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House of Sand and Fog
San Francisco Noir edited by Peter Maravelis
To anyone who has ever traveled to San
Francisco–even once–it becomes abundantly
clear that this city is unlike any other on earth
despite how many comparisons are made. It
appears caught within its own time warp, neither
here nor there, neither now nor coming,
cosmopolitan and upscale, yet strangely beatnik
still. Its mystery is that it has a reputable
personality that’s nearly indescribable–and
mythical. Born into the gold rush and immense
and violent corruption in the 1800s, burned to the
ground by earthquake in 1906, and in modern
years home to a large and proud population of
gays, San Francisco remains enchanting and
unforgettable, from its must-see fog to its
legendary minute by minute weather.
It is easy to see then why Akashic Books, in a
seemingly single-handed effort to corner the
market on noir anthologies has begun a series of
books set in and around various U.S. cities. San
Francisco, after two Brooklyn Noir books and a
Chicago Noir anthology, may seem like an
unlikely place for modern day gun molls, double
dealings gone hideously wrong, hidden atrocities,
and otherwise down and out denizens hard on
their luck who walk the thin but blurred line
between anti-hero and flat-out villain. And yet,
here they are spread out over fifteen stories that
take place all over San Francisco, from The
Haight to Bernal Heights to the Mission and the
Castro.
While not all of the stories are good in San
Francisco Noir, in particular Sin Sorracco’s
wandering Double Espresso, Kate Braverman’s
tepid The Neutral Zone, and Alvin Lu’s rather
heavy-handed Le Rouge et Le Noir, many hit the
target with unwavering talent. It is as if Sorracco,
Braverman and Lu did not get the memo on what
this collection was truly about and decided to
wander off–literally speaking.
David Corbett’s It Can Happen displays the
author’s talent to write like a boxer fights, weaving
and bobbing with words, entrancing the reader in
a steadily building climax that only fails by the
obviousness of the story’s last paragraph. And
speaking of boxing, Robert Mailer Anderson’s
Briley Boy is unapologetic in its violence and dark
characters, excellently written from beginning to
stunning and profound end. Jim Nisbet’s Weight
Less Than Shadow is the type of story that you’d
just as soon find in the The New Yorker or Rolling
Stone, and is so well-written the reader may feel
compelled to devour Nisbett’s witty tongue in
cheek narrative twice in a row.
Peter Plate’s Genesis to Revelation is a
confection of sorts, but seems to lose it by the last
sentence, and Barry Gifford’s After Hours at La
Chinita plays well in theory as it begins with a
promising start and gets entangled by its own
cleverness in the end, while Jon Longhi’s Fixed
seemed like a punishment. It is singularly
Alejandro Murguia’s The Other Barrio that stands
out as the anthology’s most dedicated work, with
a tough-talking protagonist, hard language (“I
want you to be my puta.”), a femme fatale, an evil
and ominous villain, a few thugs, and more than
one unfortunate death. Murguia has written this
story as if it were a movie, and it plays like that as
one reads through it, right up until its predictable
but necessary noir ending.
Editor Peter Maravelis has done well in
assembling what appears to be writers who are in
love with the city of San Francisco. No matter the
quality of the work, the emotion and knowledge of
the city shines through each tale and makes this
book something to consider and recommend.
Just be careful of the conversation you have with
the trigger-happy moll from the South of Market.
It could be your last. P&A
Francisco–even once–it becomes abundantly
clear that this city is unlike any other on earth
despite how many comparisons are made. It
appears caught within its own time warp, neither
here nor there, neither now nor coming,
cosmopolitan and upscale, yet strangely beatnik
still. Its mystery is that it has a reputable
personality that’s nearly indescribable–and
mythical. Born into the gold rush and immense
and violent corruption in the 1800s, burned to the
ground by earthquake in 1906, and in modern
years home to a large and proud population of
gays, San Francisco remains enchanting and
unforgettable, from its must-see fog to its
legendary minute by minute weather.
It is easy to see then why Akashic Books, in a
seemingly single-handed effort to corner the
market on noir anthologies has begun a series of
books set in and around various U.S. cities. San
Francisco, after two Brooklyn Noir books and a
Chicago Noir anthology, may seem like an
unlikely place for modern day gun molls, double
dealings gone hideously wrong, hidden atrocities,
and otherwise down and out denizens hard on
their luck who walk the thin but blurred line
between anti-hero and flat-out villain. And yet,
here they are spread out over fifteen stories that
take place all over San Francisco, from The
Haight to Bernal Heights to the Mission and the
Castro.
While not all of the stories are good in San
Francisco Noir, in particular Sin Sorracco’s
wandering Double Espresso, Kate Braverman’s
tepid The Neutral Zone, and Alvin Lu’s rather
heavy-handed Le Rouge et Le Noir, many hit the
target with unwavering talent. It is as if Sorracco,
Braverman and Lu did not get the memo on what
this collection was truly about and decided to
wander off–literally speaking.
David Corbett’s It Can Happen displays the
author’s talent to write like a boxer fights, weaving
and bobbing with words, entrancing the reader in
a steadily building climax that only fails by the
obviousness of the story’s last paragraph. And
speaking of boxing, Robert Mailer Anderson’s
Briley Boy is unapologetic in its violence and dark
characters, excellently written from beginning to
stunning and profound end. Jim Nisbet’s Weight
Less Than Shadow is the type of story that you’d
just as soon find in the The New Yorker or Rolling
Stone, and is so well-written the reader may feel
compelled to devour Nisbett’s witty tongue in
cheek narrative twice in a row.
Peter Plate’s Genesis to Revelation is a
confection of sorts, but seems to lose it by the last
sentence, and Barry Gifford’s After Hours at La
Chinita plays well in theory as it begins with a
promising start and gets entangled by its own
cleverness in the end, while Jon Longhi’s Fixed
seemed like a punishment. It is singularly
Alejandro Murguia’s The Other Barrio that stands
out as the anthology’s most dedicated work, with
a tough-talking protagonist, hard language (“I
want you to be my puta.”), a femme fatale, an evil
and ominous villain, a few thugs, and more than
one unfortunate death. Murguia has written this
story as if it were a movie, and it plays like that as
one reads through it, right up until its predictable
but necessary noir ending.
Editor Peter Maravelis has done well in
assembling what appears to be writers who are in
love with the city of San Francisco. No matter the
quality of the work, the emotion and knowledge of
the city shines through each tale and makes this
book something to consider and recommend.
Just be careful of the conversation you have with
the trigger-happy moll from the South of Market.
It could be your last. P&A
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