Monday, April 28, 2014

The Crime in the Marvelous City - CriMemoir: Shayne Youngblood

I'm excited to say we've a new entry in the CriMemoir series today. Remember, these are your personal experiences with crime as a perp, victim, bystander or just as a tangential impression. It's Crime, it's Memoir - it's CriMemoir - see what I did there? Shayne Youngblood shares a nerve-rattling night he spent in Rio de Janeiro. For some reason this piece reminded me of a Paul D. Brazill bit about hiding from drunken sexual rivals in an industrial oven... I'm pretty sure that happened, but you'd better ask Paul.

The Crime in the Marvelous City

If you mentioned Rio de Janeiro to an average Joe, he would think of four things: year-round sunshine, sandy beaches, stunning beauties on every corner— and violent, narco gang-driven crime combined with corrupted politicians that have been destroying this tropical paradise’s image for years. Okay, that’s more than four things, but whatever. Don’t buy into this stereotype. It’s not true. You simply don’t have stunning beauties on every corner of Rio de Janeiro. For reasons of a dubious financial nature, I lived in Rio de Janeiro favelas for almost three years. I had the unpleasant opportunity to see narco-bosses walking around with guns visibly tucked behind their waistbands, trailed by 17-year-old bodyguards toting assault rifles. The favela narco racket is an extremely well-organized business. The favela residents don’t feel threatened by the narco-boss or his army. They think of him as their protector and benefactor—which he is.

If you find yourself in a favela, there are two rules to follow if you want to stay alive: Rule #1 – If you have a problem, don’t call the police. Rule #2 – If you are thinking of calling the police, check Rule # 1. My neighbor once had a problem with her landlord. One day, he came into her room with an indecent proposal: she could stay for free in exchange for certain “services.” She moved out immediately, but the landlord decided to keep the deposit money she’d given him. She went to the favela boss and told him what happened. The boss sent his guys. The guys had a chat with the landlord. He offered his side of the story, claiming that the girl willingly left the deposit. The landlord returned the money the following day. He would probably have apologized, if he could’ve spoken. His broken jaw was wired. The most dangerous moment in the favela is the police raid. People get killed by stray bullets, just like they do when two gangs fight for supremacy. That usually occurs when the favela boss is caught, killed, or arrested. Then a rival gang tries to exploit the sudden crack in the armor of the previously undisputed rulers of the favela. The favela residents don’t like the police. They don’t trust them. They might not like the favela boss, but they trust him. If you are a gringo, your life is perilous until the residents get to know you. Once nobody thinks you work for the cops, you can be pretty safe—at least, safe for favela standards. After FIFA forced the government to increase security in the city leading up to the World Cup the police invaded favelas and set up UPPs (Unidade Policia Pacificadora – Police Pacifying Units); some of the favelas in the South Zone— the rich part of the city—even became tourist attractions. The North Zone favelas? Don’t go there. Why? You can disappear.

Have you noticed in crime movies someone is always struggling to dispose of a dead body? A body is evidence, right? No body, no evidence. For narco-gangs that operate in favelas, that problem doesn’t exist. Favelas are pockets in the city, with laws of their own. The favelas are filled with labyrinths of steep gangways between shack houses built on top of one another, usually on a slope of a hill, where nobody can find you. You could be shot down in broad daylight in the main favela street, in front of many people, and nobody would see it. Nobody would lift a finger. Nobody would call the cops. It’s a separated, isolated universe where normal laws don’t exist.

Dope dealers prefer to dispose of a body by forcing car tires over a living victim. They soak him in gasoline—and light him up. Burning tires kill the smell of burning human flash. They wait until the body has cooled before they remove the teeth. No dental identification. A man disappears like he’d never existed. Remember my neighbor from the beginning of the story? Well, after she moved away from the nasty landlord and rented a little house at the top of the favela, we became roommates. I was struggling with money, and I appreciated sharing the rent.

The very first night, we had an argument. She had the temper of a wild cat. When she saw red, she lost control of herself. Total blackout. Afterward, she was always sorry, but that hardly helped in the moment. That night, the argument escalated and reached the blackout point very quickly. She screamed and threw things at me. Then she picked up the phone and called somebody. She talked for a minute in a fast Portuguese slang which I couldn’t decipher. When she hung up, I thought she might’ve calmed down. I was wrong.

