By Bruce Wagner
If there's an excellent darker part to Hollywood than the only the United States knows, Bruce Wagner has discovered it. A twenty-first-century Nathanael West, he has been hailed for his strong prose, his Swiftian satire, and the scalpel-sharp wit that has, in each one of his novels, dissected and infrequently disemboweled Hollywood excess.
Now, in his so much formidable publication up to now, Still Holding, the 3rd within the mobile Trilogy that begun with I'm wasting You and I'll allow you to Go, Wagner immerses readers in post-September eleven Hollywood, revealing as a lot rabid ambition, rampant narcissism, and unchecked psychological disease as ever. it's a scabrous, epiphanic, occasionally frightening portrait of an entangled group of valid stars, delusional wanna-bes, and psychosociopaths. Wagner infiltrates the gilded lifetime of a famous person actor/sex symbol/practicing Buddhist, the compromised international of a tender actress whose substantial holiday comes whilst she's employed to play a corpse on Six toes Under, and the unusual parallel universe of look-alikes -- a complete within which suffering actors are employed out for events and conventions to play their well-known opposite numbers. Alternately hilarious and heartfelt, ferocious and empathetic, Still Holding is Bruce Wagner's so much expertly calibrated paintings.
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Additional resources for Still Holding
How wonderful to be in the country! How cool it must feel, in the beech wood! And, his nostrils wide, he would take deep breaths, hoping to smell those good country smells that never ever reached his window. He grew thinner, he grew taller, and his face took on a kind of plaintive expression that made it almost interesting. Inevitably, out of apathy, he gradually came to abandon all the good resolutions he had made. The ﬁrst time, he missed hospital rounds, the next, his lecture, and then, ﬁnding idleness to his taste, little by little he gave up his studies entirely.
Cried the master. ’* The ensuing hullabaloo began instantaneously and grew louder and louder, punctuated by shrill shrieks. They howled, they bayed, they stamped, repeating ‘Charbovari! ’ again and again. The din rumbled along, with occasional isolated bursts of sound, dying away only with extreme reluctance and occasionally starting up afresh along one of the benches where, like a half-spent squib, a smothered laugh would suddenly erupt. Little by little, however, a deluge of penalties restored order in the classroom, and the master, ﬁnally grasping the name of Charles Bovary after having it dictated and spelled out and then rereading it Madame Bovary himself, promptly ordered the poor devil to go and sit on the dunce’s seat at the foot of the rostrum.
Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring. The winter passed in waiting. Mademoiselle Rouault busied herself with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered from Rouen, and she made herself nightgowns and nightcaps with the help of fashionplates which she borrowed. During the visits Charles made to the Madame Bovary farm they talked about the preparations for the wedding, wondering which room they’d use for the wedding feast, how many courses they’d have, and what particular dishes they’d serve.
Still Holding by Bruce Wagner