In the early 2000 I discovered—what would become a
goldmine of mine for the next decade or so—a gigantic used bookstore in
downtown Ottawa. Called The Book Market, it held three floors of
blast-from-the-past goodies verging from fiction to non-fiction. So you can imagine the thrill I felt that
first time around filling up my basket with many ‘80s glitz and glam novels;
aisles and aisles of them; so much so that as of today many titles in my overflowed
library are still unread. EMPRESS by Sylvia
Wallace (the other half of bestselling author Irving Wallace) isn’t one of them. I picked it up quite early, and with good
reasons. It’s all about “a woman on a dangerous pinnacle of love and
power” during her decadence days in Hollywood and beyond. And you all know by now how I feel about those
types of heroines in those types of novels: Heavenly!
You also know
that this feeling can easily turn on you when you least expect it, even when you’re
on the verge of declaring the novel a champion.
Yes, dear readers, that’s exactly what this Sylvia Wallace’s creation has
done to yours truly. This story of an
insecure movie star who naively marries a Middle Eastern Shah is such a grabber
at first, filled with many delectable and even emotional scenes. Wallace's
writing is vibrant as she introduces her colorful cast of characters via many
flashbacks, which skillfully humanize her heroine. The discovery of the sham
around her makes for an intense read. One can't help but root for her ability
to fight back. And does she. Yet, ironically, that's exactly where the downfall
of what was a truly unique reading experience begins: EMPRESS switches gears
and becomes a serious political drama. The author tries hard to hold her
readers through it, with a kidnapping, a shooting, a true love for oneself and
for a country, but it’s already too late. The damage is done. The thrill of
escapist fiction is gone, and EMPRESS ends up being just so-so. Perhaps Ms.
Wallace should have been told that politics and light reading don't mix very
well—in my case anyway.
The used
bookstore where I got tons of mass market paperbacks like this one is no
more. It has closed its doors in 2013
after many successful years. Another branch
still exists but like EMPRESS it barely fills my heart with joy since it is as
small as my reading room. But I am so
thankful of having discovered downtown Book Market because it led me to find
other unknown writers whom I came to love and cherish still. In the era of the digital publishing isn’t it
fun to own a piece or two of forgotten gem that shouldn’t have been?
OK, let me start this review by saying that of course I adore big family-oriented sagas with many sins and oh-so many secrets. I'm always the first in line when any book resembling what is already mentioned comes out. So imagine my joy when picking up (thirty odd years later, mind you) the paperback edition of MISTRAL'S DAUGHTER by the lady of all lady writers, Judith Krantz. The Judith Krantz who has made PRINCESS DAISY such a fun and addictive read. Not to mention the classic of all classics, SCRUPLES. Two great books which deserved all of their mega-successes.
Well, dear readers, I guess the saying three's a crowd is true, for Krantz's third novel may have been another smash to many eyes, but not so much to yours truly. Don't get me wrong, all the melodrama is in there: the innocent yet bold heroine, the manipulative and abusive foe, the temperamental but loving hero, steamy steamy love scenes galore... well, you get my drift.
Despite those pluses, somehow Krantz failed to capture the essence of her first two novels. The desire, the need to tell a great story behind the glitz and glamour is there yet missing. It's as if a wall has been built up between Krantz's talent and deadline, and her need to stay on automatic pilot was her safest bet.
Indeed, in her third outing originality is out the door and replaced by a paint-by-the-numbers plot and tiresome descriptions of sceneries and cathedrals. Yes, Mistral is a painter and Krantz tries her best to be true to him, but the line between reality and fiction can only be saved by editing and, alas, in Mistral's Daughter, editing is in constant need.
That said, the novel is still better than many releases out there. Judith Krantz is at her best when she lets her imagination run wild, and there are parts in Mistral's that are pure Krantz. The bowl of fruit scene, for instance, where Maggie, dressed in nothing but painted fruits, struts her stuff (in pre-second World War II) for all the world to see. Krantz can easily make the unbelievable believable. Plus any scenes involving the character of evil Kate is pure delight. The last one in which she discovers she will no longer be needed is so perfectly told I was enthralled by Krantz's talent as a writer. If only these sparks of ingenuity could have been constant, MISTRAL'S DAUGHTER would have been another hit in my eyes as well.
