I have a soft spot for Bukowski, have had one since my days in community college and the early days of my time at university. That being said, I wouldn't call him a "great" author with the likes of Shakespeare, Kafka, Joyce, but, in an odd way, I don't think he was ever "meant" to be one of those kinds of authors. And no one seemed more honest about this than Buk himself. He dedicated his last book "Pulp" "to bad writing" (or something to that effect) and on his gravestone itself are inscribed the words "Don't Try". This isn't to say that the man wasn't arrogant, and perhaps a bullshitter in the leagues of Mailer or Hemingway, far from it. I fell in love with the Romantic life he regularly depicted in his novels and poems not knowing (or not wanting to know) how much of it was true and how much of it might have been nonsense exaggeration about a class of people that life decided to lean on. It was Bukowski's world equally demarcated (or perhaps not) between searing honesty and bullshit boasting of a sad and angry man. But, that considered, it can be said that in a sense, you could call Bukowksi's oeuvre young boy's adventure literature...for men in their twenties wanting desperately to experience something beyond sheltered suburbia.
But Bukowksi had and still has something in his writing that many other (even ostensibly superior) writers lack. It's hard to put a label on what it is. Part of it is his incredible sense of place. He writes about Los Angeles in a way that no other writer, native to LA or not, has been able to. Under Buk's pen it's a city at once home and alienating, full of possibility and yet bereft of all hope of change or progress. It's less a city and more a confluence of shadows and lights, not much there, until there is. Added to this, was Buk's ability to delineate and describe despair in a way that was almost heroic. True, sometimes his writing smacked of overreaching, riding off into cliche every now and again (Hollywood is no exception) but overall Buk had a mastery of the dour and frustrating, the angst ridden and the despairing, in a way reminiscent of an almost messier and less transcendent Kafka.
But now on to the book itself. Hollywood was Bukowski's penultimate novel, written about the time when the film "Barfly" was being created (with Bukowski's penning the screenplay) essentially telling the story of Charles Bukowski. The story is pure Buk, lots of drinking, swearing, ribald jokes and generally wry observations about the human condition and the madness of artistry, any artistry.
The book isn't one of Buk's best, but it's still very good. Most of the characters are peripheral to "Hank" which makes sense given the character of both "the character" and the author writing him. However, the character "Sarah" (Henry's wife) gets the worst of this treatment as she seems less a character and more a female helper to Hank with little to no actual personality. But where the book scores big is with Bukowski's rendering of tone. I won't bullshit you and say that Bukowksi could "sense his end was near" but there's a relaxed tone of acceptance, humor, and a marked decrease in the fury and despair of the Bukowski of "Factotum" and "Post Office". The dirty old man has found something akin to peace, if not happiness.
So, read it, it's good, and goes down like a smooth shot. Hell, go see "Barfly" too, it's very 80's and Mickey Rourke is insanely over the top but much like Bukowski, he's good in such a way that even his fuck-ups are worth seeing, witnessing, and experiencing.