Catching Up #43 & #44: Daniel Woodrell's The Death of Sweet Mister and Winter's Bone

Don't even start - you know what the Catching Up series is for, dear readers. It's for, like, catching up and shit. Pretty self-fucking-explanatory. So yes, until recently I, the self-proclaimed Nerd of Noir, had never read a fucking Daniel Woodrell novel. Ever. I'm ashamed, indeed I fucking am, but I am fixing the situation as best I can. Besides, maybe there's some of you out there in the noirosphere that have yet to read Woodrell either. Maybe I'm doing the world a favor by admitting that yes, even dark crime junkies like myself make an oversight, can leave something deathly important and exciting at the bottom of the TBR pile for too long.

Or maybe I've just lost the respect of my discerning readership, doomed myself to never being read again. I'd understand that backlash because, no fucking shit, Woodrell is that necessary, that fucking amazing. But blogs are part masturbation and part nobody-fucking-cares confessional so here we go irre-fucking-gardless (I know that irregardless isn't a word, but it rules, you know, irregardless).

I've got two reviews rocking and rolling for you today that showcase that Woodrell is both for the basement crazies but also for, well, fucking everyone, I suppose. First, let me sate the basement crazies with The Death of Sweet Mister, a nasty little slice of awesome that will make your skin crawl and your noir boner rage.

It's the story of Shuggie Akins, a fat boy who lives with his sexy mother Glenda and junkie thief "dad" Red in the Ozarks of Missouri. Well, Shug and Glenda live together anyhow, Red is usually off with junkie pal Basil ripping off pharmacies and shut-ins for pills then partying for weeks at a time. And when Red is around, he's either ragging on Shuggie or beating him, though sometimes they'll do "men stuff," i.e. Red forces the boy to help in his latest score. But when Glenda gets involved with a classy chef with a fancy car (well, for West Table, MO he's classy), Shuggie's shitty life begins to get even shittier.

The Death of Sweet Mister starts out as a by turns funny and sad slice of life story about white trash in the Vietnam era South, but as this short novel races to the end, it becomes a classic noir story, then a much more twisted, disturbing thing all its own. It's a coming of age tale where your protagonist doesn't become older and wiser, but more hardened and evil than we initially thought possible. It's a complex work and at times awesomely creepy, but also reads like a fucking dream.

Woodrell's prose is sharp and his storytelling skills sly as all hell. And the dialogue? Fucking hysterically true. And don't get me started on the man's details and lore because I'll fucking blab all afternoon. Dude just plain knows how much to leave in and how much to take out. This shit is as direct and fast-paced as the best thriller while also managing to take the time to wow you with some "writerly" touches that don't bug the shit out of you in the least.

But if you're looking for something to stuff in stockings this Christmas (look at the Nerd, getting all Oprah's Favorite Things on your ass), you should really pick up Winter's Bone, a book that I'd recommend to anyone, no fucking reservations. It's the story of Ree Dolly, a sixteen year old hillbilly gal from Rathlin Valley in, again, the Missouri Ozarks. Ree takes care of her touched-in-the-head mom and two younger brothers in their shit shack while her pops is off cooking meth and generally raising hell. But one day the sheriff drops by and warns Ree that her old man is due in court for a drug charge in a week and nobody's seen hide nor hair of his ass in quite sometime. Shit of it is, the dirtbag used their house as collateral for his bond so if he doesn't show, the bail bondsman takes the house and Ree's shaky family is left in the cold.

Thus begins Ree's search for her father, a journey that will put her in all kinds of danger seeing how it puts her at odds with the rest of the Dolly clan, a powerful old hillbilly force in those parts. But Ree's got the sand to confront the old ones and the old ways when it comes to saving her family - shotguns, meth-crazies and beatd0wns be damned.

There are a billion things to recommend in Winter's Bone, but what struck me first is Woodrell's ability to make you feel like you're getting an inside look at a culture you didn't know existed anymore. The rules and heirarchies of the Dolly clan are absolutely fascinating, from their weird religion to the story behind why certain boys are named what, it's all so exciting and fresh and fucking alive.