In the spring of 1981 a
high-school friend of mine—who shall remain nameless (Sophie Viola)—had the paperback copy of FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC in her hands. I asked her what it was about. “A girl who is possessed”, she answered. Cool, I thought. Since I had become an avid horror reader, I
was thoroughly interested. I quickly got
a copy of my own and plunged in. Suffice
to say, it was far from being what I expected. I also discovered soon afterwards that my friend was a pathological
liar, which didn’t surprise me really since I seemed to attract those types of
people at the time. The last I heard of
her she was living somewhere with someone while still owing me the 20 bucks I
had loaned her for the Olivia Newton-John concert back in ‘82.
Still, despite of my being conned
about the novel, I devoured FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC. In fact, I so couldn’t get enough of it that
I jumped right into its sequels. You
could say that this newfound addiction was the beginning of what I now call my
trashy period. Because from then on I
was glued, people, glued to this melodramatic world where good wins over evil
and life can be peaceful and gay again. Well,
peaceful at least. The gay thing would occur
a couple of years later.
It was during the time I knew
zilch about what supposedly makes a good novel, and to me, this one was the
bomb. Kids locked up in an attic, sex between
a bro and a sis, a crazed grandmother… How can you not love this? Well, it turns out that a lot of people didn’t,
calling it garbage, unreadable, a piece of crap. And you know what? Some 30 years later I still think they’re
wrong. The novel is far from being
perfect, I admit, but pure crap? No
way. It’s as engrossing as any “serious”
piece out there, and that includes the work from those ill-mannered guys.
Alas, the author died in ’86
and cannot defend her honor any longer.
But the Andrews clan can and did by simply continuing the VCA winning
streak, using Andrew Neiderman to take over and ghostwrite other books. He did a pretty good job finding the essence
of the late novelist but lost me right after the Runaway series which became
too YA for my taste.
As of now, six adaptations
have made it on screen, the latest being the last of the Dollanganger series,
SEEDS OF YESTERDAY (a seventh is on its way with MY SWEET AUDRINA airing next year on the Lifetime channel). Besides the
theatrical 1986 release of FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC which I enjoyed somewhat (“eat
the cookie!”), I admit I have yet to see them.
I don’t really intend to unless
there’s nothing else on TV which rarely happens. But if it does, I already have the films stored
up on my DVD player just in case. From
what I have seen of the new FLOWERS, however, it looks shoddily-made. But I could be wrong. We’ll see.
What I will always treasure
though is the love I had and still have for this spotlight book and for the
rest of the series. It filled my days
with joy, counterbalancing the hate I got for being different. I may have abandoned the Andrews wagon but I
will always remember the novels fondly. And
just so you know, I’m happy they turned out to be a whole different vibe from
what my friend at the time thought them to be.
Imagine FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC being about a girl possessed. Surely it would have been as forgettable as
many of the horror novels published at that time. So thanks for the tip, Sophie, wherever you
are. I still want my 20 bucks, though.
Ever since I heard how awfully wonderful 1949 BEYOND
THE FOREST was I made my life mission to track it down. But alas the journey to there has been far
from easy since the DVD version of the film is MIA in North America; something to do with rights or
some legal crap. Anyway, to make a long
story shorter, after years of coming up short I finally got my hands on a
copy. How? I will never tell. ‘Cause if I do, I’d have
to kill you. And I would have none of
that. You guys mean too much to me. But let just say that the find was unexpected
and so worth it.
The film stars the great Bette Davis. In it she plays a restless aging small town doctor’s
wife who sports not only a Morticia Adams black wig but has an Alexis Carrington
bitchiness about her that makes you smile a lot. Chewing the scenery whenever she can, she struts
her tush aplenty, uttering kitschy
lines like the infamous “what a dump”
(regarding her modest house) to her amorous but impoverished hubby Joseph
Cotton who mostly ignores her antics. And
just like Alexis, she uses her charms and cunning ways to get what she wants, most
noticeably when hooking up with city-based business man Neil Latimer who promises
her the world. But when he doesn’t hold
his end of the bargain Davis is humiliated and forced to settle back to a life
she hates.
When she is expecting a child from her husband later
on and on the verge of accepting her fate as a small-town citizen, Latimer reappears
and announces that he wants her after all. Enthusiastic to say the least, Davis
plans an escape route that involves the murder of her hubby’s BFF who wants to
throw her under the bus; a quick trial; a self-imposed miscarriage by jumping over
an embankment; and a trudge toward an awaiting train that ends up being one of
the longest scenes in movie history. In
between you get an overall keen eye from director King Vidor, a wonderful score from famed composer Max Steiner (GONE WITH THE WIND), a definitive film noir
look from Hitchcock’s fave cinematographer Robert Burks, and plenty of over the
top moments from la Bette.
Rumor has it that Davis was contractedly forced to
make BEYOND THE FOREST and that she was less than a happy trooper. Fights with the director and producers led to
an unhappy set. Still despite her overblown
performance she manages to be quite effective as a long in the tooth crazed vixen. The novel on which the film is based depicts
the character to be much younger, but Davis makes it her own and gives the film
an interesting twist. There are times
when you can almost feel her desperation.
Far from being perfect, BEYOND THE FOREST is certainly enjoyable. This portrait of a woman on the verge of a nervous
breakdown will leave no one unfazed—whether you like your films campy or not.
True story: when Jackie Collins succumbed to breast
cancer on September 19th I had a dream that day that a different author had
died: Judith Krantz of SCRUPLES fame. Woke up in a flash, all confused and tense,
wondering why the heck I had dreamt about her passing. Was this some sort of a premonition, an ESP
kind of thing? I immediately got up and hurried
over to my PC to check if my prediction was correct. It was not—thank God. So I went back to bed, shaking my head in
discouragement for having been such a drama queen—totally clueless to the fact
that another grand dame of commercial fiction had just met her maker.
Yes, the queen of fluff is gone, kids. And this sucks—big time. Like many of you I had spent many hours reading
her work, wishing that one day we would meet face to face. Alas, it was not meant to be. But I got the next best thing. We became acquaintances online. But to tell you the truth, I doubt she really
knew who I was. Because let’s face it,
she had millions of fans like moi. And between writing her many sizzlers and
promoting them extensively, she barely had time to socialize with any of us. Still it felt good getting a quick e-mail
from her acknowledging a comment of sort; or being picked at a Q & A live
stream during one of her book tours; or the best, having her retweeting me because
I blogged about one of her titles or acknowledged one of her adapted films or
mini-series. We may not have been close
friends in the real sense of the word but in my mind it felt like we were.
Having been around the block a few times, I occasionally
let myself be tempted by other genres (horror mostly). But because of Collins I always return to my
first love: glam fiction. It gives me
the extra oomph I need whenever the world seems cold and distant. And now that she’s gone, I need the escape
more than ever. I’ll probably pick up her latest, but before I do that, tell me
this: why do we always wait until someone has passed on to finally acknowledge all
the good they have brought into our lives?
I mean I could have easily told her how I felt when she was around. I think it would have pleased her, even
touched her. Then again, she probably knew it already. I just wonder if she really
was aware of how much of an impact she had on people, especially on the gay
community. She was one of the few commercial
writers who embraced the gay lifestyle in her work. She made no qualms about it
and got a whole new readership in return. Whether this was coming from the
heart or a simple use of business acumen (or both) barely matters. What does is that she was indeed a kick-ass
writer and I will miss her dearly. So
here’s to you, Jackie Collins. Hope they
make room for your steamy novels up there.
If not, I’m sure you’ll break the mold—as you always have done.
The first time I ever came across an Olivia Goldsmith
novel was when I purchased FLAVOR OF THE MONTH in hardcover. It was on discount and I just couldn’t pass
it up. I mean look at that sleazy cover.
Right up my alley, I must say. The year was 1994 and I was living at my
parent’s place after a row with a rat in my flat’s wall (don’t ask). I read many novels during that brief
stay. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism
for having returned home with my tail between my legs (wipe that smirk off your
face). You see, I didn’t have the
greatest relationship with my folks. Not
that they are horrible people, au contraire; they have always been present
whenever one of us kids was in trouble. But
they just are not very demonstrative people. But that’s OK. I understand now,
being older and all, that love is shown in many different forms, and being
there is one of them.