Who’d you call?” I said.

I called the boss. He’s sending the guys over to throw you out. They’re coming. I don’t wanna see your face again.

The guys? Fuck. I froze. I need to get outta the favela RIGHT NOW. Before I could move, she grabbed my still-unpacked suitcase and threw it out, swearing and screaming. The suitcase hit the sandbag below the wooden stairs in front of our shack and sprang open. Luckily, nothing spilled out. I ran out, picked up the suitcase, and closed it. I stared into the darkness, trying to figure out which way “the guys” might’ve been coming. No way of figuring that out, so I took one of the gangways down, clutching the suitcase in my arms. The suitcase weighed me down, but it held everything I had. I ain’t leaving the damn suitcase. I crushed it against my chest, making it hard to breathe as my footsteps rattled against the gangways. I felt eyes watching me from the darkness. I knew what they were thinking: why the hell is this gringo leaving in such a hurry in the middle of the night? Dark, narrow alleyways, all looked the same. I slipped, tumbled, dropped the suitcase. Picked it up, continued. Shouts, footsteps behind me. The guys. I ran faster, sweating in cascades, panting. Shadows in front of me. I turned left. Another gangway. Right. Left. Right. Out of here.

I broke into a little praça (square). People were gathered there, blocking my way. I ran into them, using my suitcase as a battering ram to clear the way. The road in front of the favela. Cars, busses, passing by. I reached the bus stop. Sighed with relief. I made it. Then I spotted two men coming out of the favela, heading my way. Fuck. I looked left, right. No busses, cars. The bus stop deserted. Not a sign of a living soul. Just the two men coming my way, staring at me. My stomach tied into a knot. Shoulda left the fuckin’ suitcase. The damn thing slowed me down. A bus came out of a curve at high speed, screeched to a halt right in front of me. The door opened with a hiss even before the tires stopped rolling. I threw the suitcase inside, jumped onboard. “Step on it!” I yelled at the driver. I looked through the window. The guys started running. Fifty yards. Closing fast. I shouted at the driver. The door closed. The bus started gaining speed. The men reached the bus, slamming the back door with their open palms, yelling. The driver looked at me, his eyes wide open. I caught the reflection of myself in the rearview mirror. I looked like a lunatic. Sweat dripped down my face in cascades. Bulging eyes, scruffy clothes. The bus sped away, leaving the two men behind. I paid my fare and collapsed into a seat at the back of the almost empty bus. I put my suitcase in front of me, looked through the window. The first rays of the rising sun were gleaming over the ocean.

Shayne Youngblood is the author of the hardboiled novella A Man From Rio available now.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

More News From Nowhere

Hey, look at those two goofy bastards, they're going to be in Madisonville, Kentucky Friday night doing some kind of talky thing and all sortsa shit with the locals and semi-locals who have nothing better to do (like y'know stay home and stream Blue Ruin on iTunes - which I'd be doing if I were them).

I jest, I jest. I'm really looking forward to seeing everybody at the Loman C. Trover Library including fucking Tim L. Williams whose work I first fell for in that fateful first issue of Murdaland magazine (and have gone on to encounter in Plots With Guns, Best American Mystery Stories -twice- Ellery Queen and other places too good for me). Who else? Howsabout Jessica Leonard of Books & Booze podcast (who were snookered into having me on once upon a time), Sean Leonard whose name y'all prolly know from (here're some words he wrote 'bout Craig Wallwork's Gory Hole)? Mmmm, any possibility we'll see other KY folks like David James Keaton, Kirby Gann or Ryan David Jahn? Uh... I doubt it, but if I promise you they'll be there, would you be more likely to show up? Okay then, yes they will. And there will be punch and pie. And Boyd Crowder. And Ava. And we're gonna find Devil's remains and have a proper burial. Just... just show up, huh?

Actually, you want some true incentive? How about being the first audience to hear Scott Phillips read from his brand spanking new novel Hop Alley? This new book is so fucking Phillips you'll excrete from every orifice publicly, spontaneously and simultaneously if you attend. There will be tissues and sanitary wipes on hand (as there are everywhere Scott reads), but you should bring some extra drawers if you wanna show us around town afterward.

