Posts tagged John D. MacDonald

It wasn’t as if I intended to start my golden years early. Several decades early. But I had free time. All dressed up in a tweed jacket and vintage tie. All dressed up and no place to go. Except the thrift stores, antique shops and second-hand bookstores. So I wandered around town.

The antique shop was like any other antique shop. Loads of crap piled on cabinets, tables and bookshelves. Some of it was interesting crap. I hardly ever see a genuine straw skimmer anymore. I want one, but I didn’t want to pay $70 for one that was too small. So I kept looking. I found the cane in an umbrella stand. I didn’t need it. Still don’t. But I liked twirling it casually by the crooked handle. So I got it. For $7. Too bad the skimmer didn’t work out.

Then I was off down the street to the used bookstore. I twirled my cane as I went. God knows I don’t need more books. I have more than I can possibly read or store right now. But that never stops me. Fortunately for me, the bookstore was running low on quality literature. But I snap up anything I can find by John D. MacDonald. I love Travis McGee, but MacDonald’s other stuff is equally good. This was a non-McGee book called A Key to the Suite. For $2.50. Sold.

I tucked the book into my jacket pocket and strolled down the street twirling my cane. It occurred to me that I had jumped the gun. I was a little young to be a tweedy cane-carrier. With a book more than 50 years old, no less. But I wasn’t too concerned. The time will come. I’ll need a cane. And I’ll still be a gent with a necktie and a book in his pocket. Just an old gent by then. Might as well practice.

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Anonymous asked: What do you think of the role of women in The Big Sleep? Do you think Marlowe's Cynicism has anything to do with the way he views women?

This is an interesting question and once again confirms that I have (in the words of ordinarywonder) “the most well read, intelligent anons.”  I’m a bit mystified why anyone would ask such literate question anonymously, but I’m happy to answer all the same.

I think the role of women in Chandler’s novel’s is a product of cynicism rather than any prejudicial view of women.  Arguably that is not the case with all hardboiled fiction.  Spillane’s Mike Hammer takes some glee in the objectification of women.  And Travis McGee is a white knight who helps damsels in distress.  He not only vanquishes their tormentors, he can also cure all their hang-ups if they sleep with him.  

But I don’t find that in Chandler.  The women are pretty much like the men.  They all have an angle, and Marlowe’s unique virtue is that he is too stubborn to be a cog in anyone’s wheel.  He’s suspicious of everyone and resolutely self-contained.  

The women Marlowe comes across are unsavory, no doubt.  But are they all that different from the men?  In much of hardboiled crime fiction, I think so.  In Chandler’s case, I don’t think so.

I could be overlooking something, however.  Feel free to let me know what I missed.  And you might be interested in this profile of Chandler I wrote for Crime Fiction Lover last summer.

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It’s no secret that John D. MacDonald is one of my hardboiled favorites.  Random House is reprinting his Travis McGee novels, and I thought I’d take the opportunity to talk about McGee’s (and MacDonald’s) place in hardboiled literature.  So head on over to CFL for a “review” (such as it is) of The Deep Blue Good-by and a discussion of McGee—a beach bum and rather unqiue hardboiled hero.

Also, before you rush over to CFL, take a moment to admire the pulp art of Robert McGinnis, who illustrated a great many John D. MacDonald covers (both McGee books and standalones).  McGinnis was every bit the master that MacDonald was, and the pairing is inspired.  It’s like a pulpy seal of quality if I find an old paperback with John D. MacDonald’s name on it and cover art by Robert McGinnis.

But don’t just take my word for it. Go read the review, then take my word for it.

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The Fraternity

She was standing at the bus stop. Sounds like a Hollies song. But she had a wedding ring on, and I already had a moll. No romance here.  But she was still standing at the bus stop. Reading a book. I was curious. I glanced over to see what it was. It was a Robert B. Parker.

She saw me looking. Glanced up. I nodded. Pulled the Mike Hammer I had in my messenger bag and held it up. She smiled and nodded back.  She turned back to her book. I put mine away. Checked my watch and wondered when the goddamn bus would get there.

Nothing more was said.  Nothing more to say.  We were both members of the same fraternity.  It has no name.  Doesn’t need a name.  All it needs is a dirty world—and an avenging angel.  Or several: Spade, Hammer, McGee, Spenser, whoever.  Someone to tame the monsters in a dirty world.  