Anyway, as I was saying, Olivia Goldsmith
automatically became a must-read author after I finished FLAVOR OF THE
MONTH. The story centers around three
gorgeous newcomers who make it big when their TV show becomes an instant hit (Ã
la CHARLIE’S ANGELS but on motorcycles).
Just like the readers of this novel, they too get caught up into this
fast-lane world of lovers, cheaters, users, back-stabbers, and soon all end up
paying big time for fame (of course). The
one who suffers the most (at least I thought she did when I read it in ’94) is Texan
Sharleen whose naïve streak makes her the most gullible of the three. Her sexual abuse on the Hollywood hills by a bigwig still resonates with me after
all these years. Of course the other two
main ladies get plenty of page time of their own but that Texan chick is really
what made me turn the pages quicker.
Narrated by a fictional reporter to the stars, the
story does nothing but glide along smoothly with many secrets and sins peeled
away and one whooper of a revelation that I came to figure out (being an old
pro at the game even back then) which will unlikely happen to most of you. The
author clearly has a ball keeping up the pace, and although it’s a big-ass
book, not once did I feel the plot drag. Rarely comes a novel as perfectly tweaked and
tucked as is this one.
How I wish they would have made a miniseries out of it. It could have been a spectacular two or
three-night event à la LACE with lavish settings and costumes, not to mention
hot mamas and papas. But it was not
meant to be. But at least we got to see that
same year Goldsmith’s debut novel THE FIRST WIVES CLUB hit the big screen with big
fanfares. 10 years later she would pass
away from cosmetic surgery complication (kind of ironic knowing that one of her
main characters in FLAVOR goes from ugly duckling to swan after numerous
procedures). In addition to those two, she
left behind nine more novels which were all grand in their own way. I’m still trying to go through some of them
(so many books so little time) but whatever read comes next, this spotlighted
novel will always be held dear to my heart.
It made a big impact on me at that time and I’m sure it will do the same
for you given half a chance.
FLAVOR OF THE MONTH is
available digitally from Diversion Books.
They say the first rule to writing good fiction is to
write about what you know. Well, if
that’s the case, UK author Nigel May is one heck of a dirty old man. His third offering SCANDALOUS LIES is nothing
but sex, sex, sex; sex in toolsheds, sex in hotel suites, sex in RVs... Not that there’s anything wrong with that, especially
when it’s as well-balanced as is the main plot—all about the disappearance of a
curvaceous TV dancer and her hottie boyfriend.
Around it swirl a bunch of Hollywood biggies and British wannabees whose
own stories mirror the ones found in every supermarket and online tabloids. Drug addiction, fame addiction, and yes, sex
addiction, nothing is spared. And it’s
fast-paced. So much so that, sometimes,
you almost feel as if the author needs to keep the ball rolling for fear of
losing his readers. But despite of that,
SCANDALOUS LIES delivers. It is as much
fun as binge-watching every episode of a frothy prime time TV series.
And just like many of his characters, Nigel May may
very well be on his way to superstardom. His first two novels were
self-published until Bookouture snagged his third and released all three as
digital books and softcovers. Last
checked, the man was doing really fine sales-wise. I am not surprised. He certainly has the flair for it. Besides, we need another male author in this
female-domintated field. And who better than
an already established TV personality (he’s the host of a home shopping
program, among other things) with a passion for fluff, glam and smut.
The one thing I must bring up right away in regards to
DYNASTY’s fifth season is the constant abuse of Fallon’s hotel name, La Mirage. It is not La
but Le. If you plan on using a French pronoun, use it
wisely. Now on to other scandals: this
is the season where we are introduced to Amanda, Blake and Alexi’s third
child. Yes, they have another one. What
next, a black child? Wait, Dominique’s
already there so scratch that. Amanda
comes from London and wears a sad face—permanently. I guess if you’ve been hiding away overseas after
all these years you ought to be unhappy.