But just shining a light on a little known culture is not enough to recommend a book (though when you look at what's popular at your local bookstore, apparently it is these days), so thankfully Woodrell's characters come alive and the story never disappoints. Ree is one of the most hilarious and believably tough and totally human characters I've come across in good goddamn while and there's nary a supporting player who doesn't ring true as well. Yeah, shit doesn't get as fucked and dark as it does in The Death of Sweet Mister but I had absolutely no problem with that because no shit, you come to love Ree Dolly like she's your kid sister.

And did I mention that this shit is fucking sly as all hell? There's this blink and you miss it reveal at the end of the book that just makes me fucking red with envy. Jesus, it's fucking perfect (if you've read it, you know what I'm talking about. Or you missed it and I'm totally smarter than you. Excuse me while I pat my own back).

But like I said, this book is fucking for everyone you know. It's fun enough, dark enough, smart enough, and just plain fascinating enough that I dare anybody to talk shit about it. I saw it's being made into a movie (with Deadwood favorites Garret Dillahunt and John Hawkes as part of the cast!) but don't fuck up and see that shit first. I mean, book's not even two hundred pages, for fuck's sake.

So there you go, dear readers. I'm catching up with Woodrell slowly but surely. And if you are like I once was and ignorant of the man's work, here's two perfectly good excuses to get fucking de-ignoranted or some shit like that. Yeah, you're fucking welcome.

Crime Comics for One and All (Except Cozy Fans, regrettably)!

My review of Greg Rucka and Matthew Southworth's Stumptown (issue one); Garth Ennis, Jimmy Palmiotti and Mihailo Vukelic's Back to Brooklyn; and Jean-Patrick Manchette and Jacques Tardi's West Coast Blues.

You've got no excuses to strike out at the comic book store these days, dear reader. Unless you're looking to get laid there, I suppose...

Check it out right HERE.

Friday's Forgotten Books: Bird Dog by Philip Reed (1997)

While reading the new graphic novel Filthy Rich by Brian Azzarello and artist Victor Santos, a story in which the protagonist works for a car dealership, I was reminded of Bird Dog, the first “Car Noir Thriller” by Philip Reed featuring Harold Dodge. Reed would only write two Dodge novels (the other being Low Rider) before…well, I dunno what the fuck happened to him. Whatever the reasons may be, it’s a fucking shame he’s no longer cranking out kick ass crime novels anymore because I think the motherfucker could no shit hold his own with some of the nasty boys and girls of noir today.

Bird Dog starts out with middle-aged nobody Harold Dodge being asked by a sexy co-worker to help her get her trade-in back from the shithole LA dealership that sold her a true lemon. You see, it’s known around the office that in a past life Dodge used to “bird dog” for a dealership, hell he even wrote a book on how not to get robbed, got published and everything. Seeing how a good-looking young thing like Marianna wouldn’t give a guy like Harold a second glance in a normal situation, Harold comes to her rescue toot-fucking-sweet. But sure enough, things don’t go well with slimy salesman Vito Fiorre at Joe Covo Matsura and next thing you know Dodge ends up with a body in the trunk…

Though you initially think you’re entering into some sort of off-beat private eye series, Bird Dog turns out to be more of an Elmore Leonard-style crime novel, only with more graphic sex and violence (which, come to think of it, is what most of the best crime novels of the nineties were like. There’s a paper there somewhere...). In other words, you have your sharp prose, your dead-on dialogue, cool good guys, funny bad guys, and a zippy pace. Good time had by fucking all, right?

That’d certainly be enough to get my vote, but Bird Dog takes shit in slightly sicker, more noir-than-merely-hard-boiled direction later in the book. Naturally, I don’t want to spoil shit for you, but to put it in movie terms, this shit gets more Blood Simple than Get Shorty, if you know what I mean. If you don’t know what I mean, see more films, you fucking elitist.

