Why does
noir crime fiction resurface during times of uncertainty, when societies seem
to have lost their moral compasses? Perhaps when reassuring parables with happy
endings don’t ring true, tougher-minded readers reach for books that are, at
heart, dystopian and dark, charting the inevitably downward course of doomed losers
who are driven to their fate by their own demons.
In noir the
protagonists aren’t outsiders called in to restore order, but rather people
directly connected to the crime: victims and perpetrators. So noir isn't about
private detectives (or their frequent surrogates, reporters) where a hero—or
anti-hero—may emerge battered and bruised and even more cynical, but restores some
kind of moral balance (and restores the reader’s faith in society). And no
way is it police procedural, where the workings of law-enforcement—even if they
are flawed—trump over lawlessness.
In noir, if
there are cops (or other representatives of the establishment), which are "bent," they're serving their own outlaw agenda. And unlike
traditional mysteries, capers and procedures, where the story is all about the
crime, noir is all about the characters.
What I have
always admired about noir fiction is the unflinching way the best of it deals with tough social issues, so when I started writing crime novels set in South Africa--one of the most violent and corrupt countries in the
world—I found noir to be the most accurate prism through which to view this
society in turmoil.
Apartheid is
over, but a crime epidemic, poverty and the highest incidence of HIV/AIDS on
the planet present new challenges. The ex-commissioner of police was
sentenced to fifteen years in prison for corruption. One in three South African
women will be raped in their lifetime. Teenage girls are sold into slave marriages
in the name of tradition and men believe that raping our virgins—often children—will cure them of AIDS. Noir country, for sure.
American
noir, too, has always questioned its society (from James M. Cain to James
Ellroy) and it’s unsurprising that this dark brand of fiction is the
engine-room of radical new crime writing emerging from the U.S. Younger
writers like Frank Bill (Crimes in Southern Indiana) and Keith Rawson (The Chaos
We Know), have both recently published anthologies that paint a bleak picture of the heartland of post-9/11 America: stories of unemployment,
disintegrating families and rural meth labs.
So, what
better time than now—as protests against the established order sweep the globe—for
a resurgence of this brand of existential, deeply pessimistic crime fiction?
(Excerpted from The Mystery Writers.)