The Past is Ever-Present in Ross Macdonald’s The Goodbye Look

What does Ross Macdonald say about the relationships between parents and children?

The Past is Ever-Present in Ross Macdonald’s The Goodbye Look

The intricacies of a family dynamic can be simply fascinating. Ross Macdonald explores a few recognizable intricacies in his novel The Goodbye Look, as multi-generational tales weave throughout what begins as a simple theft investigation. A self-identified amateur counselor (17-18), Macdonald’s detective Lew Archer encounters more than he bargains for with each new threshold he crosses. Archer is more of an observer than a detector, and he observes each family with an overlying assumption about all families. Children, no matter what age, remain children in the eyes of their parents. Macdonald shows the reader that parents and children share both a reciprocal blessing and curse: they provide a mirror image, they taunt, and they disappoint.

Nick, son of wealthy Irene and Larry Chalmers, should want for nothing, yet he is troubled. Nick’s parents cannot help but feel at fault, and turn a mirror on themselves to look for clues. Irene Chalmers admits that she and her husband have spent “thousands of dollars” (13) on their disappearing son over the years, between Pinkerton sleuths and psychiatry. And why not: he is their precious boy. Larry knows what it is to love a son and be loved by a dad. Irene says that her husband “still worships the ground his father walked on” (10) and “used to read [his war correspondence letters] aloud to Nick.” Larry sees much of his own personality in Nick, noting in one instance, “I suppose he got it by osmosis from me” (58). Lawyer John Truttwell suggests a historical and reciprocal mirror: “I think [Nick] idolizes his father, but feels he can’t measure up. Which is exactly how Larry Chambers felt about his own father, the Judge” (60). In the case of the Chalmers family, Macdonald shows us that the family mirror is more of a reflecting pool, with ripples that echo throughout.

Mirrors can reflect and repeat other behaviors, such as cruelty – the urge to taunt. Kids can be so cruel, as the saying goes, but so can parents. Not to pile on the aphorism, but, “you always hurt the one you love” is cliché for a reason. Macdonald especially displays this behavior in the mother-daughter relationship of Jean and Louise. The reader doesn’t need to see this family confrontation to recognize it; nearly two pages of dialogue are simply overheard as the women hiss and spit their words. “You better take my advice” (72), Louise cautions, and, “You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?” (73), flies accusingly from her lips. Louise warns, “‘Don’t think you’re coming back to live with me,’ to which Jean snaps, ‘I wouldn’t stay if you begged me on your knees’” (73). Interestingly, not a half-page later, Jean herself begs to stay. Button-pushing is a generational inheritance. It is no coincidence that Jean refers to her missing father as “Daddy” throughout, though she’s nearly 40 years old. The childlike “Daddy” invokes a protector – a noble man cherished by his brood. “I’m going to find my Daddy” (75), she says, knowing it must drive her mother crazy. Giving the man who abandoned his family such a precious title is a deep cut, indeed. Children and parents have reciprocal ability to taunt, and it cuts both ways.

Macdonald provides a good amount of family disappointment and regret for every family unit in the novel. After her daughter’s death, Louise reflects “Poor Jean and I could never get along,” followed closely by “Jean should have listened to me” (134). Though Irene claims, “It doesn’t show but [John is] terribly emotional, especially where Nick is concerned” (64), John Chalmers later cautions his suicidal son, “You’ve got to act like a man” (57). Disappointment even purposefully rears its head, as in Betty’s admission that she intends to marry Nick “whether my father wants me to or not. I’d naturally prefer to have his approval” (23). A family unit is just that – a unit – as pointed out by John Chalmers: “I talked about our need to stick together” (91). Notice the word chosen is need, not want. That need creates the ties that bind, and that need can bring inevitable disappointment.

Macdonald weaves webs of family dysfunction throughout The Goodbye Look, and the reader familiarly nods. Personally, I certainly do. I am an only child, and there are many family dynamics I will never understand. I will never know a sibling, have to share a room, or even a piece of gum. To my now 80-year-old mother I will always be both her oldest and only, and I will always be her baby. I am a grown woman, yet she worries for my safety, offers to pay for flights home, and would speak to me daily by phone if I allowed it. She drives me nuts, and I return the favor – less so now with age. Macdonald gives us a glimpse of families which we may recognize or not, but families just the same. So it goes with all parent-child relationships: we are theirs and they are ours – scars and all – for better or for worse.