Or is it just that she is bad acting? Anyway, Alexis refuses to acknowledge
that Amanda’s Blake’s child. It takes a
couple of episodes to confirm it. In the
meantime Fallon mysteriously vanishes and ends up dead in a plane crash—or is
she? In real life, actress Pamela Sue
Martin wants out and big boss Aaron Spelling regretfully obliges. Jeff, however, has a hard time handling this,
Fallon’s disappearance I mean. They
were supposed to remarry and he is just devastated, devastated. So against his better judgment, he sets out
to find her. But she’s gone damn it,
she’s gone—or is she?
Alexis and her red gown get out of the slammer after posting
bail. Remember, she is accused of
pushing to his death Mark Jennings from a high rise balcony, but we have a
hunch she’s innocent. And right we are
when the culprit turns out to be Neal McVane (VALLEY OF THE DOLLS Paul Burke)
who has had a vendetta against Alexis for a couple of seasons now. Imagine this: he dressed up as Alexis with
the shoulder pads and all just so any witness (Steven in this case—whose drag
radar is clearly off) would think it’s her.
I wonder if he used one of her wigs. I doubt it. Like her clothes, she must put them under
lock and key. I know I would.
Blake refuses to believe that Dominique is related to him. How wrong he is, for her mom banged his dad
and voila, Dominique. She has proof. He wants none of it but comes to accept it
later on. Meanwhile all this nonsense
puts a strain on Krystle’s pregnancy (yes, she’s with child) and she goes into
premature labor, but don’t worry, the baby’s fine. They even call her Kristina, the poor thing. Let’s just hope that her mom doesn’t force
her to have the same hairdo later on. Huh, wait... On the other side of the mansion, Claudia and
Steven have marital problems. She wants
him, he wants newcomer Luke (who wouldn’t?). Luke wins.
Not before having to confront the wife which would shake any gay
fellow. Speaking of gay dudes, in comes
Daniel Reece, played by the legendary Rock Hudson. He is Sammy Jo’s dad, a millionaire. He has the hots for Krystle and since Krystle
is not too fond of Blake these days, she is tempted. He kisses her one day and all hell breaks
loose, off-camera mostly. This is the
controversial season where it is revealed that Mr. Hudson has AIDS. Has Linda Evans contracted it too? Not to worry, we learn that it is transmitted
only through blood and semen. Unless she
banged the guy in between scenes, which I sincerely doubt, she’s just fine. Mr. Hudson passes away a few months
later. Rest in peace, sir.
This is also the season where guest stars pop up: from
Hudson to MAHOGANY Billie Dee Williams to LOVE STORY Ali McGraw. The latter plays a renowned photographer who
wants Blake but ends up with Jeff instead.
She helps him deal with Fallon’s apparent
death. Just as Luke does with Stephen’s homosexual
urges (yay it’s back on!). But before we
can say happiness the couples are torn apart by the Moldavian massacre (the
what?). Indeed, during the wedding ceremony
between Amanda and her prince charming Michael (whom she has chosen over mom’s
hubby Dex—don’t ask) armed revolutionaries invade the chapel and shoot everyone. Who will live who will die? That, dear readers, the next season answers. In the meantime back in Denver, Sammy Jo is fuming
over the fact that her inheritance from daddy Reece who, like in real life, has
died unexpectedly, is managed by her aunty Krystle. She plans her own attack for season six, which
indirectly states the outcome of Krystle’s chance of surviving in Moldavia (but
did we really have any doubt?). The
season also ends with the revelation that Fallon isn’t dead after all. She just changed faces and accents. Gasp and double gasp—not.
Mamie Van Doren plays a groovy drifter in the low-grade
but enjoyable UNTAMED YOUTH. In
fact, she is so groovy that even the slammer can’t crush her spirit. That is, if you can count cotton-picking on a
farm as a prison sentence. Yes, she and
her younger sis are stuck there for 30 days after some dumb cop found them
frolicking in a pond with no clothes on. In between working like a dog and
sweating like pigs, Mamie sings. She
sings a lot. In fact, that’s all she
does. She barely talks. And she has top billing. But the film really belongs to John Russell who
plays the crooked warden. He, along with
his two vicious Dobermans, parades around abusing anyone just for the kick of
it. He lies, he cheats, he even marries
the town woman judge—whom he obviously despises—just so he can get ahead. She, on the other hand, worships the ground
he walks on, until she finally sees the evil of his ways—with the help from her
hunky good guy son and his soon-to-be girlfriend, inmate Lori Nelson, Mamie’s
sis. Following me so far? Good.