Hmmm, it occurs to me that one of the chief forces behind Mosquito Kingdom, the ultra-low-budget crime film I had a hand in some years ago now hangs his spurs in the bluegrass state... I wonder if there'll be a sighting of that cat? Y'know, from the look of the teaser trailer for his latest film West of Ventura, I'd say he's stepped up his game. Damn.

Can't make Madisonville? Fuck it, try and find us Saturday roaming the streets of Memphis looking for Marc Cohn with... well, let's not make it easy to prove intent, huh? Seriously tho, who's gonna be in Memphis this weekend? Let's do it. I'm looking forward to pressing flesh with Stephen Usery of Book Talk and the MysteryPod podcast. Aaaaand not to count my unhatched breakfast, but there's one more dude I've heard rumors will be around town whose peaceful weekend getaway I'm looking forward to ruining. Hunting you down, man (his new book is badass).

Gonna be fun. Hope you'll be there. If the weather's good enough to drive with the windows down, you can find me by the sounds of the weekend odyssey's theme song...

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Reasons to Write: A guest post by Javier Márquez Sánchez

Authors are swell. I like them. I go to hear a lot of authors speak and often I enjoy hearing them open up giving glimpses intentional and sometimes not into their work and their persons.

But afterward comes the Q&A and it almost inevitably all goes to shit. Next time you go to hear an author speak, watch their eyes as they steel themselves for the following questions...

"Where do you get your ideas?"

"What's your writing process like?"

"What did you think of the movie version of your book?" also/or "Who would you like to see cast in the movie version of your book?"

And most especially - "I'm an author too. I write the Serious-Sounding-Two-First-Names-Character series and I've always found it a challenge to..." - self-promoting, unsolicited insights from some jackass who thinks that sabotaging another fella's spotlight is the best way to get some attention for their own work.

It's painful to watch. The author carries that tension in their posture the whole night waiting for those moments and then slumps a bit with resignation when he/she answers the questions like the domesticated animal we've come to expect authors to be.

So, be warned or you may turn your favorite author into something more like -

Today at HBW Spanish scribe Javier Márquez Sánchez gets ahead of the game and gives a thoughtful answer to your question before he can get sick of answering it. So, please, if you plan to attend an event featuring Mr. Sánchez refer here before you ask about his...

Reasons to Write
A guest post by Javier Márquez Sánchez

One of the questions repeated in every author interview is what led him to start writing. Everyone has their own story of course. It may not be difficult to find the idea for the story. Perhaps you go walking through the park and suddenly come up with a great plot for your next novel. But what comes next is far more complex. To write this story. To give it sense and rhythm. Investigate the details. Document it. Care for spelling, grammar and style... Writing can be fun and exciting, but it requires work and effort, if you want to do it well that is. And it would be very difficult to achieve if the writer did not have a reason to write.

In my case, the reason which led me to write for the first time was to live the story I wanted to write. I don't remember exactly how old I was then, perhaps eight or nine. I do remember where I was though: in my grandfather's house , and I used his typewriter. In the following years I started a hundred stories more. Few of them barely passed the first few pages, because my imagination ran faster than my fingers. And once I had lived all the adventures in my head, I had no need to continue typing.

Later, in my teens, without losing the desire to live other lives through my writing, I discovered the need to communicate, or rather, to express myself. I had some feelings, some reflections that I could share through the stories I was writing. But then came another problem new writers face: Who is going to be interested in what I can tell? Do I really think I have anything to say that might interest others? Gradually you are going to realize that nothing really matters. When you sit down to write you should only have the desire to enjoy. If you are honest with yourself when you write, if you enjoy what you're doing, the result will be compelling and of interest to many people.

And if not, no one can take away from you all those hours you've let your imagination run wild and enjoyed the incredible power of being able to live other lives. After all, a writer is just the Almighty God of his own world: he creates, shapes and destroys at will.

Javier Márquez Sánchez (born 1978 in Seville, Spain) is Editor in Chief of the Spanish edition of Forbes. He has written several novels, short stories collections and non-fiction books on film and music. Sometimes he plays music with his two bands, Rock & Books and The Last Drink. Lethal as a Charlie Parker Solo, his first novel being translated into English, is out now from 280 Steps. Combining real history and fiction, it tells the story of a problem solver in 1950s Las Vegas, when men were men, women were women and the Mafia and the Rat Pack ruled Sin City.

