All this discussion about what is and isn't "noir" seems to
be missing a point, and that's the *why* of noir. What is the
intent of the writer in telling such bleak, hopeless stories?
What do we get out of reading about the suffering of such
tormented characters? What keeps us coming back time after
time to drink from such a dark well?
Is it possible that we simply *enjoy* seeing these poor
schmucks get their comeuppance? It's fun to watch Walter Neff
drooling over the beautiful (but very married) Phyllis
Dietrichson. We've been there -- or wanted to be -- but we
generally know better than to cross the line. It's not hard
to understand the consequences we'd be facing. But we'd still
*think* about it.
But Neff isn't so bright. He goes for it anyway, and we shake
our heads, knowing what the poor bastard is in for, and sure
enough, before long he's bleeding and confessing. We feel for
him, we really do, but behind it all, we're chuckling and
nodding in self- satisfaction. There's a reward for ignoring
the call to adventure and excitement, we tell ourselves
smugly.
But somewhere, deep inside, we don't *really* believe it. We
see that ankle bracelet on Phyllis' shapely leg and part of
us wonders if maybe, even with the bullet in the gut and all,
it was *worth it.*
And as long as we keep arguing with ourselves like that,
we'll keep sucking up as much noir as we can get our hands
on.
Beej
This archive was generated by hypermail 2b29 : 29 Nov 2006 EST