marshal, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, in the chaos of the escape, the two end up locked in the trunk of her car, with Jack’s buddy behind the wheel.
Even though he’s just broken out of jail and covered in filth, she doesn’t seem the least bit scared. His cool, calm demeanor puts her completely at ease and there’s an immediate repartee. They get to talking about life and movies, and he soon wonders what would’ve happened if they met under different circumstances, like at a bar. Where would the night lead? Where would their lives lead?
Even though she’s got an arsenal within arm’s reach, he doesn’t seem the least bit concerned. In fact, when their brief ride is over, he feels compelled to take her along, on the next leg of their journey, if only to continue their conversation.
Essentially, at the exact moment he was about to start his life over—live free or die trying—fate throws a monkey wrench in his best-laid plans. And, oddly enough, the feelings are mutual. She’s attracted to him in the same way she’s attracted to those cowboy cops who really aren’t all that much different than the bank robbers themselves.
After the two get separated, the rest of the story becomes a cat and mouse game, as she attempts to catch him, and he pines over the thought calling a timeout to let her.
So . . . I’m a little embarrassed to admit this was the first Elmore Leonard book I’ve read—jack of all genres, master of none, that’s me. Although, I’m a long-time fan of many of his adaptations; movies like Get Shorty, Jackie Brown, 3:10 to Yuma, the criminally underrated Life of Crime, and, of course, the terrific TV series Justified. But, out of all those Hollywood productions, Out of Sight is arguably the best of the bunch. I mean, who could forget that iconic trunk scene with George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez, or that terrible Albert Brooks toupee? And, you know the movie was playing with house money when actors like Michael Keaton, Viola Davis, and Samuel L. Jackson were doing cameos. So, after being impressed, but not blown away by the book, I was fully prepared to declare this as one of those rare exceptions where the movie was superior to its source material. However, after a recent rewatch that’s a much harder argument to make.
For one, the two were remarkably similar. All the major set pieces, scenes, and a surprising amount of the dialog were the exact same. While the differences were mostly minor, like using flashbacks and flash-forwards to play around with the timeline, expanding Ripley’s role from the book—it’s Albert Brooks, for Pete’s sake, why wouldn’t you?—and cutting a few irrelevant scenes to save time—mostly some daddy/daughter heart-to-hearts. All in all, it was a pretty faithful adaption . . . right up until the ending that is.
In the movie’s version of events, one of the main characters pulls off the miraculous feat of avoiding his fate. And, the film also ends on an upbeat note which sort of killed the fatalistic, noir vibe of the book. Oddly though, I thought both endings worked perfectly and were the correct choices for their mediums.
Where the movie actually did surpass the book was in its leads. The chemistry between Clooney and J.Lo was electric. Clooney nailed the smooth-talking criminal trope, and Lopez was the perfect blend of sexy and tough. When you compare that to the book version of Jack Foley, an over-the-hill, Joe Schmo, and Karen Sisco, a stereotypical skinny, blonde, bombshell, there’s really no comparison. Word is Leonard enjoyed the film so much that it inspired him to pen a sequel, in the hopes that Clooney might one day reprise his role as Jack Foley.
Bottom line: If you’re interested in the story, you can’t go wrong with whichever format you choose to inject it into your brain. The writing was solid, but a little too dialogue heavy for my taste—which is funny because I’m a huge fan of many dialogue-driven films, like Tarantino is famous for. But then, that style is easier to pull off in a visual medium where the cinematography can fill in much of the details, than in the written word when you’re relying solely on the dialog to flesh out the characters and set the scene.
There’s also an interesting bonus section at the end of the book that includes the short piece Elmore Leonard wrote for The New York Times in which he outlined his 10 Rules of Writing. It’s rather insightful and funny, and worth a quick read, even though I don’t agree with a lot of it.
Last year I really dropped the ball on writing and posting timely reviews. Even though I pledged several times to do better—to catch up o[image] ★★☆☆☆½
Last year I really dropped the ball on writing and posting timely reviews. Even though I pledged several times to do better—to catch up or expand on a few mini-reviews—I never actually followed through. Well, it’s finally time to deliver on some of those promises. Just don’t expect any detailed summary or analysis because it’s been many a moon since I read most of these books, and my memory while elephantine is not eidetic.