Friday, April 18, 2014

2014 in Flicks: March

Boardwalk Empire season 4 - Terence Winter - Fifth and final season up next... Damn, I'll hate to see this one go, but an approaching end does make my sphincter spas a bit in anticipation of a last bloody clash of ambitious American small businessmen. The fourth season tests Nucky's ideas of family obligation and ideals of familial legacy. Another major exploration of the season is Nucky and Chalky's relationship and whether there's more to it (and to life) than business - this is especially on Nucky's mind after the third season's climax and the revelations about Eddie's personal life - mostly that he had one. But themes and plot aside, this is simply the most purely pleasurable show on TV for my money. Gorgeous, ugly, funny as hell, harsh but in a way that makes me want to live, cynical but with just enough heart to break every time it must... and it must... every time. Plus the cast, c'mon. And the writing? Add to the always stellar ensemble amazing turns from Jeffrey Wright, Brian Geraghty, Margot Bingham and perhaps my favorite never-saw-it-coming addition Patricia Arquette. Holy shit, how much am I loving Patricia Arquette on this show? A lot. A whole lot of holy shits-worth. I'll confess a couple season's worth of waning interest in Gretchen Mol's story line (though, her work on this show is the best of her career and I'd love to see her get the chance to play more characters like Gillian Darmody), but otherwise it's firing on all dramatic cylinders. And, as always, some fond farewells to beloved characters whom I wont reveal here, but rest assured, a memorable exit is probably more important than a whole lot of screen time for assuring iconic status. Should I throw out a little prediction? No, but I will anyway... Thinking Michael Shannon's Van Alden/what's-his-nuts may be the muscle what fucks up the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. How'd that be for a Capone story-line wrap? Eh... I shouldn'a said anything. Now I feel silly. Best moment: the hit on Chalky.

Convoy - Sam Peckinpah - An outlaw trucker crosses the wrong man with a badge and goes on the run with a parade of mobile weirdos backing him up. As they roll across the American Southwest very visible and unstoppable, they become a lightning rod for various politicians, hippies and law and order blowhards to attach waaaay too much significance to. Affably gruff and not giving two shits about any of it, Kris Kristofferson is the man steering the movable freaks toward... probably not a happy ending. Toward the end of his life, Peck made some silly movies. Perhaps it's best for his legacy that he didn't continue making movies another 10-20 years. Still there's something I like about his twilight productions from the bow and arrow usage in The Osterman Weekend, to the ninja battle in Killer Elite and yeah, the bridge standoff between Rubber Duck and Dirty Lyle... anytime a mustachioed Ernest Borgnine wants to man a machine gun in a cowboy hat is fine with me. The themes of Peck's best stuff are here, tho stripped of any artful ruse they blare rather than infect and become better punchlines than points to ponder. Best moment: jailbreak.

Coup de Torchon - Bertrand Tavernier - The local policeman of a small village in French-colonial West-Africa of the 1930s gets by doing as little as possible believing the power of his position most potent when underestimated. He spends the film getting over on rivals, pimps, government officials and his cheating wife, reveling in public scorn and savoring intimate moments of comeuppance. I love it when a a film maker gets an author's world right onscreen. Jim Thompson has been abused several times in films, but every once in a while somebody gets the tone right and it's magic. Sure the details have changed (it's Africa not Texas, it's the 30s not the 60s), but man, I'd know the mind and means of a Thompson lawman regardless the language. Lucien Cordier (Nick Corey in Pop. 1280, Thompson's source novel) stands right next to Lou Ford as the most iconic of Thompson's characters and if you've never seen this one, seek it out. Philippe Noiret delivers a fantastically, evil, comic performance well worth your time investment. Best moment: Cordier gets help moving the body.