James Ellroy said the message of film noir is “You’re fucked.”  It isn’t just in the movies. It was in the books before that, and it’s still there.  That’s why we read.  And that’s why we have our heroes: they make sure the bad guys get fucked just a bit faster.  

That’s what this fraternity is about.  There may not be much justice around.  But there’s some “get fucked” vengeance stored away in books.  So we keep that alive—we’ll take what we can get.  We may not have anything else in common.  We don’t need anything else in common.  We just share little nods of recognition and respect.  Because we know who we are. 

We keep the avenging angels alive.  Every time we turn a page.

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Continuing with literature porn from the book sale, here are two hardboiled greats with similar last names.  Ross Macdonald (born Kenneth Millar) is widely regarded as the third member of the hardboiled trinity, right alongside Hammett and Chandler.  I’m not so sure if he deserves such a lofty perch, but Macdonald is certainly one of the greats.  Here we have Lew Archer novels The Doomsters, The Galton Case and The Wycherly Woman.  Early Lew Archer short stories were collected as My Name is Archer.  And The Ferguson Affair is a rare non-Archer mystery from Macdonald. Ross Macdonald originally wrote under the name John Macdonald (and then John Ross Macdonald) so his writing would be considered on its own merits—and not because of his wife Margaret Millar’s popular mysteries.  Macdonald switched from John to Ross so as not to be confused with established pulp and hardboiled scribe John D. MacDonald. John D. MacDonald does not enjoy quite the critical esteem that Ross Macdonald does.  Nonetheless, his Travis McGee novels are genre classics.  Here we have The Deep Blue Good-by, The Scarlet Ruse, Cinnamon Skin and The Lonely Silver Rain.   John D. MacDonald and Ross Macdonald both wrote hardboiled fiction, but were very different otherwise.  Macdonald’s Freudian Archer is a far cry from the more heroic McGee.  But both are important in the development of hardboiled crime fiction.

Continuing with literature porn from the book sale, here are two hardboiled greats with similar last names.  Ross Macdonald (born Kenneth Millar) is widely regarded as the third member of the hardboiled trinity, right alongside Hammett and Chandler.  I’m not so sure if he deserves such a lofty perch, but Macdonald is certainly one of the greats.  Here we have Lew Archer novels The Doomsters, The Galton Case and The Wycherly Woman.  Early Lew Archer short stories were collected as My Name is Archer.  And The Ferguson Affair is a rare non-Archer mystery from Macdonald.

Ross Macdonald originally wrote under the name John Macdonald (and then John Ross Macdonald) so his writing would be considered on its own merits—and not because of his wife Margaret Millar’s popular mysteries.  Macdonald switched from John to Ross so as not to be confused with established pulp and hardboiled scribe John D. MacDonald.

John D. MacDonald does not enjoy quite the critical esteem that Ross Macdonald does.  Nonetheless, his Travis McGee novels are genre classics.  Here we have The Deep Blue Good-by, The Scarlet Ruse, Cinnamon Skin and The Lonely Silver Rain.  

John D. MacDonald and Ross Macdonald both wrote hardboiled fiction, but were very different otherwise.  Macdonald’s Freudian Archer is a far cry from the more heroic McGee.  But both are important in the development of hardboiled crime fiction.

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This slim pulp volume was an exciting find.  It was a puzzling read, however.  Any anthology is likely to be a mixed bag, and some of the stories in Dolls are Murder are better than others.  Brett Halliday’s “Human Interest Stuff” has a neat twist at the end.  Raymond Chandler’s “I’ll Be Waiting” is a non-Marlowe story that is still well worth your while.  Some stories are good, some are serviceable.  None are unendurable.

The title of the book, however, is misleading.  This is not a collection of stories about femmes fatale, as the cover implies.  Many of the stories have no women at all.  I’m not sure who picked the title or cover illustration for this book.  Be that as it may, Dolls are Murder is a decent (if short) collection of mystery stories.  And the cover (whatever its other shortcomings) is gorgeous.

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Sunday Morning

You wake up one Sunday.  This is not new.  You wake up next to a beautiful woman. This isn’t new, either.  But it’s good.  You’re lucky.  This isn’t a one-night stand.  Neither of you will be doing the walk of shame.  So you kiss her.  She’s still sleepy, but he she stirs long enough to kiss you back.  Then you read while she sleeps.  