Up first is an opinion that’s sure to draw the ire of many a fellow goodreader considering the books appearance on numerous Best of the Year write-ups. But what can I say, I’m nothing if not an antagonistic wrong-reader.
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“Only one feeling could mask that kind of sadness, only one emotion he knew more powerful than suffering. In time, it would fill him.”
After Dwayne Brewer’s simple-minded brother was taken from him, in a tragic hunting accident, and the perpetrator attempted to cover up the crime, Dwayne becomes obsessed with rooting out the truth and exacting the maximum amount of pain and suffering on all those unfortunate souls involved in the scheme.
A scorched earth campaign to not only target the perps but their loved ones as well. Because Dwayne’s a crazy nightmare of a man who believes in that Old Testament, frontier justice. And, his brother, Carol, was the only soul left in this shitty ass world that he still loved, so he ain’t willing to settle for anything less than an eye for an eye to settle the score.
. . .
As a big fan of Grit Lit, and after reading several glowing reviews, I expected to be totally blown away by this story. Sadly, I wasn’t. I thought the plot was pretty vanilla, the characters underdeveloped, and the dialog surprisingly free from that country slang I’ve grown accustomed to in these hillbilly noirs (is the author an Elmore Leonard disciple or something?¹). Also, there were so many scenes involving the gratuitous description of a rotting corpse that I began to question whether they served any purpose or were there simply for the shock value.
Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by Stephen King, with regard to character development—I know some of his plots are rather weak, and King’s recent books pale in comparison to his classics, but his characters rarely fail to jump off the page—or maybe I just built up my expectations too high. But, whatever the case may be, the bottom line is that I thought the author did a tremendous job at setting the scene—really immersing the reader in the backwoods of the Appalachian hill country—but a poor job at most everything else.
This was my first David Joy book, but it won’t be my last. The guy definitely has the chops; I only hope for a little more compelling tale the next time around.
----------------------------------------------- ¹ Rule #7 of Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing advises the author to, “Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.”...more
After a disastrous interview with a distraught businessman ends in tragedy, Detective Jules Bettinger is forced to transfer from sunny, western ArizonAfter a disastrous interview with a distraught businessman ends in tragedy, Detective Jules Bettinger is forced to transfer from sunny, western Arizona to a wintery, crime-ridden shithole in flyover country.
Exiled to the tiny police force in Victory, Missouri, where criminals outnumber policemen 700 to 1, Bettinger discovers a decaying community in desperate need of case closers. A place that feels more like Siberia than middle America, a place where police and pigeons(?) are endangered species.
Affixed to a pole on the right side of the road was a wooden plank that read WELCOME TO VICTORY. Human excrement had been smeared across the greeting.
“Classy.”
With such a shortage of detectives, it’s crucial to pick cases wisely, to prioritize where to devote his time to do the most good in the community. And boy, is Bettinger’s first case a real doozy—a grisly murder spree that devolved into multiple acts of necrophilia. But, after a couple of officers are slain in a brutal execution, he’s redirected onto that investigation.
Once he figures out that the act was retaliation for alleged misdeeds by his fellow officers, and merely the opening salvo in a much larger war, he doesn’t know who he to trust. And, when things get personal, he’s forced to set aside his moral code and engage in the same ruthless, homicidal tactics that are being deployed against him.
Much madness ensues.
. . .
This book got off to a rocky start for me. What with the author’s peculiar turn of phrase and strange phobia of names and straightforward description—often referring to his main character as simply “the detective” or “the man from Arizona” and his partner as “the big fella”—along with his annoying penchant for using twenty words when two would suffice. Like so:
❅The young officer who had received a vomit crown and matching epaulets had departed early, shaken by the experience while the lobotomized corpse was taken to a place that had steel doors, an astringent smell, and digital thermometers that displayed low temperatures in both Celsius and Fahrenheit scales.
❅“How’s that angry ex-wife of yours?” asked the thing that lived inside of Bettinger’s mouth.
❅“What’s weed?” Curvature appeared on the young woman’s chin.
❅Tires screeched, and the long, four-wheeled organism shot past the policemen.
Honestly, this showy, pretentious style seemed out of place for a rather straightforward crime novel. But, eventually, the worm turned and I was able to forgive the author for being a little too in love with his own voice when I came across a dialog-driven chapter about a twenty-year-old girl named Kimmy that was so well-written it had me weeping for humanity.