Recognizing a Bit of Ourselves in the “Little Fat Detective Whose Name I Don’t Know”

What are 2 or 3 significant personality changes Dashiell Hammett makes to the character of the detective as portrayed by Edgar Allan Poe & Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?

Recognizing a Bit of Ourselves in the “Little Fat Detective Whose Name I Don’t Know”

What was that man’s name…that fellow who solved the case? Does it matter? It does not. Poe and Doyle name their detectives, yet Hammett’s Continental Op remains nameless. His name is not important – it is his actions that speak for him, and to us. Poe’s Dupin and Doyle’s Holmes are impartial, confident and precise. Robotic impartiality, utter confidence and mechanical precision are seemingly godlike qualities. Traits such as those might be admirable and necessary in a detective, but where’s the humanity? Enter Hammett’s Continental Op. This fellow seeks sensation and delivers humor with a sarcastic deadpan. He is sloppy at times and always in the line of fire – often literally. He is the human gumshoe, the fellow who walks amongst us, doing his job so that we might live more safely on these mean streets. The Op appeals to the reader on a more human level than Dupin and Holmes via his wit, his wits, and his fists. Hammett’s Op brings more human qualities to the role of the detective.

The Continental Op is downright funny. He’s sarcastic, self-depricating, and delivers an “in” joke to the reader with a very dry, deadpan wit. In “The Girl With the Silver Eyes,” in response to Pangburn’s description of Jeanne simply as the most beautiful woman in the world, he quips, “That would look nice on a reward circular.” A delicious zinger, yet shared only with the reader, not aloud. The Op is genuinely surprised as the crooks exit “The House in Turk Street,” and tells us, “According to the best dramatic rules, these folks should have made sarcastic speeches to me before they left, but they didn’t.” He gives us the information we need, along with a little light humor. Thanks for that, Op. We readers appreciate the humanness, shown in contrast to Doyle, for example, whose Holmes can be humorous, but not quite human.

While Dupin and Holmes may have their machinations detailed over several explanatory pages, Hammett’s Op talks us through the story. The Op tells it like it is, with no frills. He uses his wits – his experience, his gut – to follow the clues and solve the crime. He’s a thinker, certainly. The Op’s thinking is done on-the-job – recognizable for modern-day, hurried and busy readers. He thinks as he smokes, drives, eats, as he’s tied up, and even while he’s floating in San Francisco Bay. He has been doing his job a number of years and is proud of his tenure. He knows not to take Pangburn in “The Girl With the Silver Eyes” at face-value, and asks him for an endorsement or character witness. Like Dupin and Doyle, the Op’s instinct is to trust no one, for example Inés in “The Whosis Kid,” where he acknowledges, “I expected to disbelieve everything she said.” But our more human Op has quite a handful with Inés – literally cat-like on his lap. Dupin and Holmes had to deal with no such temptation. Quite a human challenge to overcome: being teased and cajoled while attempting to solve crime. Interrupted by the arrival of Billie, our Op, nearly at wit’s end, figures that he can play the jealousy card and get Billie to throw a punch. Physical violence allows the Op’s wits to outmatch even the strongest opponent.

In “The Whosis Kid,” the Op reminds us that, “The idea in this detective business is to catch crooks, not to put on heroics.” A fine sentiment, yet no sooner are the words out of his mouth than he’s struggling for control of a gun. Our Op craves action and seeks sensation in such a human way. Granted, Doyle placed Holmes and Watson in harm’s way, but our Op literally puts his body on the line, ass over teakettle, time and time again. Is it because he’s working for the Agency, or because that’s the kind of guy he is? There is an urge, in some of us, to push ourselves to the limit. The Op has that urge – call it testosterone – that drive that pushes him forward, getting into precarious situations.

 

The reader can admire or even be in awe of Dupin and Holmes, but does not necessarily want to be their friend. Our Op, on the other hand, would make a most enjoyable drinking buddy or guest at a weekend barbeque. He’s the fellow who will tell a fantastic story, and will keep an audience in rapt attention. Hammett knows that the reader does not need a robotic lecture. A reader wants to be spoken to, not spoken at. A more modern reader doesn’t need to be told tales, they want to have an experience. It might be thought that those who love to read are homebodies incapable of the need for action, but that’s far from true. Detectives like our Op bring us closer to the action every human craves. We need someone to trust – someone who will do the right thing and right wrongs. Hammett’s Op, as he says himself, is “constructed mostly of human ingredients.” By giving the Op those human characteristics – sarcasm, intuition, and violence – Hammett presents, for our approval, a Man – the Op – who could be any one of us, or at least a part of every one of us.