It seems that Noir fiction has penetrated literature, even though nobody is really sure what it represents. It’s become a buzzword, used for a stylish touch.
Coined in France, the term Roman Noir (Black Novel), signified the Gothic literature of the 18th century originating mainly from England – ‘Frankestein’ by Mary Shelley and ‘Les Miserables’ by Victor Hugo, for example. The meaning and use of the word in fiction has, obviously, shifted over the years.
Surprisingly, the ever-evolving Noir genre took off mostly in America, with France hungering over noir American writers ever since. Many of the famous works were turned into Hollywood films, thus the birth of Noir film, like ‘They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?’ by Horace McCoy from 1969.
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Whereas Noir can denote various fictive genres – starting from crime, detective and thriller genres to hard-boiled fiction, Gothic and terror novels – and takes many forms, one feature of Noir stands out: the one of the immobilized man.
The Immobilized Man
The immobilized hero lives in the city, yet he’s single and alone. No matter how he likes to observe others, he’s an outsider and doesn’t establish contact with people.
He is anti-materialistic, writes in the first person, holds few possessions, and he searches inside himself for answers rather than looking at the outside world.
Feeling superior to others, he’s rather frustrated that others ultimately can’t recognize him. On the other hand, he has a constant love-hate relationship with himself.
He considers himself an artist, regardless of whether he is or not, and believes that he sees the world uniquely with the whole truth revealed, which is the reason for his feeling of superiority over others.
The immobilized man is confined to his room, and is additionally immobilized by his inability to emotionally connect with other people, least of all women.
His accumulated frustration and anger usually results in suicide. By murdering himself, he’s actually killing the part of him that makes him a being like everyone else – a haunting thought for him.
A variation of the immobilized man theme is to be found in Dostoyevski’s ‘Crime and Punishment’, regardless of the fact that it was written in the third person.
Emotional Tone in Noir
The prevailing emotions in Noir fiction are: depression, apathy, fear, amorality, and paranoia. The Noir hero is the loser, the weak-minded, the psychopath, the sociopath, the obsessive and compulsive.
The character(s) are destined to suffer, to confront the darkness inside them. Whether they live or die is beyond the point; the core of swimming into this darkness is what matters.
As a literary reference, Noir can be used for any work – especially one involving crime – that is remarkably dark, cynical, complex and pessimistic.
After reading a Noir book, the reader is left with a bad taste in his mouth, a suspicion in the eye, and an anxiety at heart. Facing the darkness is not an easy thing to do, after all.
PRACTICE
For fifteen minutes write about a character that portrays ‘the immobilized man’. When you’re finished, post your practice in the comments. Don’t forget to support other fellow practitioners too.
The pain in and behind his eyes was familiar like an old adversary, as was the stale taste of cigarettes and alcohol in his mouth. He hadn’t ask himself why – he knew why – neither had he said never again. This wasn’t the last time that he would get a load on and wake feeling like shit in the middle of the next day.
He stumbled through to the galley to make coffee, but could only manage to dry wretch into the sink. He had thrown everything up outside the club when they pushed him out sometime after two this morning. All that was left was that painful yellow bile. He ran the tap to flush out the sink only to remember that the water tanks were empty. They had been for two days now. He just hadn’t gotten round to filling them. A mixture of despair and anger threatened to overwhelm him as he rubbed a loose tear from his unshaven face.
Voices rang painfully in his head, ‘Pull yourself together for God’s sake! It’s been three months, get over it and get on.’ Get over it! How the hell do you get over something like this? This, this ‘thing’, that tears you apart so completely and destroys your life as you know it; leaving behind a dysfunctional shell, good only for pity or scorn, getting pissed and falling down. What the hell do you know anyway? You don’t know how I feel, how my heart physically hurts inside my chest. You don’t know how it is to lay alone at night barely able to breath, and not even sure if you want to go on doing so anyway. What the hell do you know! Have you been through this. Have you been here! Well, have you! No, I thought not. You’re just a talking cliché dispenser. A Readers Digest expert on everything and nothing!
His head was pounding. His eyes burned. As he ran a shaky hand across his grey, clammy face, he wondered if he could connect the water hose and fill the tanks in his current state, or was it better to just give in to it and lay down again hoping it would all soon go away. He didn’t want to go outside; didn’t want to be seen in this state again. They all knew that he was messed up and getting worse each week, but he saw no point in parading the fact before them. He looked through the galley porthole, his sore, bloodshot eyes checking for anybody walking down the dock, or loitering around on another boat close by. It looked clear.
“Come on, you can do this,” he tried to tell himself. “Sod them anyway! You used to be better than any ten of these dock admirals, these judgmental, been nowhere, done nothing arseholes.”
His words didn’t reflect his feelings, but some tattered remnant of his self respect moved him forward. Memories of his past flashed into his troubled mind, jolting his consciousness with the stark contrast between who he once was, and who stood here now. He tried to hold onto those fleeting memories of his past self, tried to muster a little inner strength.
Good work Al! There’s some strong writing in here. In particular I like the angry outburst in the middle of the piece. The talking cliche, a Reader’s Digest expert. Great lines.
Great flow of stream of consciousness Al!
August 4 – 3:32 a.m.
I had another dream about you last night. Twenty minutes ago, and I felt the loneliness so intense, the emptiness so immense, that I woke up in physical pain. This is not uncommon in your absence and I suspect will become more
routine than I would hope or could possibly handle. We shall see.
The elementary school burned down yesterday. The siren sounded about two in the afternoon and luckily the fellas and I were already geared up for a practice drill, or we might’ve been even later. I say later, not late, because however timely our fashion in responding to the alarm, so clever was the arsonist that the fire spread across the entirety of the south wall, collapsing the classrooms on the second and third floor of the Taft building. 14 kids died before we arrived, countless others unconscious and the rest screaming or choking. Officials are letting their imaginations run wild again, speaking of plots and organizations and wing-nut liberals and sketchy republicans. I can almost promise you the guilty party is a troubled teenager, late teens or maybe twenty. But I digress.
This little girl embraced me while I pulled kids from room 32. Jeff and the guys fought the flames from the outside while myself and Ortiz searched the chaos in the building, searching for safety and order. I pull kids out of this obstructed, this utterly destroyed classroom 32 and ran them to the safety
of the exit down the hall. Beckie, if you saw this girl who clutched me, who absolutely latched onto me, you’d burst into tears much like you did in my dream last night. This child so resembled our Katie and when she looked into my eyes I nearly collapsed there in the hallway.
Though this innocent and possibly broken soul couldn’t have known of the memories she pulled from deep inside the graveyard of my mind, I felt a loathing, a detestable repugnance to her entire being. She so resembled our Katie. And the frightened, stupid child would not release from my neck when I took her outside.
All night I tossed and turned and wondered if, when fire took the house, did Katie have the same look in her eye as this wretched child who so tugged at my heart strings? All night I chased you and Katie, you were ghosts, Beckie. Flames engulfed our immediate surroundings and first you streamed tears, then you disappeared. I followed. You faced me–pale, translucent–and bestowed on me glances of malevolent dislike. As I chased you both, chanting stupidly, ‘Apologies! Apologies!’ and the cold water leaked from my eye corners, you faced me still, floating backward through the night. Whispered not a word nor waved a motion with your hands, you only clutched Katie in your
arms and drifted, sped, backward through the night.
I would have been in cold sweats after that dream, Karl! “The graveyard of my mind” – great phrase. Nicely done.
you have a sense of impending doom from the very beginning…. but the way it’s been written makes you wanna get there (or is that just me?) CLASSIC! also Paul Owen beat me to it but “pulled from deep inside the graveyard of my mind”, wow!!
great practice :))
Great job Karl. I especially like that you’ve picked a letter form. It gives space for clearer expression than telling it verbally or as a stream of consciousness.
By the way, Sophie, what an interesting post today. I did a book report on ‘Frankenstein’ in high school and it’s been one of my favorites ever since. Learning that it is Noir Fiction is very interesting. And Dr. Frankenstein very much fits into the Immobilized Man category, no?
Great post to start off the week! 🙂
Thanks Karl! I’m glad you enjoyed the post. Frankenstein can be in the immobilized man category, even though he’s not really a man 🙂
Well the monster is not, but the doctor who created him certainly is!
“Together. Forever.” we used to say, my brother and I.
We were born together, just under two minutes apart, and were dumped into an orphanage, together, by our “mother”. A man named Jimmy Carson, and his wife Gloria Defoe, adopted us from the orphanage and we lived in a quiet little sub-urban town.
I was 15 when it happened. Someone broke into our house and “dad”, in his hysteria, bought a gun and shoved it into the kitchen counter.
Unfortunately, the very next day I came home early from school. Going to my room, I threw my bag on the bed when I heard some noises coming from my brother’s room. I tip-toed towards his room and found the door unlocked. Curios, and a little bit confused, I pushed the door open and saw him giving a blowjob to Brett Malkovich.
I remember the rage that swept over me. I remember the crazy madness I felt as I ran towards the kitchen. I remember him following close behind. I remember his vehement apologies. I remember me opening the counter.
That was the first time, in a long time, a gun was fired in our reticent little town.
I got nothing but a few years in juvie, and then I escaped.
Well, here I am today, standing with a rose in my hand, and as I throw the virgin flower on his grave I mutter – “You deserved it, you f-ing fag.”
I like the irony of him visiting the grave and even bringing a flower. This character definitely fits! Although I really don’t like him, but then you’ve made me feel something, haven’t you? 😉
i kinna fiction-ized an incident that happened in the neighborhood, so it really wasn’t that difficult to bring out an unlikable character. thanks for reading ;)))
Oh no, this is too homophobic for my taste. 🙂 It does make an interesting story though.
felt weird writing it… but you know, once the idea is in there (in the mind) you’ve got to get it out!! thanks for reading, though :)))
There is no escape from the gray. It filters in through the window panes. It burrows deep under your skin like ticks. Just when you think that colour will flow from god’s pen and paint the world in primary-coloured glory, the dripping clouds drag themselves across the sky, grating at its edges and blotting out the prismic sun.
This is where I sit. In gray. In my musty, damp, moldering-sponge room of gray. But I control the world from here. You are small and pathetic. All your hopes for bringing back the green, all your struggles against my power, will not long survive the gray. It is more than a colour scheme, more than a mood. It is a way of being. My way of being.
Light, colour, wind, trees, all were taken from me. My city reduced to a concrete penitentiary. It was there that I was broken. There that men in gray suits ordered men in blue uniforms to strike back at the mob. We were many, we were all. We were angry.
Tankerships had collided in the bay, spilling crude oil that formed an ocean of death. Rainbow fish, green-necked mallards, emerald sea vegetables and unnumbered pelicans were coated in the inky monochrome of money. White and red flecked beaches, and the festive branches of shrubs, and the wooden canoes of cottagers were all blotted out by the money of the men in gray suits. We were angry.
I rushed the ranks of the riot police, eyes burning with fury and tear gas. Together, we pushed back the rows of blue clad enforcers. Their boots slid on the asphalt. We were legion, we were many, we were all. I did not see the first weapon drawn from its holster. Did not hear the order given across shortwave radio to the helmets of the enforces in their blue, tactical gear. The many drew back and I stumbled, no longer many, no longer all. I was one, staring down the ranks of hired guns in uniform. They struck hard, knocking me to the ground with plastic shields. Their batons whistled around me. They were many and I was one.