Then, as I rounded into the second act, things went pear-shaped so quickly and so dramatically that I began to tear through the pages like a madman. My heart was racing, I broke out into cold sweat, and nearly chewed my fingernails down to the quick. That part of the storyline was so compelling and intense that you couldn’t have pried the book outta my hand with a crowbar.
However, by the time the explosive third act arrived, and the story shifted to the fringes of the crumbling rustbelt city that seemed more like a nightmarish post-apocalyptic wasteland than anywhere in the continental U.S., I was anxious to escape from this mad world with some semblance of my sanity left intact.
In the end, it was a bit of an overwhelming experience—one that I won’t soon forget, but one that I was happy to finally be able to set aside.
Bottom line: If a gruesome, crude story, shot through with dark humor and violent individuals that come in only two forms: bad and worse, set in a nightmarish, wintery landscape, sounds like your idea of a good time, then you’ve come to the right place. After all, this is the same sick and twisted mind behind films like Bone Tomahawk and Brawl in Cell Block 99....more
Sometimes when people call me, I can tell pretty soon that they don’t want to hire me, they just want to chat. Blow off steam, fantasize, walk up to tSometimes when people call me, I can tell pretty soon that they don’t want to hire me, they just want to chat. Blow off steam, fantasize, walk up to the edge but not over it. Before I hang up on them, they always throw out that same question. Just tell me: How can you do what you do? I don’t answer, of course, but if I did, here’s what I’d tell them. It’s not the doing-it part that’s hard. It’s the justifying-it part. And I don’t do that. I’m not the decision. I’m just the action. I’m just the bullet. So I don’t need to justify it. Or live with it. That’s your job. And there’s one more thing I’d tell them. The world is full of bullets. Sometimes in the form of speeding buses. Or aneurysms that go pop in the night. Or rotted branches that fall in a snowstorm at the exact moment you happen to pass. Or exploding subways. Or bombs left in gym bags. All bullets. We dodge them every day, until one day we don’t.
Shovel Ready takes place in a near-future NYC after a couple of dirty bombs have exploded and set in motion an “incremental apocalypse.” No zombie overrun. No alien armada. No swallowing tsunami. No catastrophic quake. Just the gradual erosion of the will to stick it out. A trickle became a stream became a torrent became an exodus.
What’s left are mostly bottom feeders, parasites, and a few of the wealthy who’ve locked themselves away in their fortresses. Tucked into virtual reality beds, surrounded by support staff who cater to their every need, they’re lost and addicted to their fantasies, as their bodies slowly wither away and society crumbles outside their doors.
Oh, and there’s one other guy who’s not going anywhere anytime soon. A fellow by the name of Spademan, whose occupation you may have sussed out from his words above. After his wife was taken from him in one of the explosions, he’s fresh out of things worth living for, but he’s still willing to do his part to help clean up the city . . . one vermin at a time.
I love antihero stories—those killers with a code—and all of the moral ambiguity strewn throughout those tales. I liked the crisp writing, gallows humor, and clever meshing of hardboiled noir with science fiction. But what I didn’t like was the bait-and-switch feeling that quickly settled over my reading.
You see, as a fan of dark fiction, I chose this book in the hopes of getting a detailed look into the mind of a hitman as he plied his trade. I was looking for a story of depravity, wickedness, and immorality that a chosen profession such as that entails. But when Spademan discovered his target was pregnant, completing that contract would go against his code, so instead he assumed the role of bodyguard and detective, and more’s the pity....more
Dead men tell no tales . . . or do they? Follow PI Dudley Pasco as he works the case of a missing girl, and you may be shocked at what you discover.
ThDead men tell no tales . . . or do they? Follow PI Dudley Pasco as he works the case of a missing girl, and you may be shocked at what you discover.
This tale reads like a classic noir detective story with a twist. It’s a perfect little slice of horror noir, penned with a panache that mimics the greats in the genre, with quick-witted characters and snappy dialog, all the while presenting a clever new take on the undead.
The worldbuilding and character development were quite remarkable for a short story clocking in at a mere 27 pages.