Elite Squad: The Enemy Within - Jose Padilha - A career policeman with a background in special tactical units now entering politics, the social activist who married his ex-wife and raises his teenage son and a dirty cop turned entrepreneur/crime lord of the slums of Rio de Janeiro are on a collision course of Ellroy-esque proportions in this sequel to the original terribly-titled movie (seriously, don't let the titles put you off, these are kick-ass crime flicks). It's all corruption layered like a J.J. Connolly metaphor and characters with some pretty fucking good cross purposes working alternately with and against each other. Plus pretty hardcore violence. Yeah, I recommend this one, though I'm not sure if there's some subtlety lost in the translation or if the dialogue (or voice over anyway) really is as un-nuanced as it comes across, but I really am grateful that I don't have to listen to lines about 'taking on the system' delivered to my earholes. Subtitles cushion some of the impact of lines that sound like they were intended for Sylvester Stallone to mutter in his most macho-ly disturbed moments. But do, please do check it out. Best moment: on set with the dude with the political TV show - always hilarious.

Johnny Mnemonic - Robert Longo - Johnny's got a secret and less than a day to tell it or his brain will melt. Problems arise - namely he can't access the secret without a key that he only possesses one half of, and he's being pursued by various parties interested in his secret who are perfectly happy to simply remove his head to get it. Poor Johnny seems to have placed himself at the center of an epic shitstorm and left his umbrella at home. Do you remember the future of the mid-80s to mid-90s filled with dudes sporting ponytails and wide-shouldered Armani suits - rain-washed urban sleekery, rain-washed urban scuzzery, with plenty of neon, torn fishnets, random rags as accessories and not a few trenchcoats and fedoras around? This is about the height of that particular futuristic vision and written by William Gibson, the godfather of cyberpunk himself. Upon original release my summation as well as general consensus was that it was a giant waste of everybody's time. Aaaaaand pretty much, it is. It's an expensive flick that looks very cheap, but there's a charm to that. Its colorful cast alone, which includes Takeshi Kitanom, Dolph Lundgren, Ice-T, Henry Rollins and Udo Kier, ought to raise its regard to cult curiosity - but I don't think it has yet (20 years later). As ham-handed as the directing and the acting is, there is still a pretty good story (and script) by Gibson (how long will we be denied a Gibson/David Cronenberg collaboration?) that's easy to lose amid the trappings of the very dated and awkward production designs and dramatic stylings. I think it'd make for an entertaining triple-feature with Tank Girl and Barb Wire each of them a hell of a lot more entertaining than Aeon Flux (the movie). Best moment: the cyberspace climax replete with Tron style animation, sentient computer programs and psychic dolphins, as well as the immortal dialogue of Ice-T "oh shit, it's the yakuza."

Machete Kills - Robert Rodriguez - Machete is given a new suicide mission by the President of the United States (the amazing Charlie Shee/Carlos Estevez) and takes it on with all the gusto a 70 year old action hero is capable of (and then some). In the process he'll kill an impressive amount of people, some of them more than once, uncover multiple levels of corruption and conspiracy and still fuck around a bit with all the sexy ladies drawn to his ultra-masculine vibe. It can take a lot out of a body. Love him or hate him, you've got to give Rodriguez his due for making fast and frugal films with more imagination per frame than... most. His Hollywood outsider status is bonafide and his body of work is impressively Corman-esque. I fall on the love-him end of the spectrum, tho I'd forgive you for being weary of his schtick. He does hit the same notes over and over, and his flicks are so slight they'd float away on a stiff breeze if you didn't hold them down with something heavy. His films are very meta too. Each as much a deconstruction of genre as solid entry in said tradition. For those who found the political-satire too extreme to stomach in the original Machete, know that Machete Kills spreads it around a little more evenly, and is pretty much a fucking blast for its entire 107 minute running time. This is in no small part to the host of supporting players who gamely inhabit the world for their few moments. This time around that includes Sheen/Estevez, Walton Goggins, Cuba Gooding Jr., Antonio Banderas, Lady Gaga, Mel Gibson, Amber Heard, Demian Bichir and motherfuckin Tom Savini. I'm all for completing Machete Kills Again In Space as long as Rodriguez does whatever the hell he wants to cheaply and without being beholden to money people. Best moment: Helicopter/harpoon kill. No wait - landspeeder tour. No wait - the Machete Kills Again in Space trailer. No wait -

Memories of Murder - Joon-ho Bong - In 1986, a killer of young women is on the loose operating in the mostly rural South Korean region of Gyunggi. Two local detectives treat the case as any other and go about intimidating and torturing confessions out of a string of suspects, until each is shot down by circumstance or the big-city detective sent to join the investigation. The slick city cop with his science and the rough country cops with their instincts can't quite work together. The disparity of methods nevertheless yield similar results and leave all the cops and the public increasingly frustrated and desperate. Interesting that I happened to watch this one a couple weeks after finishing the first season of True Detective as they're awfully similar. Both are procedurals about cops obsessed with the serial killing of young women and treat the procedural as if it weren't a done-to-death form managing along the way to inject a little hard evidence in their thesis. Kang-ho San once again proves to be the most watchable and welcome presence in anyfuckingthing he appears in and is up to the challenge of humanizing this not-particularly-bright and violent cop (as well as performing one of the most disarming onscreen stunts I've ever seen - there's a bit where he drives up on a situation that the audience knows is harmless, but he believes to be a woman being assaulted, gets out of his car and executes a leaping kick at the would-be attacker and then begins punching him repeatedly in the face and torso - the whole thing is done in a single take with no lead up and is so athletically demanding of its actor I had to rewind it immediately and watch it again several times before finishing the flick - that particular moment was done so gracefully, unexpectedly and efficiently it gave as much insight to the character as any monologue about a troubled past could hope to). Best moment: the final scenes - this is where it edges out True Detective in the gutsy, haunting area. The investigation's climax and the epilogue really, really stick with you. Neither as strong without the other.

Source Code - Duncan Jones - A man wakes up on a commuter train sitting across from a pretty stranger engaging him in conversation. 8 minutes later the train blows up. Then he does it again. It takes a couple times through the experience for the protagonist, an Army pilot, to get the gist of his mission which boils down to this - he is re-living the last moments of a man who died in a train bombing this morning, don't worry about saving anybody you see - they're already dead - instead he should focus on discovering who detonated the bomb as this will theoretically help stop similar impending attacks. It's an awfully big pill for an audience to swallow and it's one that swells up inside you once you've got it down, but the plot ought not to be entirely confused for the point here (especially when one views it in relation to director Jones' only other feature film to date, Moon - about a man isolated by strange and fantastic technology suffering a moment's pause to consider the murky objectives of his own mission). There's a chewy philosophical center beneath the brightly colored (sci-fi mystery) shell that leaves a faintly tart aftertaste. It's still candy. Candy good. Best moment: Vera Farmiga tells Jake Gyllenhaal (only, she's really talking to the audience) to stop thinking and just go with it. Sound advice.

Thief - Michael Mann - A professional thief takes down scores while trying to remain an independent operator in an increasingly corporatized world. James Caan in the role of his career (not to mention Jim Belushi - or hell, Chicago). Seems like I watch this one every couple of years and always, always, always feel like I'm learning something new. Mann has been circling this subject matter and toying with it, for decades. It's an obsession with him - whether he's trying to get it just right or play with all the individual intonations when he strikes it from a slightly different angle, for my money he'll not improve on the original (though I'm thrilled for him to continue trying). Best moment: first date with Tuesday Weld. Always wanted to be able to lay it on the line like that.

This Gun For Hire - Frank Tuttle - A double-crossed hired-killer seeks payback while avoiding a manhunt in this adaptation of Graham Greene's novel (partially penned by W.R. Burnett). If you're going to hire a suave-ass shooter like Alan Ladd to do your dirty work, for shit's sake hold up your end, that is unless you want you diabolical scheme to come crashing down on top of you. Shit, ain't these guys ever seen a hit man movie? To be fair, they possibly had not - at least not one that would be so strong an influence on the future of the genre (for instance, I imagine Alain Delon's killer in Le Samourai watched this film obsessively and got his own outfit in an attempt to look like his role model). What? You dig Jean-Pierre Melville, Carol Reed and Jules Dassin, but you've never caught this one? Catch the fuck up already. Best moment: foggy night on a train.

