You are viewing content from the Westways magazine archives. Content and links may no longer be current.
By Tom Nolan
Recently, though, there's been much new interest in Macdonald's life and work: full-length radio dramatizations of two Lew Archer books, a major Macdonald biography, and publication this year of three previously unprinted Macdonald novelettes. Now, 25 years after Lew Archer's last case, readers are rediscovering how striking and poetic are Macdonald's descriptions of the Golden State, how piercing his glances into California's tarnished heart.
The Southern California Ken Millar and his wife, Margaret Sturm Millar (also a crime-fiction novelist), moved to in 1946 was a place of physical beauty and social optimism. On the brink of a postwar boom, California seemed manageable in size and nearly limitless in potential. And Santa Barbara, the town the Millars made their home, offered an especially attractive vantage point from which to witness the region and its natives. Ken Millar immediately began writing stories set there such as The Bearded Lady, a novelette in which he called his new hometown "San Marcos." San Marcos was a unique blend of western border town, ocean resort, and artists' colony.Millar gave himself a pseudonym, too, for the first Lew Archer novel, The Moving Target, in 1949. His publisher, Alfred A. Knopf, at first refused to buy Target. He relented when Millar said he'd sell it elsewhere under a pen name. Knopf not only published Target, but also used Millar's pen name, John Macdonald. Those were Millar's father's first and middle names. A complaint from another novice author, John D. MacDonald, prompted Millar to eventually change the pseudonym to Ross Macdonald. In The Moving Target (later the basis for the 1966 Paul Newman hit movie Harper), Millar/Macdonald consciously drew on hard-boiled conventions established by Dashiell Hammett in the late 1920s and early '30s and by Raymond Chandler in the '40s and '50s. So in Target and the next few Lew Archer books (there'd be 18 Archer titles in all), the detective went places a postwar reader would expect an L.A. private eye to visit: Sunset Strip clubs, gangsters' lairs, Malibu bordellos, dope takers' flophouses. I piloted the ramshackle elevator cage to the third floor and stepped out into an airless corridor. The brown numbered doors stood like upended coffins on each side, bathed in the static red flames of fire exit bulbs that dotted the landing at intervals. 307 was halfway down the corridor to the left.
Back to Westways Table of Contents
Copyright © 1998 - 2008 Automobile Club of Southern California. All rights reserved. |