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Logically, grotesque noir can be defined by a mashup of the traits that define grotesque and noir separately, so perhaps we can best define the combined term by investigating the individual components.
Noir fiction is not so much a genre as it is an overlay to existing genres. Most people probably think of early black and white detective films as representative of noir, and while those films may represent some of the overlay’s qualities, in truth film noir can generally be more accurately (more specifically) categorized as detective noir or mystery noir. So what exactly is this mysterious noir overlay? There are a few fantastic attempts at definition out there. A couple of the most important, I think, are:
From Noir Fiction Is About Losers, Not Private Eyes by Otto Penzler:
Noir is about losers. The characters in these existential, nihilistic tales are doomed. They may not die, but they probably should, as the life that awaits them is certain to be so ugly, so lost and lonely, that they’d be better off just curling up and getting it over with.
[Regarding the traditional private eye story, by contrast]…this rather cynical figure–underpaid, disrespected, threatened, shot at, beaten up–has a code of ethics that guarantees he’ll do the best he can for his client, who’s probably lying to him anyway. A heroic figure stands at the center of the private eye novel; there are no heroic figures in noir fiction.
From The French Word for Bleak by Ray Banks:
Noir is about restraint. That might seem weird, considering the level of violence and depravity on display, but chances are, the violence is given time to simmer before it boils over and the depravity is confined within the protagonist’s head.
The great noir writers cared about their protagonists…And because they cared, their readers cared. It’s impossible for a reader to get into a character’s head if the writer hasn’t been there first.
Compassion. An empathetic connection. The reason we read fiction over non-fiction…So I really only have one rule for writing noir – write with compassion.
So why does noir fiction get dragged into the crime and detective genres so much? Because crime and detective fiction, by their very nature, depend on morality to tell a story. At some point in any crime or detective story the protagonist is going to have to wrestle with his ethical and moral affirmations. Pair this inevitability with the depraved characters generally populating a crime or detective story and the attributes of noir fiction tend to organically congeal into the crime or detective result.
Like noir, grotesque is an overlay commonly attributed, but never fully represented by, an existing genre. For noir that genre is crime or detective. For grotesque that genre is horror.
So why does grotesque fiction get dragged into the horror genre so much? Because the term grotesque often conjurers images of the macrabe. While blood and guts can be grotesque, such images are not universally defined as such. Grotesque simple refers to something “skewed” or abnormal, though generally brings with it a visceral impact. Flannery O’Connor, for example, is often thought of as a writer of grotesque. Her story “Good Country People,” about a woman with a wooden leg and a thieving bible salesman is definitely grotesque, and there is no blood or monsters to speak of.
Grotesque noir is fiction that takes the existential conflict of noir and applies the skewed or abnormal in order to further explore the already morally difficult path of its characters. Perhaps a few examples would help. The most successful contemporary grotesque noir novel that I can think of is Brian Evenson’s Last Days. Here we have a detective who must solve a murder by infiltrating an amputation fetish cult. The detective–mentally struggling with the idea of volunteer amputation, and how he must become a part of it (noir)–must ultimately dismember himself (grotesque) in order to solve his case.
Okay, Last Days is an obvious choice. So, what about a less obvious novel like Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk? After all, moral struggle is still struggle, even if as a symptom of a mental illness. And as for grotesque, the book (and movie) is stuffed full. Willing self-brutalization, making soap from human fat, a man with “bitch tits;” Fight Club is more grotesque than just about any horror novel.
What do you think? Share your thoughts or examples in the comments below. Also, don’t forget to subscribe to this blog to receive new posts via email.
photo credit: the above image is a partial scan of Brian Evenson’s novella, Brotherhood of Mutilation, which is a precursor to Last Days.
I’ve been non-stop busy the past few weeks. I feel as though I’ve done nothing, as my to-do list never shrinks. But somehow, as I look back, all that I felt never happened, is done. Here’s a few things:
The wonderful Robb Olson and Livius Nedin at Booked Podcast did a full episode about my work, splitting time with my two newest books, I Didn’t Mean to be Kevin and As a Machine and Parts. The things these guys say, it makes me blush colors of red never before blushed by humans. Listen to the full episode now, and be sure to stay to the end to hear Mlaz Corbier say awesome things about my awesome socks.
Pablo D’Stair and I recorded another episode of The Velvet Podcast. We talked about one my recent tweets:
[blackbirdpie url=”https://twitter.com/calebjross/status/158648828218707968″]I hope to have the episode edited and posted within a week. As always, taking with Pablo is a true joy. I hope the listener gets as much from the episode as I got from recording it.
I’ll be reading in St. Louis as part of the Noir at the Bar series at the Meshuggah Café on February, 28th. The next day, I’ll be at the AWP Conference in Chicago just hanging out. Head over to the Facebook event page for more info. You should be there.
(part of my ongoing Unexpected Literary References series)
Though the episode is quite old, I caught this reference to Stephen King and Dean Koontz in the episode called “Brian in Love” from season 2 of Family Guy. On the surface, the gag speaks simply to the poor man’s Stephen King perception of Dean Koontz. But, when you consider the real life car accident that Stephen King suffered in 1999 the gag gets way gaggier.
I’ve called myself a writer of grotesque family fiction, but what does that term really mean? I give a brief definition of grotesque domestic fiction, or grotesque family fiction, by way of example, in an earlier blog post:
Take a family situation—usually some sort of broken family dynamic—mix in something grotesque—possibly morbid but not necessarily—and you’ve probably got domestic grotesque.
But I don’t know if that fully captures it. Up front, I have to say that I’ve always been the type to back away from definitions that try too hard to avoid definition. You know the type; those writers who say, “No, I don’t write horror fiction, I write transgressive commentaries on modernist life where social norms are exposed as metaphorical fangs in the collective neck…” But in the world of marketing, it is important to simultaneously embrace and reject established genres. You know, ride coattails while sewing your own. So, I write literary fiction but I actually write domestic grotesque fiction.
With that in mind, I coined the term “domestic grotesque” fiction, which Solarcide called a genre all my own (though, probably because I’ve been promoting the term as my own). In that Solarcide interview, I use a scene from Stranger Will to exemplify the term:
I find something inherently interesting with taking the trope of father/son catch and twisting it just enough to be jarring (re: dead raccoon) but still remain entirely relatable. These subtle twists are where I get the descriptor for my work, domestic grotesque.
So why do I write domestic grotesque fiction? Part aesthetics and part concept penetration. Domestic grotesque fiction isn’t only fun to write, it also allows me to very effectively zero in on an idea by pairing dissimilar concepts. Stranger Will = pregnancy and cleaning up dead bodies. I Didn’t Mean to be Kevin = lost parenthood and body parts. “Click-Clack” = newborn baby (implying potential) and mental retardation (no potential). It’s fun.
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[subscribe2 hide=”unsubscribe”]Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/paulgrand/451080165/
I love cartoons. I love books. I love when these two vices come together. Since June 2010, when I noticed a Shirley Jackson nod in an episode of South Park, I’ve become sensitive to other literary references in pop-culture, specifically cartoons. These past few months have been strong for my Unexpected Literary References series. South Park, American Dad, Looney Tunes, Conan O’Brien, and The Simpsons all delivered.
But what makes this blog post worthy is a comment on a recent-ish blog post (about Neil Gaiman’s appearance on The Simpsons):
“why are they ‘unexpected’? Especially in the programs you tend to feature (especially in the Looney Toons!–not to mention Hannah and Barbara stuff, not that you’ve mention that, yet) it is actually quite expected and part of the draw of the programs.”
What do you think? Am I jaded? Are references to literature in pop culture more common than I give credit for? I’m seriously considering writing a book about the intersection of popular culture with “hi-culture” specifically in regards to cartoons and literature. Help me. Guide me.
