Bestseller Ide, creator of brilliant, streetwise young Los Angeles gumshoe Isaiah “I.Q.” Quintabe, puts on his grown-up shoes and reboots Raymond Chandler’s iconic and much beloved private eye Philip Marlowe for the 22nd century—a generation that may have never read the original “down these mean streets” guy.
Not that The Goodbye Coast is a bad read—far from it! It’s a solid, engaging, and often compelling read; a private eye novel that can hold its head high among its contemporary rivals. Not a classic, but definitely enjoyable, a noble attempt to “storm the citadel,” as Chandler might put it. There are enough fisticuffs and shootouts to keep things bouncing; enough lies, betrayals and twists of fate to give it a noirish tinge; and enough wry cynicism to give it that good ol’ hard-boiled edge.
Marlowe’s hired to find aging starlet Kendra James’ 17-year-old stepdaughter Cody, an unlikable brat who’s convinced that Kendra and her boyfriend murdered her father. And then, in a subplot more Idesque than Chandleresque, Marlowe agrees, reluctantly, to help Englishwoman Ren Stewart regain custody of her 7-year-old son, Jeremy, spirited away to California by her ex. All of which allows Marlowe to wander through Southern California’s diverse neighborhoods and assorted subcultures, finding most of them wanting, dropping pop culture references and brand names all over the place (Panda Express! Mel Brooks! Batman!) in distinctly un-Chandler-like language (the first “fuck” shows up by the second page).
Now, Marlowe’s been reimagined countless times in numerous media. Robert B. Parker and Lawrence Osborne did it in print; Robert Altman and Howard Hawks did it on the big screen. Most stayed more-or-less true to the source; others took bold creative leaps, but in almost all cases there were traceable amounts of Marlowe DNA.
Not here, where he’s barely recognizable. This isn’t your father’s Marlowe, although it does feature Marlowe’s father, of all people, as a major character.
Wait! Marlowe had a father?
Yeah. One of the most iconic detectives in all of crime fiction, the eternal lone wolf L.A. sleuth—the tarnished knight who in over 80 years had no kith or kin and never acknowledged any—now has an alcoholic ex-cop dad with whom he argues and occasionally works cases. Nor is Marlowe a humble working PI with a shabby Hollywood office and a small apartment that’s not much better, fingering his cherished moral code like an old scar—now he’s a prickly, high-priced private dick with expensive tastes (Designer clothes! Swanky watches! Snazzy cars! Gym membership!) living in a converted warehouse in Hollywood that’s shabby by choice, not economic necessity.
So… not a lot of Chandler here, beyond a certain generic shamus-ness that existed even before Chandler came along—and certainly became SOP after. Those eagerly expecting the bruised romanticism, smart ass wisecracks, shotgun blasts of cockeyed similes, and the sheer magic of Chandler’s prose dished up in rat-a-tat-tat first person will be disappointed. The Goodbye Coast is delivered in limited third-person omniscience, flipping frantically from viewpoint to viewpoint, about as foreign to Chandler’s style as a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake.
And yet, the story pays off, in surprising and satisfying ways. Just don’t expect Chandler. Or Marlowe—you’ll enjoy it more.