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Another runner in the night
He came to conquer Hollywood. Where you do anything and use anyone to make it big. And where the bitch goddess, success is worshipped in boardrooms and bedrooms alike. When Robert Granit came to conquer tinsel town, he found his ex-lover Kate waiting with open arms and still open wounds. His current lover, gorgeously handsome actor J.B. Reade, was very much on the prowl. Superstar singer Alley Crawford, his million-dollar ace in the hole, was demanding more of his brains and body than he had to give. And soon the whole super-glitz movieland world of swift seductions and rocketing coke highs, silken caresses and sharp knives in the back, was ready and eager to swallow Robert Granit whole and spit out the pieces…
172 pages, Hardcover
Published January 1, 1981
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
December 31, 2020
It’s a jaded, archaic view of gays from the 70s in the Entertainment business that is ironically demonstrative of how little the industry has changed while the gays in it have. The two-faced nature of Hollywood is the same today. Gays are less self-loathing, although to be fair, it’s mostly the protagonist who is that way, not so much his lover or fairweather friends. I loved the back and forth through the novel, from Roberts highs (JB in the beginning, the studio expensing him a stay at LAs Beverly Hills Hotel) to lows (breaking that shower door after a chuck holding, the studio pulling the plugs on the picture). As a young, conflicted gay reading it in 1985, I found it enlightening.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
August 10, 2014
Copyright 1981 No cover image available in a postable format, but if you do a google image search, my copy is the one with the guy wearing the bathrobe.
Not under any circumstances to be confused with The Front Runner, this book tells the story of Robert Granit (subtle), who makes a semi-desperate journey to Hollywood in search of love and healing. Sexual healing, mostly, and the obvious medicinal qualities of heaps and heaps of cocaine. Indeed one of my favorite moments in the book comes when Robert goes to buy more coke and his dealer lets him pay for it with a personal check. Awesome.
Robert has traveled to LA hoping to reconnect with his estranged boyfriend, the devastatingly handsome actor J.B. Reade, whom he learns, to his dismay, has not been as faithful as one would hope. Thank goodness he has a backup lover, 'superstar singer' Alley Crawford. Also, a baker's dozen hustlers, one of whom leads me to my second most memorable scene. This one's memorable because it's grody grody gross (for me, at least, but I'm a lezzie). J.B. and Robert share a hustler, and when Robert passes out, J.B. carries on, then wakes Robert the next morning, laughing 'Come and see the come!' This joke is repeated ad-actual-nauseum as the two of them inspect the jizz-soaked carpet in the living room of their Chateau Marmont suite. Ick.
Robert hangs out in Hollywood, hoping his romantic life improves, occasionally returning to NYC to sulk. He has an ex-girlfriend as well, and she tries to offer him advice, but Robert will not be swayed. Robert never really does make up his mind, and the book ends so abruptly I do actually wonder if some of the pages were ripped out, but no...
In the ranking of Avon classics, this one is lower on the list due to its meandery nature. Not much happens, and whatever does is pretty forgettable. It's sexier than many, but still not hot. Unless you're into filthy hotel carpeting, in which case YOU ARE IN LUCK!
Whilst on vacation in Chicago this summer I went to a gay/lesbian library which also had a room full of used queer books for sale, including a fantastic array of early 80s paperbacks with mustachioed men on their covers. Not being a fool, I bought as many as I could and have been enjoying (in an occasionally painful sort of way) the heck out of them ever since. This was another of the purchased titles and while it's not as bad as, say A Comfortable Corner, it's certainly not good enough to read without irony. Despite a carefully placed, larger-than-usual disclaimer about how this is a work of fiction and no resemblances, etc, the main character is a writer named Robert Granit who goes to Hollywood to try to resucitate his career and reclaim his hottie boyfriend. He does neither, but he does snort a lot of coke and then ask his dealer if he can write him a check (answer: no. I'd guess this is the standard answer of most dealers) This has the usual amounts of self-loathing and substance abuse I've come to expect of books from this era, along with snarky, superior remarks about how boring and vapid the disco culture is (translation: I was hot in 1976, but now these shirtless boys won't give me the time of day). This one is unique in that it's the only of these paperbacks to mention the 'gay cancer' which appeared probably just as this book was being finished, as the scene in which it's discussed has very much of an afterthought feeling about it. Along the spectrum of this experiment, I'm placing this book firmly in the center: not actually good, not bad enough to enjoy for the cheese. The most interesting part was waiting to see how long it would take the author to clunkily, obviously, work the title into the text of the story. (Answer: two thirds of the way) Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this whole undertaking is how little info I can find about the authors of these books. With the exception of Larry Kramer, none of them seem to exist in any way. Dead? Ashamed? Who knows? But if he's still alive and paying attention to his reviews, I'd just like to say 'Your book was lame, Mr. Granit, but I still thank you for writing it.'
Not under any circumstances to be confused with The Front Runner, this book tells the story of Robert Granit (subtle), who makes a semi-desperate journey to Hollywood in search of love and healing. Sexual healing, mostly, and the obvious medicinal qualities of heaps and heaps of cocaine. Indeed one of my favorite moments in the book comes when Robert goes to buy more coke and his dealer lets him pay for it with a personal check. Awesome.
Robert has traveled to LA hoping to reconnect with his estranged boyfriend, the devastatingly handsome actor J.B. Reade, whom he learns, to his dismay, has not been as faithful as one would hope. Thank goodness he has a backup lover, 'superstar singer' Alley Crawford. Also, a baker's dozen hustlers, one of whom leads me to my second most memorable scene. This one's memorable because it's grody grody gross (for me, at least, but I'm a lezzie). J.B. and Robert share a hustler, and when Robert passes out, J.B. carries on, then wakes Robert the next morning, laughing 'Come and see the come!' This joke is repeated ad-actual-nauseum as the two of them inspect the jizz-soaked carpet in the living room of their Chateau Marmont suite. Ick.
Robert hangs out in Hollywood, hoping his romantic life improves, occasionally returning to NYC to sulk. He has an ex-girlfriend as well, and she tries to offer him advice, but Robert will not be swayed. Robert never really does make up his mind, and the book ends so abruptly I do actually wonder if some of the pages were ripped out, but no...
In the ranking of Avon classics, this one is lower on the list due to its meandery nature. Not much happens, and whatever does is pretty forgettable. It's sexier than many, but still not hot. Unless you're into filthy hotel carpeting, in which case YOU ARE IN LUCK!
Whilst on vacation in Chicago this summer I went to a gay/lesbian library which also had a room full of used queer books for sale, including a fantastic array of early 80s paperbacks with mustachioed men on their covers. Not being a fool, I bought as many as I could and have been enjoying (in an occasionally painful sort of way) the heck out of them ever since. This was another of the purchased titles and while it's not as bad as, say A Comfortable Corner, it's certainly not good enough to read without irony. Despite a carefully placed, larger-than-usual disclaimer about how this is a work of fiction and no resemblances, etc, the main character is a writer named Robert Granit who goes to Hollywood to try to resucitate his career and reclaim his hottie boyfriend. He does neither, but he does snort a lot of coke and then ask his dealer if he can write him a check (answer: no. I'd guess this is the standard answer of most dealers) This has the usual amounts of self-loathing and substance abuse I've come to expect of books from this era, along with snarky, superior remarks about how boring and vapid the disco culture is (translation: I was hot in 1976, but now these shirtless boys won't give me the time of day). This one is unique in that it's the only of these paperbacks to mention the 'gay cancer' which appeared probably just as this book was being finished, as the scene in which it's discussed has very much of an afterthought feeling about it. Along the spectrum of this experiment, I'm placing this book firmly in the center: not actually good, not bad enough to enjoy for the cheese. The most interesting part was waiting to see how long it would take the author to clunkily, obviously, work the title into the text of the story. (Answer: two thirds of the way) Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this whole undertaking is how little info I can find about the authors of these books. With the exception of Larry Kramer, none of them seem to exist in any way. Dead? Ashamed? Who knows? But if he's still alive and paying attention to his reviews, I'd just like to say 'Your book was lame, Mr. Granit, but I still thank you for writing it.'
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews