It isn't entirely Larry McMurtry's fault that his new novel [Cadillac Jack] gives off a strong sense of déjà vu—there has been a surfeit of C&W/good ol' boy themes in fiction and movies lately. The smirking shade of John Travolta's urban cowboy seems to hover over most of Cadillac Jack's mild adventures, though Travolta would be far too young to play in the film version. Even Willie Nelson—and this gets closer to the area of McMurtry's culpability—would be far too young. For Cadillac Jack is carrying around in his peach velour interior a case of apathy, depression and world-weariness that would seem to need at least 150 years of bitter and dispiriting living to engender.
In his fine novels of the Southwest, McMurtry appeared to invest great stores of emotional sympathy in his characters. They were often not particularly strong or admirable people, yet the loving, intense way the author followed them and their doings rendered them touching, interesting, always alive. It's hard to see any trace of that generous intensity in Cadillac Jack. Once in a while the book quickens into life—usually when Jack has made a profitable or peculiar antique trade—but for the most part the writing feels flatter than the landscape around Lubbock. Regrettably, the novel is written in the first person, and thus the mournful, jaded outlook of Jack is the only vision we get. And Jack, with his small, fruitless love affairs and his long, boring hours behind the wheel of his Cadillac, is the man to squelch everything down to the level of his own deep ordinariness.
This is a free excerpt of 262 words. There are 668 words (approx.
2 pages at 300 words per page) in the full critical essay.
Read the rest of this Criticism with our McMurtry, Larry (Jeff) 1936–: Critical Essay by Peter Prince Access Pass.
