The Big Get-Nothing

Small Time Crooks

Woody Allen has always been prolific and like any artist, he goes through times of mountain top enrichment only to plateau for a period. Or a decade. Like in the early aughts following the jazz-cool  Sweet And Lowdown and before the sexy Match Point, when Allen cranked out a movie a year, and most of them were mediocre. Like Small Time Crooks where he, Tracey Ullman, and Michael Rappaport plan to rob a bank via a cookie shop they were using as a front… only to blindly figure out that the cookies brought in a higher payroll than the initial bank job.

So what does a Woody Allen film have to do with Paul Di Filippo’s latest, The Big Get-Even? Well for one thing, talking about Woody Allen films, even his less-than-enchanting ones, is a helluva lot more interesting than reviewing this unexceptional novel. And for another, the plots are thematically similar, along with a finale so blatant even the blind director from Hollywood Ending (ugh) could see it coming in off the horizon.

The Big Get Even

The Big Get-Even is a heist caper, a grift, that although the high points fit the genre, it meanders around at a leisurely pace. No snappy chatter. No sticking-it-to-the-man. And really, no likable characters either. I don’t feel sorry that the arsonist – an arsonist – is cheated out of his ill-gotten gains. I don’t understand how the whining lawyer is elevated to that of a Clooney-esque stud. I don’t appreciate that the contribution of all three women in the story is solely – and only – for sex.

The first part of the story is actually interesting. Di Filippo lays out his characters of Glen (lawyer) and Stan (arsonist), and builds the premise of the plot. That journey had merit as the story began to build. You could see the lightning preceding the on-set of the storm. But then nothing. Just dark clouds resulting in poor vision and a damp time. No fun. No electricity. And a con as dull as Will Smith’s Focus.

I would like to thank NetGalley and Blackstone Publishing for the ARC… even though I think I was hustled into providing a review. And without even getting a cookie.


As Always,
theJOE

Thankfully, not Endless

The Sandman:
Endless Nights

An extremely uneven collection both in story and art. Seeing as how Neil Gaiman, who created both Sandman and his brethren the Endless, wrote all seven chapters, this can be frustratingly odd, as Gaiman usually brings his a-game. However, one can look at this collection with the understanding that he, along with some of his artistic collaborators, were simply in the mood for exploration.

The Sandman: Endless Nights contains seven chapters, each depicting a tale that spotlights a member of the eternal Endless. At least that’s the concept, even if not fully demonstrated. “Fifteen Portraits of Despair” is exactly that, fifteen vignettes of personal, rather than the entity’s, woe presented, with what we’ll call art, by Barron Storey. “On the Peninsula”, supposedly Destruction’s story, instead focuses on two archaeologists, as well as Delirium, but not as much of the lone brother whose name graces the chapter page. However, the concluding story, on Destiny, does indeed prominently show the character… as he walks through his garden.

The other four tales are all much more in line with both the characters and the prose expected by Gaiman, and all with beautiful art. Particular of note is Delirium’s “Going Inside” as Bill Sienkiewicz’s mixed-media renderings are a fantastic call back to his early Marvel work.

Endless Nights was published in 2003, which is when I originally read, and promptly forgot about, this graphic novel. Mostly targeted towards series completists, this novel is completely accessible for all of Neil’s impressive fanbase as he delves into the realms of fantasy and history, science-fiction and horror, and, of course, dreams. Gaiman’s library, however, certainly contains other top-shelf reads for the promotion of a good night’s sleep. Endless or not.


As Always,
theJOE

Brighton Rocks

Brighton is a gritty whodunit murder mystery wrapped in the backdrop of a working man’s crime story – and I loved every minute of reading it.

"Brighton"
Michael Harvey

Michael Harvey has been compared to Elmore Leonard, and high-praise aside, that’s a fair enough assessment. Harvey generates seedy characters aplenty, writes quick, crisp dialogue with a lightning-fast plot. But man, I see Dennis Lehane’s worthy handy work all over the place like fingerprints in a Southie brothel. The Boston setting aside, Harvey, like Lehane, paints the environ in unflatteringly-realistic hues. The potholed streets, the weed-infested parks, the dirty benches, and slophouse pubs. Homes aren’t just lived-in spaces, but overused and dilapidated. Everyone in the neighborhood is working on con, even if that con is simply staying alive while commiserating over a Sam Adams, while the sky above is eternally gray and cold.

The mystery brought forth in Brighton involves the murders of a number of different women, similar in class, perhaps, save for one. Newly-crowned, Pulitzer-winning, investigative journalist/walking cliché Kevin Pearce takes on the task of putting clues together, even though most of those clues point to his childhood buddy Bobby Scales… as well as himself. Craziness ensues and the mystery runs as deep as the 70s while Harvey snares you as reader, making each chapter-break a mini-cliffhanger prompting you to read on and on throughout the night and to hell with that 8 AM marketing call you have scheduled for the next morning. Yeah, Brighton pounds you like the Bruins D and makes you ask for more.

I’ve been to Boston all of two times in my life. After reading tales such as these, I should have no desire to return. Although, I think I do. I want to walk these mapped-out roads, and throw back a shot of Finnegan’s at some Market Street hole. To be haunted as I roam the cobblestones. But I could definitely live without having to be murdered to enjoy the story.


As Always,
theJOE