If I don’t have your interest yet, I honestly don’t know what the fuck to say to you, aside from hit the supermarket and snatch up a Grisham when buying your fucking white bread. But if you need just a little bit more of a push, let me say that there’s plenty of great car salesman lore and car porn in this beast too, not to mention a fantastic sense of place for its LA locations.

There you go, there’s your fucking icing on the awesome cake. So go and get yourself some Bird Dog, then some Low Rider, then join me in mourning the death of the Harold Dodge Car Noir Thriller series.

Dark Places by Gillian Flynn

My review of Dark Places by Gillian Flynn is up at bookspot.

If you would care to read that shit, click right here.

If you're not up for it, what can I tell you? It's a big interweb out there and you'll probably find something cool elsewhere. But fuck you all the same.

Tower by Ken Bruen and Reed Farrel Coleman

My review of Tower is up at bookspot.

Ken Bruen and Reed Farrel Coleman tag team like they're the fucking Nasty Boys to give you this kick ass book.

Check that shit out right fucking here.

Dark Entries by Ian Rankin and Werther Dell'Edera

My review of the latest from the Vertigo Crime imprint, Dark Entries.

It's written by Ian Rankin of the Rebus novels fame and drawn by Werther Dell'Edera.

So, you know, it's one of them graphic novel things.

This is a fucking long one so don't say I didn't warn your ass.


Check it out right here.

Filthy Rich by Brian Azzarello and Victor Santos

My review of Filthy Rich is up at bookspot.

Dude that wrote Filthy Rich is the same feller behind 100 Bullets.

It's also the first of two books from Vertigo Crime.

As awesome as that info just provided is, the results were less than boner-inspiring.

Check it out right here.

Pariah by Dave Zeltserman

My review of Dave Zeltserman's Pariah is up and blowing some fucking minds over at bookspot.

Check that shit out right HERE.

If you're short on time, let me save you a click and a peek:

This shit fucking rules.

Catching Up #42: Off Season by Jack Ketchum

Okay so this post ain't exactly noir, but it sure a shit is for the fucking basement crazies. If you're a fan of the more macabre and intense shit (like the great Allan Guthrie's novels) the Nerd raves about, you're gonna love horror writer Jack Ketchum. The guy is hands-down one of the gutsiest motherfuckers working in genre fiction today. Two of his novels (Right to Life and The Girl Next Door) I had to read in single sittings for fear that I wouldn't have the sack to pick them back up again. And make no mistake: the Nerd is not just being characteristically hyperbolic here - the guy's shit is seriously that fucking inense.

Also let the Nerd make clear: this ain't no Halloween-is-coming post either. Just like I don't need a holiday to drink a bunch of booze, I don't need a holiday to make me like horror either. Both are great any time of year.

Off Season, Ketchum's first novel (now available uncut and uncensored!) from 1980, proves that Ketchum has had those globe-sized balls since the beginning of his career. If you like your thrills with a gigantic fucking safety net, then you best leave this one to the fucking professionals.

Off Season tells the story of three NYC couples who go to a remote cabin in coastal Maine for a week of sex and drinking, only be preyed upon by a feral family of cannibals that live in a cave.

Seriously - that's all there is to it. Sounds like the plot of a forgettable horror film that you pop in late and pass out before it ends, never bothering the next morning to see what you missed. But Ketchum makes that shit come alive, dear reader, alive in ways you probably didn't want to ever think about.

Essentially, this is the ultimate Deliverance-style story. You take a bunch of realistic, recognizable characters with common insecurities and problems then throw them into the most extreme situation imaginable and watch all that petty shit melt away till nothing is left but the will to survive. In addition to the struggle of the couples, Ketchum also sheds some light on the lives of the in-bred cannibals, even dropping almost plausible hints as to how such a clan has managed to stay hidden and fed for so long.

