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Blue Pages
A Novel
- GenresFiction
271 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1979
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
April 21, 2017
Is this not a "great novel"? Maybe not. But it is certainly one of the most entertaining of all Hollywood novels; and perhaps THE most entertaining "all high status guys in the sixties and seventies suck" novels. You feel for thinly veiled Eleanor as she puts up with the fragile yet trumpeting--and hugely destructive--ego of hubby Frank, not to mention a changing seventies business where the misogynistic specter of Sam Peckinpah, demanding more rape scenes with more Ali McGraw types, seems to hover over every scene. A luscious, hilariously written peach of a novel.
March 18, 2021
Love a thinly veiled Hollywood memoir masquerading as fiction with a big phantasmic finale. Eleanor Perry’s All That Jazz.
February 28, 2024
“Gli sceneggiatori sono le donne dell’industria cinematografica.”
È con queste lapidarie parole che si apre Pagine azzurre, inquadrando subito il tormentato viaggio che ci aspetta.
Eleanor Perry, sceneggiatrice della New Hollywood negli anni 60-70, ha dato il meglio di sé lavorando in coppia col marito regista Frank Perry e poi è lentamente scivolata nell’oblio dopo il divorzio. In questo romanzo fortemente autobiografico (per quanto quasi tutti i nomi dei suoi protagonisti siano stati modificati), scritto nel ’78, la nostra si toglie qualche doveroso sassolino dalla scarpa. Essere una donna e lavorare a Hollywood negli anni ’60 non è stato facile per nessuna, ma essere donna, sceneggiatrice, e cercare di far sentire la propria voce in un ambiente tanto tossico è una verosimile spiegazione della sua lenta ma progressiva scomparsa dal settore. Il romanzo fa venire una gran voglia di dare fuoco a tutto e l’ho letto un po’ a rilento proprio per il senso di frustrazione che mi lasciava addosso ogni capitolo, ogni incontro, ogni dialogo fra la protagonista e i suoi orrendi colleghi e amanti. Ciò nonostante, la scrittura è pervasa da un forte senso dell’umorismo, una dote indispensabile per sopravvivere in un tale covo di sanguisughe, e mostra le dinamiche che portano alla produzione di un film sotto una prospettiva insolita e interessantissima.
È con queste lapidarie parole che si apre Pagine azzurre, inquadrando subito il tormentato viaggio che ci aspetta.
Eleanor Perry, sceneggiatrice della New Hollywood negli anni 60-70, ha dato il meglio di sé lavorando in coppia col marito regista Frank Perry e poi è lentamente scivolata nell’oblio dopo il divorzio. In questo romanzo fortemente autobiografico (per quanto quasi tutti i nomi dei suoi protagonisti siano stati modificati), scritto nel ’78, la nostra si toglie qualche doveroso sassolino dalla scarpa. Essere una donna e lavorare a Hollywood negli anni ’60 non è stato facile per nessuna, ma essere donna, sceneggiatrice, e cercare di far sentire la propria voce in un ambiente tanto tossico è una verosimile spiegazione della sua lenta ma progressiva scomparsa dal settore. Il romanzo fa venire una gran voglia di dare fuoco a tutto e l’ho letto un po’ a rilento proprio per il senso di frustrazione che mi lasciava addosso ogni capitolo, ogni incontro, ogni dialogo fra la protagonista e i suoi orrendi colleghi e amanti. Ciò nonostante, la scrittura è pervasa da un forte senso dell’umorismo, una dote indispensabile per sopravvivere in un tale covo di sanguisughe, e mostra le dinamiche che portano alla produzione di un film sotto una prospettiva insolita e interessantissima.
May 4, 2021
One of the best Hollywood books I've read. Dishy and emotional. Smart and angry. What a gem!
September 26, 2023
About a half century before Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach became Hollywood’s power couple, creating films that delve into disintegrating marriages and—recently with the insidious and deliciously cerebral blockbuster Barbie—the limitations of a woman’s place in society, Eleanor and Frank Perry managed to make a couple of films that were adaptions of literary works and decades ahead of their time: John Cheevers revered short story “The Swimmer” and Sue Kaufman’s all but forgotten Diary of a Mad Housewife.* These films have aged exceedingly well and present an accurate view of protagonists in crises. The couple split up shortly after Diary of a Mad Housewife appeared in 1970, but both remained active in the film industry.
Long out-of-print, Eleanor Perry’s roman á clef, Blue Pages (1979), is a scathing glimpse into the insanity and sexism of the film industry. It reads like a screenplay and presents vignettes from the life of the protagonist, Lucia Wade, an over-50, abundantly talented screenwriter who has recently been dumped by her director husband. His ego exceeds all bounds since one of the films the couple made together made a huge splash. Of course, the writer is regarded as a mere paid hack by the industry—especially if “he” is actually a “she”—while the director is celebrated as a genius.
