"City of Light" by Dave Warner is a kaleidoscopic plunge into Fremantle's seedy underbelly, and if nothing else, it's brimming with character. The novel's structure is split into three distinct parts, set in 1979, 1986, and 1988. The prose itself has more colour than a Mardi Gras parade, with Warner laying it on thick. He doesn't just tell you about the grime on the streets of Freo; he rubs your nose in it. That said, if you're after a fly-on-the-wall view of the city's underworld and don't mind the occasional bit of local slang, that'll leave non-West Australians scratching their heads. In that case, you're in for a vivid, if occasionally overwhelming, experience.

Warner blends grisly murders with a sardonic, dark humour. It's as if he's giving us a knowing wink: "Sure, it's dark, but let's not get too melodramatic, shall we?" This juxtaposition keeps the tone buoyant even when things get rather macabre, which is no small feat. Our protagonist, Snowy Lane, has more layers than a mille-feuille, though the rest of the cast is like Tinder dates, swiping in and out of his life before you've really gotten to know them.

I was all set for a classic serial killer chase, the kind where you get plenty of clever sleuthing and a bit of witty banter, but then the middle section swerves. It's as complicated as trying to explain the finer points of cricket to an American, and I found myself zoning out, waiting for the action to kick back in. It's the kind of convoluted plotting that begs for a bit of judicious trimming.

Speaking of excess, this book has more testosterone than a footy locker room after a win. The machismo is laid on thick, with scenes of beers, bets, and a whole lot of bedroom antics. Warner doesn't hold back in making Snowy the object of every woman's desire, to the point where it feels like Snowy's libido is a plot device in itself. Yes, there's a certain roguish charm, but it starts to feel like a one-note fantasy after a while.

Then there's the matter of those similes. Good grief. By the end, it was hard to shake the feeling that Warner might have been having a laugh at our expense. If there were a drinking game for every simile, the book would require a health warning. They're frequently amusing, but after a while, it's like being bludgeoned with them, leaving you wondering whether the narrative's tension has been swapped for sheer linguistic gymnastics.

All in all, "City of Light" has more excesses than an all-you-can-eat buffet and is about as subtle as a pub brawl. Yet, despite the flaws, there's a scrappy energy that's hard to dismiss. For those who appreciate a rough-and-tumble crime novel that doesn't take itself too seriously, Warner's opus is worth the ride; just don't expect to get out without a few eye-rolls at his rollicking simile marathon.

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