Reading books that once were celebrated and successful, but that, as the years pass by, have been (unjustly or not) forgotten, is an immensely pleasurable activity for anyone who loves taking literature’s hidden paths. It’s like discovering a lost treasure, even if the treasure, at the end, happens to be just made of cheap junk: the fun of the discovery is what remains. More than that, reading such books opens, often in a fascinating way, a window on another time: to find out what readers of a different era were obsessing about, what they were rushing to read, is always instructive, and it can teach us a lot. By what they say - or don’t say - and what they put a light on, those books, even when they’re not great, are quite revealing about society at a given moment. Reading Kings Row has been such an experience for me. A massive and controversial best-seller in the early forties, Kings Row was turned into a prestige movie in 1942 (it remains one of the best Warner Bros. films of the decade) and later gave way to a literary sequel. It is one of those titles that, after having imposed its mark on the culture of the decade, seems to have slowly faded from memory. As far as I know, it’s out of print right now. Is it an unremembered masterpiece? Not quite. But it is very good, it is worth rediscovering, and it isn’t as old-fashioned as one may think. Its author, Henry Bellamann, is savagely astute at depicting what hides behind the facade of some American myths, and he unveils a true modern sensibility, especially in his embrace of difference and in his rejection of moralistic judgements and conformism. The Kings Row of the title is a little Midwest city that we enter as the XIX century ends. Through the tale of a bunch of friends, whom we meet as children growing up in Kings Row and whom we follow into adulthood, Bellamann actually offers a stunningly somber and sometimes disturbingly realistic painting of tragic events that define what, at first glance, appears like an idyllic and quaint all-American town. In a way, Bellamann’s novel follows into the footsteps of Booth Tarkngton’s famous The Magnificent Ambersons. It also announces eviscerating, scandalous tell-all novels such as Peyton Place, that will come years later. Murder, incest, corruption, shady financial schemes, bullying, horrendous sadism are only some aspects of life in Kings Row. Racism, antisemitism, xenophobia, and sexism are the norm. Religious hypocrisy reigns, and patriarchy is the rule. Intense snobbery and social class warfare are unavoidable. Suicide and euthanasia are at some points the only way out. There are so many crimes committed in Kings Row that the young heroes at the heart of the novel are witness to, or are victims of, that it’s no wonder they all are deeply traumatized to some degree. The thing is, as melodramatic as the multiple plot turns and surprises may seem, they are actually perfectly believable, and they do brilliantly underline certain truths about the country, truths that remain intensely troubling to this day and that, obviously, infuriated Bellamann. The writer is also, and that is a welcome eye-opener, very frank and open about gender and sexuality. I didn't expect that from a popular novel of 1940. All the main characters, for example, have sex as young teenagers, and one of them is openly gay (although, as a victim of a bigoted society, not happily so). It appears that Bellamann was determined to lift the curtain on all that was, then, taboo or only talked about in whisper and with reprobation. He does that with gusto, and it is, for the reader, terribly satisfying. More than anything, Bellamann’s embrace of the outcasts, against the rest of society, is at the heart of his story, and that is what makes the book powerful to this day. The author adroitly shows us why those fierce – yet often shy, messed up, and complicated - outcasts, even when they’re doomed to unhappiness or worse, deserve our empathy, our understanding, our support, and our love. Some will survive, some will perish. Bellamann never judges them. On the contrary: you can feel that he wrote the book for them, and I imagine that he identifies as one of them. Similarly, he doesn’t hide his contempt and dislike for small-minded people who think they know best, who impose their bias carelessly, who manipulate others to their advantages, who gossip and slander, who use their power in nefarious ways, who destroy reputations (and sometimes lives). There is a shocking quality to Kings Row that is still, today, truly potent and right on target: some things haven’t changed that much in our society. If Bellamann is not as skilled a writer as the greats of his time, and lacks the genius of a Fitzgerald, to name one, he’s nevertheless excellent, and, in some occasions, more than that: his descriptions of the small town itself, of its population, or of the landscape as it changes with the seasons, are wonderful. He tends, though, to be heavy-handed more than once, hammering the reader with explanations and psychological analyses that can become repetitive. He flirts sometimes with the kind of purple prose that doesn’t really work, today, but thankfully, his talent overrules his weaknesses. His writing (and the book itself, for that matter) is not subtle. Yet the narration is wonderfully fluid, and despite its length, Kings Row is impossible to let down. There is, enveloping the succession of dramas and horrors that make up the plot, an elegiac, melancholy, even mournful, peculiarity to the atmosphere of the story that is beguiling and that elevates it. Bellamann touches upon some truly moving aspects of life in the course of his book. Kings Row is as persuasive and real in its depiction of small town America, as it is eloquent in a literary way, without necessarily being a benchmark achievement (and does it matter? no. A good book is a good book, period). Kings Row is an imperfect, sometimes dated novel, but it’s also complex and intelligent, beautifully progressive, and immensely enjoyable to read. The movie that was based on Kings Row is one of the classics of the Hollywood golden age. It is a beautiful film. It is, also, a testament to the insidious and maddening power of censorship: everything that deals with the sexuality of the characters, for example, has been completely eradicated in the film, or is barely hinted at. Even more tellingly, three of the most intriguing characters of the novel have entirely disappeared: the gay young man, a black young woman, and a Jewish girl. They are, sadly, completely absent from the movie. If that doesn’t say a lot, what does?