I wasn’t planning on reviewing this—it’s been a while since I read it—but then I happened across the book page and was disappointed to see only 16 ratings and 5 reviews. And that’s a shame for such a well-crafted story. So I implore all of you hardboiled noir fans to seek this one out. You won’t regret it.
I’d love to see the dead fleshed out with another installment or even a full-length novel. Trust me, this corpse is ripe for the picking....more
Been searching for a joyful, heartwarming story to get you into the holiday spirit? Boy, have I got the book just for you! Actually, heartwarming may Been searching for a joyful, heartwarming story to get you into the holiday spirit? Boy, have I got the book just for you! Actually, heartwarming may not be the best way to describe it. How bout gut-churning, bone-chilling, nerve-racking, gruesome little slice of horror noir? Yeah, that’s more like it!
“And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee . . .”—Matthew 5:30
But why stop there?
Mr. Kline’s descent into madness begins with a rather innocuous phone call offering him a job, which he flatly refuses. Fuck work. He’s too depressed to even get out of bed—still licking his wounds from an undercover job that left him missing a hand. Plus, after shooting the culprit and helping himself to a briefcase full of cash, he doesn’t really need the money anyhow. But the caller won’t take no for an answer. So, after repeatedly hanging up on the jerk, Kline finally just yanks the telephone cord out of the wall and goes back to sleep. Only to wake up later to find two men sitting at the foot of his bed.
“When opportunity comes knocking, Mr. Kline, it’s customary to open the fucking door! You are, after all, one of us” they inform him as they twist off their own hands.
Rudely usher into their car and driven to their compound, he’s forced into the role of reluctant detective. Because the leader of The Brotherhood of Mutilation, who count their spiritual progress by the number of body parts lopped off, has been murdered. Or has he? Kline’s tasked with solving the murder, but his investigation stalls because the deeper he digs the more he’s given the runaround until he begins to question everything.
“Aline is dead,” Kline said. “Aline is dead?” said Ramse, his voice rising. “Is that possible?” said Gous. “How is that possible?” “Or not,” said Kline. “Maybe not.” “Well,” said Gous. “Which is it?” “What did you say about Aline?” asked the bartender. “Nothing,” said Kline. “Oh, God,” said Ramse, shaking his head. “Dear God.” “Aline is either alive or dead,” said Gous to the bartender. “Be quiet, Gous,” said Kline. “Well, which is he?” asked the bartender. “There’s a big difference, you know.”
That’s a great example of what I really enjoy about noir stories. No matter how dark and heavy the subject matter, how dire the situation, the dialog is often lightweight and comical. Seemingly, all these stories are built upon deceptively simple, straightforward prose that cut right to the bone, with crisp, snappy dialog that help them maintain a gripping, breakneck pace.
Sometimes the plots can be a little too convoluted, but not so here - there’s nary a wasted word. Evenson never even bothers to describe the setting, and we’re provided zero clues as to where the story even occurs because it’s not important. The only things that matter are the actions of his character and the horrors they inflict on one another.
Now, a brief word of warning: Only fearless readers with strong hearts and cast-iron stomachs should consider a mad book like this. For you brave souls willing to wade into the abyss, I’d advise you to skip over that rat-bastard Peter Straub’s introduction, where he attempts to spoil the entire plot. What a jerk!
But, for the rest of you scaredy-cats, too frightened to crack open the spine, yet still curious to know “What, in God’s holy name, was the moral of the story?” I’d wager it’s something along the lines of - it’s a slippery slope from religious zealots to fanatical death cult. ...more
Red Harvest opens when an unnamed detective known only as The Continental Op is hired by a small-town newspaper publisher to investigate local corruptRed Harvest opens when an unnamed detective known only as The Continental Op is hired by a small-town newspaper publisher to investigate local corruption. The Op arrives in the ugly little mountain village, known locally as Poisonville—due to extensive mining pollution—only to discover his client has been murdered before their meeting can occur. Rather than turn tail and run back to San Fran, the fearless detective decides to follow through with his investigation.
The Op soon discovers that the publisher’s father is a highly influential man about town, with a stake in all the important local enterprises. The father is also at least partly responsible for the criminal element plaguing the city. Because the thugs and gangsters he hired to break up a union strike decided to stick around, after their job was completed, to carve out territories of their own. Now, widespread corruption extends into the upper echelons of the police force. Seeing as how the father’s dirty dealing may have inadvertently led to his son’s murder, the Op blackmails the father into hiring him to clean up the city.
With considerable help from an old gun moll, the detective digs up dirt on many of the gangsters. Then feeds it to rivals in an attempt to stir things up and pit the criminals against one another. His plan soon bears fruit, and the streets run red with blood, as the bodies begin to pile up at an astronomical rate. God help any innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire.
Red Harvest was originally published in 1927 as a four-part serial in the pulp magazine Black Mask. It went on to become the first full-length novel from the legendary Dashiell Hammett, and helped to establish the hard-boiled detective genre. While its influence cannot be overstated, sadly there’s never been a film adaption. Perhaps, in part, due to the rather pedestrian lead detective described as a “short, squat, middle-aged, pig-headed and utterly unsentimental tank of a man.” He’s the polar opposite of the suave sophistication and classic good looks of a character like Philip Marlowe. Or perhaps it’s simply due to the fact that, while the plot is not quite as convoluted as The Big Sleep, it’s incredibly dense, with a ton of moving parts, and an inexhaustible supply of bodies being dropped on seemingly every other page.
Honesty, there are far too many characters, setups, and riotous activity to keep everything straight. But the good news is that it doesn’t much matter in the end. The superb prose is the real star of the show and makes this an absolute pleasure to read. The snappy, highly quotable dialog is especially noteworthy. So, if you decide to pick this one up, do yourself a favor, forget about trying to follow along with the plot and just enjoy the ride. It’s a lot of fun!
“I’ve arranged a killing or two in my time, when they were necessary. But this is the first time I’ve ever got the fever. It’s this damned burg. You can’t go straight here…
“You’re crazy.”
“I know it. That’s what I’ve been telling you. I’m going blood-simple.”
Hell on Church Street begins with a clever twist - in a similar vein to the classic Hitchcock movie Psycho. First-time viewers unaware of the pl★★★☆☆½
Hell on Church Street begins with a clever twist - in a similar vein to the classic Hitchcock movie Psycho. First-time viewers unaware of the plot twist would have naively followed along to the story of Janet Leigh and some stolen money, only to have the rug pulled out from under them with that classic shower scene. The twist here isn’t nearly as shocking, but it’s probably better left unsaid . . . so forget I mentioned it, and maybe it will sneak up on you as well.
“It hit me like divine inspiration. Religion is the greatest graft ever invented because no one ever loses money claiming to speak for the invisible man in the sky.”
Geoffrey Webb, a homely, socially awkward kid from a broken family lived a pretty miserable little life until the age of fifteen when he was first introduced to the youth group at his uncle’s church. Because, unlike those cruel and petty kids at school, the church was willing to accept him for who he was and take him into the fold. Even though he didn’t make any real friendships, per se, they at least treated him with a modicum of respect. Seeing his untapped potential, the youth minister eventually took him under his wing, and Geoffrey soon realized what a “sick joke” the guy’s job was. Working maybe three hours a week, but getting paid like a full-timer!
You see, Geoffrey was never in it for the friends or the faith.
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He needn’t have looked any further than a sadistic father or awful childhood to realize that, even if that invisible man in the sky did exist, God didn’t give a rat’s ass about his pitiful existence—that had been made all too abundantly clear. So, like any good confidence man, little Geoffrey played the angles. He knew a good con when he saw one, so he got to work. He studied up, said all the right things, played it just right, and it wasn’t long before he was leading a youth group all his own.
Throughout the story, Geoffrey points out a few fundamental truths:
1. Most people just want you to tell them what they want to hear. 2. We only really trust people who share our prejudices. 3. To 99.9% of the world, you don’t even exist. 4. How much people “care” about you is directly proportional to how much they actually need you.
But, as with most tragedies, a girl comes onto the scene at the worst possible moment and everything goes pear-shaped. The story takes a nasty turn towards depravity and violence, with some darkly comedic undertones, until Geoffrey is ultimately cast down with the termites.
Although the initial setup may be a bit contrived, Hell on Church Street is nonetheless a compelling read with snappy dialogue in that classic hard-boiled, noir style of writing. However, the love interest is creepy and off-putting, in a Humbert Humbert-type way. The story is entertaining—I especially enjoyed it when Hinkson ratcheted up the violence—but it’s fairly short, and the ending was a tad disappointing.
