But the lighting is usually pretty cool and the women are exciting
It’s sort of like the need for Skyline Chili or White Castles every once in a while, something sets the craving off and I find myself devouring crime fiction. Equally, the fiction is not the high brow, highly inspiring stuff. Typically there is murder, sexism, blatant amorality, and at best a hero (when there is one) who gets his ass handed to him on a regular basis before solving a convoluted crime with plot hole big enough to drive a Mac truck through. Typically though, you get what’s come to be known as the anti-hero, the man or woman who you aren’t supposed to root for, but do anyway. His reward is either death or revenge.
After the binge of this mass media consumption, I almost feel as regretful as when I empty that sack of sliders.
Typically what I consume is old stuff, proto-noir/hardboiled movies like the Maltese Falcon in the 1930s and 1940s film noir such as Double Indemnity, or pulpy hardboiled penned stories by the likes of Raymond Chandler, James M. Cain, Carroll John Daly, and Dashiell Hammett. The latter often inspired, or became adaptive material for the former. Then, when I’m exhausted with that I go onto the later stuff, Jack Nicolson in Chinatown and odes to odes to odes of noir films like the Coen Brother’s Blood Simple and the Big Lebowski.
There are also the later books, most notably by Richard Stark and even later, Dennis Lehane (come on, a book aptly titled “A Drink Before the War?”).
Anyway, that is where I am right now. I want to wear a fedora and get in fistfights while solving who stole control of the city’s water supply, or was it finding out who killed the pretty rich girl. Either way.