Disclaimer: The men do not come across well in this book. They are egotistical, petty narcissists, so much so that it is difficult to even tell them apart. And the most enjoyable sections of the book deal with descriptions of their insanely bad behavior, often in hilarious fashion. While contemporary society in the 2020’s deals with microaggressions, Lucia Wade had to deal with men who could say exactly what they think at all times. As one Turkish producer says: “Sit down. I do not finish with you. Sit down, I said! Two minutes then I hope we never see each other again. You exhaust me. I despise women with opinions. I prefer young girls. They have no opinions. . .” (pg. 226). Such is the dialogue in this dialogue-heavy work.
Eleanor Perry also reserves plenty of scorn for the witless male producers who always want to rewrite her scripts to make them more commercial and marketable. There is a constant battle of a woman with integrity facing off against a capitalist industry that is content to make crap so long as it earns money. The work is a fictionalized memoir, so it is rather easy to decipher the character who is Truman Capote and the tribulations Perry faced in trying to remain true to the morose theme in Cheever’s masterpiece, “The Swimmer.” The film is now regarded as a cult classic.
While reading this book, I am reminded of the dearth of female voices in American literature from this era. Perry’s depiction of the annoying characteristics of her husband and the men she dated is reminiscent of Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying but without the salacious bits; Perry’s men seem to be more interested in breaking up with her than actual sex. And, often, they seem to only be involved to get her to write a screenplay for free. In one chapter, Eleanor Perry gives Erica Jong’s quest for the zipperless fuck a nod as she departs on a liaison with a ridiculous philistine: “Oh, why not? I thought. At least he’s not going to want me to write a script for him. The scriptless fuck!” (pg. 127). Otherwise, the style of vignettes presented out of chronological order reminds one of Renata Adler’s Speedboat, one of the lost classics of the 1970’s.
Eleanor Perry was way ahead of her time. She was a union activist, a feminist, and an artist who could subtly bring these ideas to the big screen. It is apt that we remember her as so much of this book is relevant today. As I write this review, Hollywood writers remain on strike for months and Barbie is the screen sensation of the summer.
Eleanor Perry died a couple of years after Blue Pages was published. While the novel has flaws and might better work as a [gasp] screenplay, it deserves to still be in print and is a must read for anyone interested in 1960's and 70's era Hollywood.
*https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
Long out-of-print, Eleanor Perry’s roman á clef, Blue Pages (1979), is a scathing glimpse into the insanity and sexism of the film industry. It reads like a screenplay and presents vignettes from the life of the protagonist, Lucia Wade, an over-50, abundantly talented screenwriter who has recently been dumped by her director husband. His ego exceeds all bounds since one of the films the couple made together made a huge splash. Of course, the writer is regarded as a mere paid hack by the industry—especially if “he” is actually a “she”—while the director is celebrated as a genius.
Disclaimer: The men do not come across well in this book. They are egotistical, petty narcissists, so much so that it is difficult to even tell them apart. And the most enjoyable sections of the book deal with descriptions of their insanely bad behavior, often in hilarious fashion. While contemporary society in the 2020’s deals with microaggressions, Lucia Wade had to deal with men who could say exactly what they think at all times. As one Turkish producer says: “Sit down. I do not finish with you. Sit down, I said! Two minutes then I hope we never see each other again. You exhaust me. I despise women with opinions. I prefer young girls. They have no opinions. . .” (pg. 226). Such is the dialogue in this dialogue-heavy work.
Eleanor Perry also reserves plenty of scorn for the witless male producers who always want to rewrite her scripts to make them more commercial and marketable. There is a constant battle of a woman with integrity facing off against a capitalist industry that is content to make crap so long as it earns money. The work is a fictionalized memoir, so it is rather easy to decipher the character who is Truman Capote and the tribulations Perry faced in trying to remain true to the morose theme in Cheever’s masterpiece, “The Swimmer.” The film is now regarded as a cult classic.
While reading this book, I am reminded of the dearth of female voices in American literature from this era. Perry’s depiction of the annoying characteristics of her husband and the men she dated is reminiscent of Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying but without the salacious bits; Perry’s men seem to be more interested in breaking up with her than actual sex. And, often, they seem to only be involved to get her to write a screenplay for free. In one chapter, Eleanor Perry gives Erica Jong’s quest for the zipperless fuck a nod as she departs on a liaison with a ridiculous philistine: “Oh, why not? I thought. At least he’s not going to want me to write a script for him. The scriptless fuck!” (pg. 127). Otherwise, the style of vignettes presented out of chronological order reminds one of Renata Adler’s Speedboat, one of the lost classics of the 1970’s.
Eleanor Perry was way ahead of her time. She was a union activist, a feminist, and an artist who could subtly bring these ideas to the big screen. It is apt that we remember her as so much of this book is relevant today. As I write this review, Hollywood writers remain on strike for months and Barbie is the screen sensation of the summer.
Eleanor Perry died a couple of years after Blue Pages was published. While the novel has flaws and might better work as a [gasp] screenplay, it deserves to still be in print and is a must read for anyone interested in 1960's and 70's era Hollywood.
*https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews