Men stand in dark alleys in pools of yet darker shadow, drinking dark amber fluids from flasks that shine like the very grail. Booze here is salvation. The gun, a cross. Smoke leaks from square unshaven faces, blue as sadness. Neon signs across the alley are greasy and smeared, buzzing in the never ending rain. Trash scutters along concrete. Sirens blare in the distance. Tail-lights wiggle in sky black puddles; the sky itself leans like a drunk on the tallest buildings.
“The Canonization of Pulp” - Greg Bottoms
Bottoms perfectly captures the essence of noir, for those who may be unfamiliar with this style of literature, the urban tales and hard boiled crime stories that brought James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart to the silver screen and put a face on the poverty, despair, depravity and urban turmoil that often creates the street crime and bloodshed that paints the city crimson. From Dashiell Hammet and Raymond Chandler to Mickey Spillane and Chester Himes, a darker , rougher, unrefined urban saga of the modern concrete jungle and street justice became familiar to a growing audience. The popularity for this “pulp noir” or “noir crime” literature would grow in leaps and bounds, and not remain confined to the dark alleys , bordellos, and speak easies of New York, Chicago or London, despite the whims and whinings of Do gooders, politicians, preachers and the so-called “moral majority”, who were always content to point the finger, but always lacked any concrete solution to the problems that plague the metropolis, only moral platitudes and “Just Say No” jingoism.
Whether they like it or not, this crime and violence will not go away simply because they wish to ignore it or brush it under a rug, after their tiresome and self-righteous “moral” lectures. And now that the metropolis, the nation and the globe, is sinking into the deepest financial abyss since the great depression, crime will inevitably rise and therefore, the grim and gruesome, blood-soaked, bullet riddled and knife scarred stories of hardboiled detectives and the criminals that plague our city streets will leave many stories behind for accomplished writers to tell. Too long noir crime fiction has been seen as something only local to New York, Chicago, or London, and now there is a growing Irish under current in this genre of urban crime literature, with many Irish authors proving to the world that the Irish, have always had a strong dark undercurrent in many of their tales. Even pre-Victorian , Irish fairy tales illustrates this. The leprechauns, fairies and banshees of Irish folklore , before these tales were appropriated by the British, were known for killing humans, stealing babies and being up to no good, on a regular basis. If Jung was right when he wrote that all ethnic folk lore is simply a blueprint, laden with tribal symbolism, of the collective soul of said culture, (perhaps some of these dark fairies and bad leprechauns symbolized “the enemy within” during centuries of foreign occupation) than it should be no surprise, that these Irish authors just happen to be the best hardboiled crime writers in the 21st Century. Ken Bruen, Declan Burke, Pat Mullan, and now, former author of teenager-based fantasy series, “Artemis Fowl”, Eoin Colfer, this Wexford native is now also proving his noir finesse with his new novel, “Plugged”, a hardboiled story that takes place in the grimey pavements and back alleys of New Jersey. And this anthology, DUBLIN NOIR, is hard evidence that the best writers on Dublin street crime mysteries are, inevitabley Irish, as with the sole exceptions of Reed Farrell Coleman and Charlie Stella, it takes some authors of Gaelic blood to properly illustrate the horrors of the savagery of Dublin street crime. Not to apologize for it, not to try and put a “moral of the story” at the end of the tale, but to just, tell it like it is. And no one can get right to the (sharp and deadly) point, while weaving an intricate plot laden with suspense, grim tidings and death defying feats, like these modern seanchai.
When I interviewed Belfast native and Irish Rebel musician, Ray Collins, a few years back in front of the Baggott Inn (R.I.P.), we were talking about all of the “Irish” bands from Germany, Holland, Japan and Eastern Europe, who rarely had a single Irishman in the band. Ray commented that whenever people who aren’t Irish play Irish music, it’s a compliment if they play the music well, and an insult if they do it badly. This reminds me of this DUBLIN NOIR anthology a great deal; it really proves that tales are better told by the natives than tourists, people that only know Dublin from their weekend visits, hen parties or stag parties, and lets face it, I would rather hear about Dublin from a Dubliner, and this is the main flaw of this book, because it is an American publishing house, they had to choose primarily American authors to talk about a city that they have only visited, and it is not as genuine as having a local tell you about their hometown and let’s face it, many Yanks, clearly do not understand the Irish psyche nor the true nature of those dark Dublin streets (like authors who insist on every Irish character in their stories, having a pint of guiness in each hand, even if they are homicide detectives on the job, or IRA volunteers, executing a rapist, they must be drinking beer while exacting justice), but despite these obvious flaws, there are indeed a few shining stars (like Brooklyn based author, Reed Farrell Coleman). But it goes without saying, that all of the Irish authors in this anthology, are indeed, the best, hardboiled crime writers, that the 21st century has to offer.
"Jaysus Christ , I hate feckin’ Americans ! The donkeys worst among ‘em. And them arse-licking cops worst of all. Them with their fifty-two paychecks and pensions, their red noses and “Danny Boy” tears. They think glen to glen is a conversation of like-minded punters. Cunts, every last one. Them that sees romance in a bloody holocaust and the smell of cordite in the streets of Derry. And they ease their guilt and fancy themselves Provo men because they open their wallets and sing Pogues songs and drown themselves in pubs with a gold harp above the threshold. What a load of shite.
Oh, and how they imagine us Irish in the worst possible sense; a race of toothless spud farmers in white cableknit sweaters and black rubber boots, spouting Joyce or Yeats, herding lambs with a switch in one hand and a pint of Guinness in the other. And what of our race of red-haired colleens? Why, they’re out in lush pastures in their white blouses and green-plaid skirts gathering clover and hunting for pots of gold. Bollix !"
---- Reed Farrel Coleman, Portrait of The Killer As A Young Man
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