True Detective Season1 - Nic Pizzalatto, Cary Fukunaga - Two detectives deep in Louisiana work through their tumultuous personal lives and partnership to uncover a cover up of an ongoing series of killings over the course of twenty years. Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson are well matched and at the top of their games as the professional agents of order each with their own fucked up practical applications of chaos-regulation philosophies. One's an embittered nihilist with a moral center he can't explain, the other a believer in a moral universe with half-assed exceptions for his own perceived role within it. The non-linear structure jumps seamlessly through three different timelines and the illuminations and point of view shifts are very well executed. A self-contained mini-series that serves as the first season of what's apparently going to be an anthology series with a single writer and a single director (per season), True Detective is being scrutinized for perhaps more than the sum of its parts. It's a terrific example of what's possible for a procedural drama - great writing, acting, atmosphere and enough space to tell a story without the traps of wrapping it up in an hour or saving something for next year - but that's about it. What else does it really need to be? All I can say is that rolling it out in weekly installments gave space for some pretty wild speculation about the nature of the show that probably revealed more about the audience than the creators' intentions. Comparisons to shows with supernatural elements like Lost or Twin Peaks seem pretty silly now, and folks conditioned for pretzel twists up to the last second by bad thrillers, shitty weekly procedurals and cheap books may have felt let down by the relative straight-forwardness of the conclusion - which leads to a more appropriate discussion about contemporary mass media: Is it better to format long-form programming like TD as a weekly serial or take the Netflix originals approach and dump a whole season on us at once? Regardless your answer, I'd bet the reception of TD's first season would have been a lot different without the waiting week to week. That's all. Discuss. Best moment: the raid/robbery done in a single unbroken take at the end of episode four really was amazing. Great dramatic tension and excellent visionary execution.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Trailers: Holy Crap Edition

The Drop - d: Michael R. Roskam w: Dennis Lehane

Night Moves - d: Kelly Reichardt w: Jonathan Raymond, Kelly Reichardt

God's Pocket - d: John Slattery w: John Slatter, Alex Metcalf, Pete Dexter

Cold in July - d: Jim Mickle w: Nick Damici, Jim Mickle, Joe R. Lansdale

Thursday, April 10, 2014

The Girl Who (Should've) Kicked the Douchebag's Nuts

If you haven't yet, do yourself a favor and drop by the 280 Steps website to sample those kickass titles and artwork. The electronic imprint publishes hardboiled originals and classic crime reprints as well as non-fiction on subjects near and dear to my dark granite thumper.

Today's post is a guest piece by 280 Steps author Preston Lang.

Mister Lang, you have the floor...

In the summer of 2009 when everyone on the subway was reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, I saw a man approach a woman on the 2 train and tell her that, actually, he was Stieg Larsson. He did look like Stieg Larsson, but he was too young, too slender, too handsome. He really hoped she was enjoying his book and wanted to know whether she had any insights. I’m not sure the woman bought it completely, but she was happy to talk. She asked whether he considered himself a feminist author. He said yes, absolutely, no question.

He described the writing process, his dark, moody Scandinavian winters, and the open relationship he had with a live-in girlfriend. He even offered a few rakish phrases in Swedish. And it was convincing; he may not have been a Swede, but he was miles past any kind of Muppet Show Bork, bork, bork.

It was hard for me to watch. Was it up to me to say, Ma’am, Stieg Larsson is dead; this man is an imposter? Was I supposed to report him to some kind of hard boiled writers’ ethics committee? Should I have hacked into his bank account to divest him of his kronor? Was it my responsibility to sodomize him for victimizing women?

I stayed out of it. I’m not that kind of subway vigilante.

I guess the point of all this is that impersonating a writer of crime fiction in order to pick up women has got to be about the least probable scenario imaginable, but I saw it happen. And I’m sure that guy was doing it all summer long. So that’s why I like to defend writers against the charge of improbability. This is different from out-and-out failures of logic. That I’ll still call out. And I won’t defend an improbability that’s lazy or clunky, but I hate when people make smug pronouncements about what is and is not possible, especially when they start to speak in absolutes:

No jeweler would ever give the combination to his safe to anyone over the phone.

It’s impossible for a mother to be indifferent towards her daughter.

A monkey cannot commit suicide.

You can’t shoot up heroin and then go on a successful job interview.

In a modern hospital, twins could never be accidentally separated.

It’s not possible to be moral without belief in God.

A guilty man never looks his accuser in the eyes.

No Harvard graduate would ever confuse illusion and allusion.

You can’t pick up women on the subway by pretending to be Stieg Larsson (or Dick Cavett.)

You cannot unwittingly marry your mom.

