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This is definitely one of my favorites—it skillfully handles a tone that shifts from cynical to heartbroken. I like the last line better than Cathy does; I think that its plainness is part of its message.

I would want to suggest a few tweaks. L3 seems a little bumpy metrically, and “upped” in L4 doesn’t work for me. And in L13, “cause” should be preceded by an apostrophe.

Nice handling of rhyme, diction, and two turns (L 9 and L13)!

L4 - "upped" - Besides fitting the meter and varying the cliché, I think the poet may intend some mild innuendo, suggesting "screwed their applecart" perhaps. Also, "upped" gets a lot of stress I think, which helps some to liven up the applecart image.

L13 - "cause" in this sense is a difficult word to use in a poem. " 'cause " is grammatical but doesn't look all that good. "cause" runs the risk of being mispronounced by the reader. "cuz" looks very bad, IMO. Perhaps:

"...nose. In my real life"

L13 - Note "real life" contrasted with. "reel life" (not explicit in the poem). Maybe not intentional, just natural language, but subliminally there, if only for some readers.

"Film Noir"
 

I love the title, and I really, really, really love this sonnet, probably my favorite overall, thus far.

It's clever, creative, metrical, and unique. It's about the mundane but not in the form of the mundane . . . poetic.

I love the ending, wonderful!

I'd been pacing for hours trying to find the right words, and by the time I was ready to respond, moonlight was cutting through the blinds like a dozen silver bullets on my cheap carpet. Sure, the sonnet had moxie, but it was all tied up in knots, tighter than one of those broads at the bondage club on the bad end of Hollywood. I remember when it first waltzed across my desktop with this sob story 'bout some poor dame and Johnny what's-his-name, that nice guy: too nice, we all knew would never make it. What can I say, the poem knew how to talk the talk, right up to those violins, then the inevitable fade to black.

Next thing I know, the poem's got this cockamamie coda, like a banjo after a fancy Italian opera. They meet again and... what? Boom, happily ever after? Not in this town, sister. I'm from the City of Angels. The Big Lazy. Film noir is like a masseuse in Brentwood -- it doesn't do happy endings. Remember Johnny? He's doin' 20 to life with the Valley Fever Chain Gang north of Fresno. That dame played him for a patsy and got the old fart de-gassed to boot. That's noir, doll-baby. Those tears at the end, I think I know the crocodile you got 'em from.

When it all hit the fan, there were only two things I knew for sure. First of all, a romantic noir ending is like a Hollywood budget -- it's all lies. A poem that would chain itself to that idea will sink faster than a snitch in cement shoes, with a lead apron for good measure. Second, you gotta get that slanting half-light in there. You ain't got noir if you ain't got that chiaroscuro.

My first reading of this poem went well. But subsequent readings have got me feeling like Orson Welles in the funhouse scene from The Lady From Shanghai.

The title brings to my mind many associations, moods, and feelings. But practically all are missing from this poem or not developed sufficiently -- tantamount to the same thing.

Next is the "You" in line one. Is this the speaker, the husband, the reader, all of these or none? I don't know. I can find no logic, poetic or otherwise, for my not knowing.

Moving on ...

"Flash forward" -- does this refer to the non-linear narrative device? I thought it should, given the poem's title and the enumeration of story elements. But the happy-ending story elements in the sestet seem to follow in a linear way from those that precede them. The film title card seems to read "Twenty years later" (linear) instead of "Twenty years from now" (flash forward).

The ending falls flatter and flatter with each new reading. I don't know why.

My goodness, another mystery... does the speaker even know the man? Well, she knows he's got a wife. But what else is going on, if anything? I've been assuming there was an adulterous relationship here! But that doesn't have to be the case. Maybe the couplet doesn't really emerge organically from what precedes it. I don't know. Now I'm beginning to suspect there's no development in this poem. Hm.

It might be nice if the speaker had a sudden self-realization: in "real life" she's the blond tart and he's the old fart. I don't know.

. . .

I'll wager it's the title that's throwing me off -- wrong genre. There's more sentimentality than cynicism here. Romantic Comedy? Maybe a "screwball comedy" -- given zany diction like "war or bad karma upped their applecart" (v. 4)?

But I don't know.

It did work for me on the first reading. Or did it?

I like "upped."

Scott Miller -- I enjoyed reading your post!

I've always suspected this is how Angelenos really sound when they're not talking to out-of-towners. :)

Thanks, Paul!

LA is somewhat lit-poor, so we cling to our few heroes very tightly. Raymond Chandler is a local god, and you can workshop your noir poem with honest-to-goodness specialists in the field.

Scott--

Your poem is high up in my rankings. But on my display it's only 11 lines. So does it qualify as a sonnet?

--Woody