Do you remember when Hollywood films were intelligent, literate and original? Lucius Kluge does. Kluge – or Lucky, as he’s ironically known to his friends – came to Hollywood from England in the noughties hoping to make just such films, but failed to hit the big time. He now scrapes a slightly seedy living scoping house clearances for valuable antiques.
He not only works in antiques but, by LA standards, lives in one: a “one-bedroom guest cottage behind a restored jigsaw gothic in Angelino Heights. The big house is as venerable as they come in southern California.” Kluge is a man out of time: he writes cheques and refuses to own a smartphone. When his house clearance partner asks him, “C’mon, you never heard of Bacon Ninja? It was like No 1 in the iTunes store for, like, six months,” Kluge replies: “Raul, I barely even know what that means.” He saves his biggest ire, however, for comic books – which he blames for ruining Hollywood.
He’s settled enough in his misanthropy until a valuable cookie jar found in a house clearance leads to his boss ending up in hospital. Then his former best friend and writing partner, Glyn Perkins, goes missing. Could the two incidents be related? Kluge decides to investigate. What follows is a sort of picaresque caper and a homage to classic LA stories by such greats as James Ellroy, Raymond Chandler and the Coen brothers. There’s also a good dose of Scooby-Doo.
Though there are some excellent one-liners (“He was no oil painting – unless the painting was a Picasso”), the novel is more than just a spoof: Tim Walker brings to his plot the care of a proper crime novelist. Every detail is important and minor incidents or references take on great significance later on. As Lucky investigates, we learn more about why he hates comics so much. He sabotaged his own career when he was invited to work on a comic-book adaptation, Marshal Eagle. In front of the comic’s creator and a room full of studio execs, he described the hero as “Dick Cheney in a fucking cowboy hat” – and he never worked in the movies again. Meanwhile, Glyn Perkins became wildly successful and married Lucky’s girlfriend, Bijou.
Walker was the Independent’s LA correspondent, and Smoke Over Malibu is something of a hymn to the city: “LA is a secret city … there’s often no telling what tasteless horrors lurk beneath an alluring bar sign, nor what wonders hide in the plain sight of an unassuming strip mall.” Occasionally he overdoes it – there are too many references to roads, freeways and traffic – but one can forgive a few bum notes in a novel so consistently funny. Dealing with a particular dim policeman, Lucky says, “I watched an idea dawn on him by degrees, as if accompanied by ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’.” There are jokes about organic food nuts, hipsters, reality TV stars and especially the philistinism of popular culture:
“With great power comes great responsibility.”
“Voltaire?”
“Spider-Man.”
Every character is nailed with a deft line. Marty Kann Jr, the son of a comic-book publisher, “looked like a lumberjack. Or, to be strictly accurate, like a member of the Village People dressed as a lumberjack.” The names are worthy of Martin Amis: Bijou Perkins (“her voice was as husky as a coconut”), Cleo Habibi, Lucius Kluge; monikers to roll around the mouth like a good whisky. And the characters are written with real warmth, rather than being mere foils for Walker’s jokes. Smoke Over Malibu reminded me a little of This Book Will Save Your Life by AM Homes in its portrayal of LA misfits finding companionship. It’s a hardboiled story with a soft centre. Characters grow, wounds are healed and old friends become lovers. I can’t help thinking that it would make a great film, if only they still made films like it.
• Smoke Over Malibu is published by Heinemann. To order a copy for £18.99 (RRP £16.14) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99.
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