Some of these may be unlikely, but I have strong evidence that suggests they’ve all occurred. We do improbable things, stupid things, irrational things, amazing and transcendent things.

My first published novel, The Carrier, is not particularly improbable. A drug courier gets held up by a sultry-voiced thief. That happens.

And for those interested in monkey suicide, I’ll end with one of the most amazing paragraphs I’ve ever read. From June Cordell, former member of the People’s Temple:

My mother-in-law, Edith Cordell, had a monkey and it hung itself and she wanted to replace the monkey. So she looked in the Indianapolis Star, and in that Indianapolis Star was Jim Jones's ad that he had some monkeys to sell. So it was through that that she met Jim Jones, and came back saying that he had invited her to church this next Sunday.

Wait, What?

Thanks for having me at hardboiled wonderland.

Preston Lang has written a number of plays, stories and articles, and has worked as a mathematics instructor, a census taker, a furniture mover, and a lounge pianist. He lives in New York City. The Carrier, out now from 280 Steps, is his first published crime novel.

Monday, April 7, 2014

'Cha Doin?

What does J. David Osborne do when he's hip deep in edits of Moby Dick (or uh, David James Keaton's doorstop The Last Projector)? He throws a drinking party at The Blue Bonnet in Norman, Oklahoma and invites folks like Paul J. Garth, Gabino Iglesias, Stacey Rios, Shane McKenzie, Robert Spencer, Troy James Weaver and the musics of Nathan Lofties & Sarah Reid... He also calls it N@B-Oklahoma Edition, which if the legacy of Jim Thompson or S.E. Hinton means anything to you, you'll arrive armed for (at least with a fiver).

And don' blink or you'll miss N@B-The Chicago Way with... I dunno, I think they're doing an open mic. Yup, the MWA-Midwest is holding the event Sunday, April 13 2pm at The Hidden Shamrock (I believe that's Michael Harvey's establishment), so belly up to the bar, boys and for heaven's sake, choose your work carefully. You wouldn't want to find you'd brought a knife to a gunfight.

If you're looking for shit to do in Milwaukee, big surprise, Jon & Ruth Jordan have got you covered. In the wake of Murder & Mayhem in Muskego's decision to get rid of the body, or at least chop it up and spread it around, comes the announcement of a new Midwest institution bound to incite riots - N@B-Milwaukee (or Noir at the Cantina-if you will). And who better to help legitimize the chapter and scandalize the innocent bystanders in the cantina than N@B alum Hilary Davidson and Frank Wheeler Jr.? Well, howsabout Bryon Quertermous, Matthew Clemens, Rob Riley and the amazing Ruth Jordan herself? 'Bout covers it. Look and book for this, May 17 at Cafe La Paloma.

The Jordans also just published Crimespree Magazine #55 and it's a doozie. Not only do you get some Broken River Books coverage with interviews with myself and Stephen Graham Jones by Nik Korpon and Robb Olson (who also reviews The Least of My Scars - Tim Hennessy chimes in on Peckerwood) respectively - there's also Steve Weddle interviewing Ben LeRoy & Alison Dasho and Glenn Gray's The Little Boy Inside gets a solid review.

Speaking of reviews, I really appreciate all the folks who leave comments about my books on Amazon, Goodreads, blogs or B&N.Com (tho - that's yet to happen). Recently this includes Mike McCreary, Josh Stallings, Ryan Bracha, Dana Kabel, S. Barnatt, Julie Zeutschel and others with less personal handles. Thanks folks. And how about this sweetass picture of the Fierce Bitches cover smashed up against James Ellroy's Shake Down courtesy of Ian Keith Rogers? Pretty swell company. Thanks, Ian.

Been a year already heavy with guest posts at HBW and some more quality stuff on the way soon, so stay tuned.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

The Sound Pages

Sometimes I create soundtracks to screenplays/stories/novels I'm writing and go back to them to channel the tone I'm after... Here's one I've been thinking on (television show)...

Gillian Welch - One Monkey

Holly Golightly & the Brokeoffs - No Help Coming

Tom Waits - Long Way Home

The Seventy Sevens - God Sends Quails

Bob Dylan - Every Grain of Sand

Sam Phillips - Go Down

Neko Case - Knock Loud

Leonard Cohen - The Captain

Steve Earle - Over Yonder