Hollywood by Charles Bukowski
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
There was a time in my life, decades ago, when I traveled in and with a certain circle of persons. In that nebulous group, one mark of status was how much Bukowski one could quote. A contributing factor to that status was how inebriated one was whilst quoting Hank’s poetry. Things are different now. Back then, Hank was still alive, a small god to presumptuous well-read barflies. Bukowski has been dead for decades now, but I still love him.
“Hollywood” is a novel based on Bukowski’s experiences writing the screenplay for the movie “Barfly.” It is a dark kiss-and-tell, a damning of all the soullessness of Movie-Land, a paean to the vapid nature of Tinsel Town. The names of the guilty have been changed just enough to make sure that the reader can identify every single player.
The novel is Bukowski through-and-through. It isn’t quite “Post Office,” my lode-star for Hank’s novels, but it is a dark and funny look at the underside of the movie business, complete with Bukowski’s usual searing assessment of all things human, including himself.
Highly recommended, whether the reader is a guilty voyeur or, like me, a penitent returning to the scene of the crime.
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