The rest of the film focuses on the kids partying
after a grueling day in the field. Tiredness
is out of the question. They need to loosen
up and fast. So much so that you’ll
wonder if someone has secretly put something in their drinks just so they can
mimic the overzealous dance routine in REEFER MADNESS. One thing I must make clear right away:
though it is a prison film, no drugs or alcohol is involved with this bunch. They are as clean and proper as any PG-13
prisoners can be. In fact, they are so
goody goody in their ways that you almost wish someone would decide to get down
and dirty with Mamie; put her in a mud wrestling competition for instance. But no such luck. What we get instead is a
bitch slap scene between Nelson and some other female con and that’s it (“Don’t hit me in the mouth again. You’ll break my dental plate.”)
Warner Brothers had high hopes to cash in on Van Doren’s
sex kitten appeal, and it did pay off despite her minimal talent. Had I been a straight teen back in those days
I would have drooled over her as well. I
mean, look at her. All the right forms
in the right places… She definitely is the
epitome of a wet dream. And that pointed
bra. She could easily yank an eye out
with them puppies. But thankfully she spares
everyone, including fellow inmate and teen fave Eddie Cochran. Too bad his career was short-lived (car
accident), for he really rocks as the dude who refuses to be called a Cotton-Picker (the name of the song
which, strangely enough, is very catchy).
If having a big rack or belting out silly songs
isn’t good enough for you, the film also features two guys dancing with each
other. Yes, two guys, swinging and
swiveling while Mamie and other chicks just stand around looking happy as a
clam. Or is it just that they are too dimwitted to notice? In any case, the film was way ahead of its
time, and I applaud director Howard W. Kosch for it (who subsequently became
this big producer of glittery dramas such as TV’s HOLLYWOOD WIVES and ONCE IS NOT ENOUGH with Kirk Douglas). I even found myself looking for those same boys
later on and almost spotted them dancing again, but got fooled by a
short-haired girl.
As any vintage book lover, I’m always on the lookout
for the next title to add to my list. So
this means a lot of searching online or in actual used book stores (yes, some
do still exist). But what’s most
rewarding is when you find the one book that you’ve been dying to read; like this
reviewed title, CROWN SABLE by Janice Young Brooks (Onyx Books 1987), better known today as mystery writer Jill Churchill. At first glance CROWN SABLE looks like the
perfect summer read. You know, a
gripping tale amidst a lot of fluff and scandals. Well as it turns out, the book is more a
serious period piece than expected, thus less rewarding. But still an enjoyable read.
The story takes place in America at the turn of the 20th
century and revolves around a poor Russian immigrant lost in the Big Apple and who
desperately wants to make something of her life. For this particular storyline, sewing (what
else?) is what makes her motor going. Enter
an older fashion king who sees big talent and revenue in her, and under his
tutelage she becomes a great seamstress of fur (PeTA loyals beware) but with a
faux background to fool the snobs. In
between keeping up with the charade, she gets married, sends for the rest of
her Russian family, separates from her hubby; welcomes a lover… Ever since the
success of Barbara Taylor Bradford’s A WOMAN OF SUBSTANCE, copycat novels like
this one have filled the market, and why the heck not. If it ain’t broken…
The best thing about CROWN SABLE is the same thing that
ends up in a way hurting it: its narrative.
Strong and rich, it flows rather breezily without any flaws
apparent. One can even be in awe at its
sheer efficacy. The downside to all of
that perfectness, however, is that it reaches even its main character, which comes
about being just too clean and proper for my taste. Even though she suffers immensely like any
great heroine should, the overall effect is not as dramatic as it should be had
she been more flawed. Still, I say go
for it if you want to try this author, especially if you’re into Danielle Steel. They have the same vibes. I just don’t think I’m impressed enough to go
on with her backlist.