I heard the crack of my skull breaking. Felt the snap of steel on my neck. I still feel the snap and hear the crack. I see the boot bearing down on my face. I feel nothing now. Hear nothing now. See nothing now. I am one in the gray. But the many saw the boot and heard the crack and rushed back into that merciless line. Angry. The many broke like pottery on the hard place. I called them back. We are many, we are all. We are angry.
I had a plan. There would be no escape from the gray.
I love how you paint the imagery before describing the actual events. I also liked how first they were all together and then he was alone. What a great practice!
Thank you Karl. The gray vs. colour theme is a big piece of my work in progress. I wanted the villain to hate colour because colour is what was taken from him.
Nicely done!
I can feel the anger running through the text; anger and determination.
What was the inspiration?
Thanks! It’s for my work in progress, the idea of the immobilized man sparked something. I had an antagonist faction but no head villain guy. For inspiration? I re-watched V for Vendetta recently 🙂
This is fantastic – would love to read more! It’s been a gray day around here; hope it doesn’t start burrowing under my skin 🙂 Your description of the mob is vivid, and I felt like I was right there. Thanks for sharing
Wonderful! It definitely brings dramatization with the repetition of ‘We are many, we are all. We are angry’. And the gray aspect pushes the theme in an uncharacteristic way.
Fantastic imagery! It suited the feelings of cynicism very well. The first passage and the one of the tankerships, I especially liked.
The ants on the pavement outside my apartment are scurrying even more than usual today. Look at them, full of their own self-importance as they rush to their pathetic little jobs in the morning and back to their pathetic little homes in the evening.
There’s one now, I’ve seen him before – with a ridiculous hat on his head: who does he think he is, Napoleon? He carries a briefcase and an umbrella, doubtless thinking that it makes him look important, but he doesn’t fool me.
I revert my gaze to the interior of my cave, my hovel, my haven. My, my: it’s all mine, and it’s all that I have. The bookcases were filled a long time ago, the shelves double stacked so that I now have no idea where anything is. Piles of more recently acquired books, mostly unread, occupy the unwanted spaces between the crumbling furniture.
In words, I am a rich man, all the knowledge of the world is piled up in front of me here. And yet it is all so much flim-flam, noise, much ado about nothing. I’ve read all of the books that have actually made it on to the shelves, and I have learned everything, and yet I know nothing. All we have is a quantification of our own ignorance, our feeble attempts to understand everything simply mean that we end understanding nothing.
I feel sorry for the ants, they labour under the delusion that their efforts actually mean something. I, on the other hand, have seen through the charade: I am the only one that really knows what life is about.
Do you want to know? Do you really want to know? I’m not sure that you will be able to handle it, the truth, the harsh reality. Your feeble mind would probably explode if you were ever to have it all revealed to you: your eyes would be burnt out in a flash, as if you had watched an atomic bomb explode in front of you.
Ah, you see, I’ve given it away now. Were you smart enough to spot it? I thought not. The secret of life is very simple – it’s death.
I love the flow of this, Bernard. Nice contrast when your character compares himself with the ants. I like the line about learning everything, yet knowing nothing. Thanks for sharing!
Great characterization Bernard. I like the literary references that this book lover makes… flim-flam, much ado about nothing. It looks like simple dialogue but references something else.
Nice work Bernard! You’ve created a great character here in a short space of time without having to actually describe them at all. If that makes sense. i like it. I’d love to see a longer story where we find out what happens when he is taken OUT of his appartment…
Thanks Kate. I’m not sure that any of us want to find out what happens when this person is taken OUT of his apartment – it might not be pretty!
Ladies and gentlemen, here comes the Immobilized Man. 🙂 Perfectly described Bernard!
I can’t believe they called my name. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I shouldn’t have come.
Ohhhh, I looked forward to it for years, bringing reality to life. But what actually happens is never as good as what’s in my head. Except when I masturbate.