Like most of Ketchum's work, there's no supernatural shit going on in Off Season if that kinda stuff bothers you. Basically, this is a disgusting, agonizing story story told breathlessly and without compromise. After all the players are laid out for us, the attack goes down and the second half of the book takes place over just a few hours and good fucking God is it hard to put this beast down once you're in the shit. For a book with a shit-ton of action and suspense, you're never less than completely clear about what's going on and how while also never skipping ahead because you're bogged down in details. You ever notice how in a suspense sequence, authors will always over-explain shit to the point where it takes a lot of will-power to not just skip ahead to see what the outcome of the scene is? That shit never happens with Ketchum, dude is always on-the-money.

And according to an afterword by Ketchum in the edition I read (Leisure Books June 2006 edition), the original version of Off Season did not have the perfect, devastatingly bleak ending that the current version does. So if you read this book years ago, I strongly suggest you pick it up again. You gotta admire a book that, in addition to being about...you know...in-bred cannibals raping, cooking and eating people, manages to have an even more dire climax than you could have ever imagined.

Like I said, dude goes all the fucking way. If you think you've got the stomach for it, the Nerd strongly suggests you follow his ass.

Panic Attack by Jason Starr

I reviewed Panic Attack by Jason Starr over at Bookspot.

Give that shit a look.

In said review I fully admit to being in the wrong.

Intrigued? No? Give it a shot anyway. Don't cost nothin'.

The Silent Hour by Michael Koryta

My review of Michael Koryta's The Silent Hour is up over at bookspot.

You should check out Koryta's shit, dear reader.

He's not much of a curser and he never goes "full dark" as they say, but he kicks Connelly's ass, far as the Nerd is concerned.

Check it out right HERE.

Catching Up #41: Real Time by Randall Cole

Holy shit, dear readers. You should just click over to your netflix account right now and slap fucking Real Time onto the top of your queue (you didn't really wanna watch that documentary on climate change, no matter how good the cheese kid at Whole Foods said it was). Seriously, fuck my review, just do it, done and done.

Okay, so that was rash. Read and cherish every fucking word of my review, then shoot it to the top of your queue.

Why should you do all this shit sight un-fucking-seen, you ask? Well, because I have fucking impeccable taste and you know this to be the scout's-honor-fucking-true. But for the unfaithful: go fuck yourselves. Nah, don't do that - pay someone else to do it for you.

Let's try that again: For the unfaithful, let's sleepwalk through this fucking plot summary dance yet again:

Real Time is a Canadian feature directed by Randall Cole starring Jay Baruchel (Seth Rogen's fellow Canadian roommate in Knocked Up) as a degenerate gambler and Randy Quaid (ummm...if you don't know who Randy Quaid is, see more movies) as the hitman who has come to make him pay. Instead of just shooting Baruchel and calling it a day (the deadbeat owes 68,000 and has sixty bucks to his fucking name), Quaid gives him an hour to make amends, do whatever he wants before he takes one in the back of the head. And it's in, you know, real time (which makes it a short fucking movie, remember when they used to make those?).

Now, I know what you're thinking, you're all like thanks but no thanks, Nerd. I don't fall for high-concept bullshit movies. Well, skeptical reader, you're only cheating yourself because Real Time is hilarious, engrossing and heartbreaking.

And when I say it's hilarious, I fucking mean that shit. It's basically these two dudes running around some Canadian shithole (in other words the shitholiest of shitholes) spouting some of the best dialogue I've heard since In Bruges. Good God, go me! That was a very apt comparison on my part (*pats self on back*). Real Time is very much in line with Bruges, another hilarious off-beat crime film that is both absurd and profound.

I really don't wanna get too much into the specifics of this one because I don't feel like many have seen it and it would be hindered by knowing much more beyond the concept, but come on. I went out there with an In Bruges comparison, a movie I love almost as much as prime rib.

So check out Real Time, a true fucking sleeper that deserves your rheumy eyes and cauliflowered ears for its short, blissful fucking running time.