A delicious, darkly comic work of new urban noir from an original new literary talent.
Meet Virgil Strauss, a physically and emotionally unkempt yet somehow appealing tabloid photographer whose passion is bearing photographic witness--à la Weegee--to the obscene, malevolent and sanguine viscera of New York culture.
To his disapppointment and defeat, The New York Graphic --the city's most renowned shock-based tabloid daily--has routinely rejected Virgil's work. But when Virgil and his friend Larry Onions rip off a local church, he gets the picture of a lifetime, a job at the Graphic , and a generous measure of trouble, leading to serious indiscretions that include (but aren't limited to): grave robbing, straining his neighbor's dog's feces for an inadvertently consumed diamond, widely circulating the work of a renowned "art terrorist," and being an FBI informant in a serial bombing case. Helping Virgil through his hard times is Marcy, HIV-positive porn-star girlfriend, whose wispy, hardened, tragic strength brings tenderness and humanity to Virgil's cold-blooded reality.
New York Graphic is a winningly fresh contribution to the noir alternately hilarious, vulgar, touching, seriously disturbed--and a delightfully heady reading.
Big WeeGee Fan. Read it if you can't help but buy "GLOBE" magazine at least once a year! I've read New York Graphic more than twice, and I still laugh every time. Absolute favorite line:
-- 'I am Vishnu the destroyer.' 'Vishnu isn'ta destroyer.' 'What?' 'In Hindu mythology Shiva is the destroyer.' 'So what's Vishnu?' 'A sort of holistic oneness type of god, I think.' 'Damn.' The phone went dead. 'Who was it?' asked Dieter. 'Vishnu Jones.' --
What starts as a fun, guilty pleasure about a tawdry photographer and part time criminal (or is it the other way around) devolves quickly into a bleak descent into depressing characters and unrealistic capers. Another annoyance is how the author keeps using British words for a story set in New York. I wanted something more like Nightcrawler and this didn't come close.
Without giving anything away, what began as a solid take on New York lowlife (a genre I know well from first hand experience back in the 60s and 70s - see my graphic novel Giraffes in my Hair: A Rock'n'Roll Life, if you'll excuse the plug) and an interesting study of a character who prowls the New York netherworld seeking to photograph all things gruesome and gory for a lurid tabloid, seems to lose its original raison d'etre along the way and loses its charm with it. I also felt let down by the ending. Seems to be the author's only book.