3.45 stars
I'll start with the good. Stray Dogs is great genre fiction, it hits on all the fun neo-noir elements I love and does most of them quite well, although without any innovation. It has a good sense of humour and lots of fun, eccentric elements that pull you in and keep you there through its 170-ish pages. But this is one of those instances where the movie actually is better than the book. Stray Dogs isn't a bad book by any means, and it has a lot of the same charm Oliver Stone's movie adaptation—U Turn—does, but for me, it fails hard on two fronts: the ending, and something I like to nebulously call Perspective.
As many issues as I have with U Turn, I think its ending is basically perfect; comparatively, Stray Dogs ends fairly anti-climatically and not nearly as ironically as the whole premise of the story demands. Which brings me to perhaps the biggest issue, the aforementioned Perspective. Stray Dogs has a funky, misplaced machismo common to the neo-noir genre, and the story is at its best when John Ridley languishes in the hellish irony and pathetic underpinnings of the story's protagonist, John Stewart (and the similarly fucked up, shitty characters that inhabit the town of Sierra—that the town is named this inspires a silly fondness within me, being that my name is basically akin to hell). But Mr. Ridley thinks John is very cool, because he, of course, is John. Yes he recognizes that John sucks, but at the same time, John is portrayed as just a bit too "perfect asshole" for me to not constantly get the sense that Ridley admires the wrong parts of that otherwise fun fucked-up-ed-ness. You will not often see me compliment Oliver Stone, but he certainly saw who John was supposed to be: a man who fucks himself, over and over and over again, and dies with a busted fucking radiator hose. Because he's a stupid dumbfuck who can't help but piss off everyone he ever encounters all the time. And because he is played by Sean Penn, it's beautiful.