3.5 stars, rounding up for a change.
“If there wasn’t suffering, men would feel no need to believe in God. The sick part is, if there is a God, he must have planned it that way.”...more
I first heard of this novella from my friend Melki, but eventually it began to pop up all over the place when it was included in the short story ★★★★☆
I first heard of this novella from my friend Melki, but eventually it began to pop up all over the place when it was included in the short story collection Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet. Many of my friends have shelved this as Swamp Noir. Is that a real thing? I'm not quite sure, but in the meantime I think it'll fit quite nicely here in my Hick Lit pile, and like damn near every one of those other books, I loved this one, as well.
After a rather nasty encounter with a jealous husband leaves him a few digits short, Smitty “Three Fingers” finds himself on the wrong end of the law, and in desperate need of some cash. That’s when he stumbles into a jumping little joint, out in the willywags, serving up grade-A firewater with a side of burlesque. The Grinnin’ Gator is owned by a ruthless bootlegger with a trophy wife, and you guess it a pet alligator who likes to put on a show of his own for the locals. Ole Smitty might even find that work he’s after, as long as he can keep his hands out of the honey pot, which shouldn’t be any trouble at all since he’s “sworn off dames for life.”
What a fun little tale with a pitch-perfect ending. I enjoyed the noir style, and unlike Mr. Anonymous over there with that ridiculous Red Mohawk this is one British author who absolutely nails that southern vernacular. Kudos, Mr. Howe, keep up the good work. Go ahead and mark me down as a fan, and I'll look forward to some more twisted tales in the future.
4 stars: highly satisfying, but a bit predictable....more
“I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it.”
Yeah, so? What do want a medal or something? Sorry to break it to you★★★☆☆½
“I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it.”
Yeah, so? What do want a medal or something? Sorry to break it to you, Phil, but, for the rest of us poor working-class schmucks, that’s basically the status quo. Well, maybe not razor smooth, but damn, it’s not yet noon and you’re bragging about being sober?
Sheesh! Well, at least now I know who to blame for all those hard-drinking, wisecracking PIs that followed.
But, it’s really no wonder future authors would attempt to emulate this guy—he’s the very definition of cool. And, this is a story that just oozes style—all the more impressive a feat for a first novel penned way back in 1939.
The Big Sleep is the novel that started it all, by introducing the legendary Los Angeles PI Philip Marlowe. The novel begins when Marlowe is hired by General Sternwood, an elderly, paralyzed millionaire, to investigate a blackmailer who’s gotten his hooks into the General’s youngest daughter. As they’re discussing the particulars of the case, it becomes rather evident that the General is also concerned about the missing husband of his oldest daughter. While he doesn’t specifically hire Marlowe to find the husband, he does sort of leave it unsaid.
What follows is a surprisingly twisty tale involving blackmail, pornography, gambling, and multiple murders. With a cast chock-full of criminals, and two young daughters, “still in the dangerous twenties,” and enough double and triple cross to give you whiplash, it’s really no surprise Phil hits the booze so hard.
I can’t fault Marlowe too much for coloring outside the lines and working around the law either—at one point even keeping a murder scene under wraps to serve his purposes. It’s not that he’s immoral; more that he’s only looking out for his client.
Anyhow, the good news is that the writing was terrific - at times highly quotable. The bad news is that the mystery was overcooked. It was all a bit too convoluted for my taste, and the ending especially was rather weak. I couldn’t help but feel as though I were reading a couple of different stories roughly cobbled together. A brief Wikipedia search confirmed that was indeed the case, and I must say, it shows. There were also a few overly descriptive sections early on, but those seemed to diminish as the story began to hit its stride.
Look, there’s no doubt The Big Sleep was a hugely influential work that set the tone for many noir detective stories to follow, but I’m sorry I don’t grade on a curve.
3.5 stars - A clear case of style over substance.
“You’re as cold-blooded a beast as I ever met, Marlowe. Or can I call you Phil?” “Sure.” “You can call me Vivian.” “Thanks, Mrs. Regan.” “Oh, go to hell, Marlowe.”
Read as part of another Non-Crunchy Cool Classic Buddy Read. [image]
One side benefit of a long shelf life is the abundance of time to amass a vast collection of dust jackets. Here are a few of my favorites:
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