John D. MacDonald is a more than adequate companion.  So is Travis McGee.  It’s a good morning.  Especially after she wakes up.  So you read the news to her.  Except no one subscribes to a newspaper anymore and you read it off a damned smartphone.   But you enjoy being with her too much to worry about the future of newsprint or.

Sooner or later you both get hungry.  So she is off to the kitchen and you follow.  You notice the bottle of bourbon.  It’s Old Grand-Dad.  Good stuff.  Maybe not the good stuff.  Not too expensive, but good stuff.  Stuff you recommended, she reminds you.  And you’re proud of her.  She was drinking all sorts of fruity pink shit when you met her.  Now she’s drinking Old-Fashioneds and whiskey neat.

She peeling potatoes while you admire her.  Admiring her taste in booze, and just plain admiring her.  Even while she was grating potatoes.  She notices and says you don’t have to watch her.  Of course you want to.  But you go and get your book so you can do it more surreptitiously.  You sit down at the little table and set your book there.  

She’s starting to fry the hash browns.  You’ve read enough this morning, so you go take over at the skillet.  She likes it when you fry things.  You like to make sure everything gets suitably brown and crispy.  You add some more oil to keep the potatoes sizzling.  You add plenty of salt and pepper.  You heap the hash browns on two plates and fry up two eggs, too.  She likes hers sunny side up.  You think that’s disgusting, so yours goes a little longer.

The eggs sit atop the hash browns.  You’re ready for brunch.  But maybe not.  You decide an Old-Fashioned would be good.  It’s already noon anyhow.  Not too early to drink on a Sunday.  Anyhow, you remind her, cocktails are so called because they were created to be had in the morning.  Grab the cock by its tail.  With whiskey, presumably.  So you make two Old-Fashioneds.

Only as much water as sugar, you muse as you mix them up.  It’s astonishing how bars get such a simple drink wrong.  Water, sugar, bitters.  That’s all you need.  Then you pour in a slug of fine, sweet bourbon.  Some ice.  

The hashbrowns and egg are salty.  The Old-Fashioneds are sweet, spicy and stiff.  Your companion is charming and lovely.  She calls it brunch.  You’re not particular about the name, but you’re enjoying yourself.  What more could a man want?  

You glance at the little pulpy paperback.  Its yellowed pages sit forlornly on the table.  It’s gotten ignored as you prepared and then ate the brunch.  But you don’t miss it too much.  You’ll read it later.  You don’t need it just now.  It’s out of place in such a domestic scene.  The eggs aren’t even hardboiled.  But that’s OK.  Not everything is.  Not everything has to be.

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ahandsomestark asked: I remember seeing on your blog a few months ago that you hadn't read much Ross Macdonald but had picked up a few of his books. Have you had time to read anymore of him since then?

I have read more of him since my previous answer.  His novels are good, but I think they veer out of the hardboiled worldview (if I may call it that, instead of a genre).  Macdonald tried to modernize the hardboiled detective and perhaps humanize him.  In doing so he, he moves Lew Archer away from the pulpy, forceful roots of hardboiled fiction.  In so doing, he won critical praise for being more sophisticated than Hammett or Chandler (to say nothing of Spillane or Prather).  Macdonald was also devoted to Freudian explanations of human behavior.  This was all very much in vogue when he was writing, but is less so now.

More to the point, Otto Penzler regards noir and hardboiled as “diametrically opposed.”  I disagree with him.  I think that noir’s deeply pessimistic view of the world is reflected in good hardboiled fiction.  Philip Marlowe may be “not mean himself” (in Chandler’s famous words), but that does not really change the way the world works.  We see abundant noir fatalism in Chandler’s novels.  The “good guy,” such as he is, gets to watch everyone else tumble down.  But it’s the same bleak world.

But it isn’t the same bleak world in Ross Macdonald’s books.  People aren’t bad.  They have hang-ups and daddy issues.  It seems to me that this is actually a rather softboiled view of the world, despite the private eye protagonist.  Lew Archer wouldn’t turn Brigid O’Shaughnessy over to the police (as Sam Spade did), he would try to get her into therapy.  

I think John D. MacDonald dealt with some of the themes of alienation and angst that Ross Macdonald did, but in a far more hardboiled way.  A psychiatrist might not recommend this.  But a private dick shouldn’t do it any other way.

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