I told myself this would be some existential journey no one else would truly understand. But I was supposed to just sit and observe in peace. The odds said I would be left alone. Is mathematics not sacred anymore? There was less than 1 percent chance of getting called. Naturally, I didn’t have to use a calculator to come up with the number. Yes, I have a TI something, but bought the thing to remind me of its uselessness. It was one of my few splurges. Totally worth it.
Maybe I could pretend to run down but turn at the last second and sprint for the bathroom. Has anyone ever done that before? Of course not. I’d be the first. And what would they do about it? Nothing. They couldn’t force me back. If worse came to worse, I could feign diarrhea from the stall.
Here goes nothing.
But look at that woman in front. From back there, I respected the cheap mumu. But the pockets are torn off so it’s not even practical. If it weren’t for the giant pockets in my cargos, I’d be in a nudist colony. The guy beside her is just as worthless. Why is he looking at me like that?
That’s it. I’m going to do it, if just to prove my point. Do you think they’ll need help guessing the price of a barbecue grill or grandfather clock? How funny! I can just see grandma there counting on her hands. Too bad you can’t put a calculator in your non-existent pockets, you old bat.
Here comes the model. Yes, I’m sure you’re very proud of yourself, you walking clothes hanger. I’m sure you’re very proud of using your looks to the complete abandonment of everything else. And you’re strutting around to what? Ohhh to reveal a new stove. Your parents must be so proud.
Grandma bid one thousand six hundred dollars? Are you kidding me? Thank Nonexistent God I’m observant. My rich uncle has that model in his house. I know because I make fun of it every time I’m there. He doesn’t know it; he couldn’t tell sarcasm if it bit his neurosurgeon ass. Now my keen eye is going to pay off. The guy beside me bid one dollar. This is going to be so easy.
My turn. “The price IS eight thousand two hundred and thirty dollars, Drew.” Yes, yes, let the audience snicker. “You sound awfully confident,” Drew Carey said back to me. He was never good at improv. I’d love to say “Stick to scripts and diets, Drew,” but you know the old saying: if you can’t say something nice about someone, blah blah blah.
What is he doing? He didn’t even wait for my response. Screw him. I don’t care what he thinks. This is MY journey.
Here it comes. Drew is looking at his card.
One thousand six hundred and eighty five dollars? That’s total bullshit. I’m not surprised he changed it when he heard my bid. Why can people never be wrong? It’s disgusting. The world is disgusting. Next time I’m going to bid two dollars. Let’s see them deal with that.
Oooo Newbie, you got him just right! I loved the inner monologue. The bit about the woman and the muu muu is exactly disdainful. A total, I hate me and everyone else character.
Agreed with Audrey, you pretty much nailed it. I wonder why he attended a live game show in the first place BUT that’s neither here nor there! I was expecting his guess to be correct, and that would have been pretty impressive for him. A redeeming quality, if you will. Because you don’t talk about Drew Carey that way, Mr. So-and-so!
Good job Newbie. You’ve been here for a while? I might just start calling you “Writer.” 😉
LOL thanks! 🙂 I still consider myself a beginner but may change the name at some point. I was actually writing a version where he got up on stage to play Plinko (a non-materialistic person winning tons of money could have fun inner monologue) but ran out of time. Thanks for the comments!
Ha, such a sarcastic fellow. Loved the inner monologue.
There’s at least a couple of them every night, staring, trying to guess if I am or I’m not. I’d tell them if they asked but of course they’re too embarrassed to. How much, flat noodles, thin noodles, no meatballs, extra bean sprouts, dry or soup, that’s all their conversation ever amounts to. And those quick glances sideways at each other, wondering… wondering… wondering.
The girls with their boyfriends, well I don’t give a damn about them. They won’t be coming after me. I’m just an oddity to them. But the pairs of tittering best friends, the old tai-tai with her friend from the retreat centre across the road, the nuns… ahhhh the nuns. It’s all about possibilities isn’t it? One can dream can’t one? Even if it’s all running away from me, these years. Even if my looks are only going one way… down.
There was the girl yesterday, a luscious little bitch with white skin and a border accent. How she stared. And not with that measuring assessing look like most of those other women, but with a real look of wonder, like she was struck by lightning … me!
It’s been a long time, I tell you, since some girl gave me that look. I pulled back my shoulders, stuck out my hips, raised my eyebrow to ask her what she’d have.
“Plain,” she said. “The cheapest, whatever it is.” She smiled, a shivering rosy lipped embarrassed smile.
I added three meatballs and a wink.
She thanked me with another smile, brief, blossoming.
“You want to have coffee with me later,” I asked her. “When I’m finished with all this.” My responsibilities, I meant. My managing this whole bustling enterprise of a noodle stall.
I saw her nod.
Scored one for the night, I thought. Although I did wonder then what kind of girl would have me… me? And how I’d get all of it done without her knowing…
Not that I had time to worry about that. We were hopping busy. It was good enough I could hear her there in the far corner, slurping up her noodles a storm. Then sipping the Fanta Grape I managed to slip her in between customers. And a piece of mango from my own dinner bucket.
She thanked me nicely for that one. Gave me a quick peck on the cheek.
“So smooth,” she said when her lips touched my face.
And then, just as the fat lady from the print shop down the road called out to me for three of my specials, the bitch was up and running down the street, laughing.
“You moron! You think I’d give myself to a stupid butch just for a bowl of noodles!?
Hell. I should know by now. Nothing’s real. Not those street girls and ladyboys with their fluttering eyelashes. Not me with my swagger and the rag rolled up between my legs. We’re all a freak show, for the ladies across the road, the nuns who don’t know better… Yup, that’s what we are
Great job setting the mood here. At the end when he says “Nothing’s real,” to me that established the emotion he felt at the beginning. Great read =]
I actually said “ouch” when I read this 🙂 We’ve all had those unreciprocated moments (it says that’s not a word but I’m using it). Love the words luscious little bitch.
Wow, I loved this Audrey. You should definitely make a story out of it.
Well written and informative article! Clearly describes and defines Noir characterization! Shared with G+ circles!
Thanks! I really appreciate it.
Harry,
I always loved how you treated Jello. That obese, fading-orange cat of yours. I thought it cute at first, how you never let him out. You were logical about it. There were other cats outside, mean cats that were faster and had sharper claws than Jello. Surely, their claws could rip open Jello’s soft belly, so full of the tiny meals of fresh salmon you cooked so extravagantly for him. If there was one thing you did better than anyone else, it was your cooking.
But then something happened, Harry. Something that changed. I could see it in Jello, in the way his meow grew wretched and taut. In the patches of hair I would find underneath pillows and the scratch marks on the windows and doors. But, you didn’t notice. Why did you stay alone so much? Why was I the one making the calls?
Soon you wouldn’t even pick up. I had to use the spare key I have, had. You wouldn’t speak to me. You told me to no longer wear my work clothes, my blouses and shirt-sleeves and dresses that I thought you had liked. But, you looked at them and their colors with that cold, hard look that you have become so comfortable with.
But, I still remember that day, that first day we met. It was because of Jello, wasn’t it? He’d gotten out, found the open door to the hallway and wobbled all the way down those twelve floors, down to my floor. I remember that first meow of his, his hopeful eyes, his warm-orange body, and how when I lifted him, I could feel his body pulling my arms back down.
You soon came to me, and I could see that your eyes were strained from looking for Jello. I took you out for dinner. It was struggle and we compromised on going to the little Italian place across the street. You didn’t want to go any further away. When you ordered your spaghetti devoid of all sauce, cheese, toppings, and after asking about the water used to boil, the temperature, and the noddles, you looked at me and I saw how hungry you were.
Liz