Love, patriotism, moviemaking and the influence
of popular culture on religion during WWII.
Spirituality in Hollywood when the stars were
bright. An idealistic farm girl from Oregon follows her boyfriend
to Los
Angeles and copes with challenges of both family and
career when he goes to war. A young man
from Ohio loses his first love while rising from
gas pump attendant to movie director at the Fox studio through his
relationships with actresses, in particular star Bette Davis. His work includes
a comical biopic of theologian Jonathan Edwards and adaptations of classics--Wieland,
Modern Chivalry and "Rappaccini's Daughter." His adventures take him to a brothel
of imitation stars and to an orgy hosted by horror actor Lionel Atwill. Hollywood parties reflect the
decadence of Europe while American lives
converge to an inspirational ending.
Stars in uniform appear at a huge reception to honor troops as the
nation rallies after the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor and the horrific battle
of Tarawa, evoking a spirit of
personal sacrifice, a time when Americans felt more united as a nation than at
any time since. First in a trilogy about
Hollywood social history, to
include Follywood (2004) and Hollyworld (2005).
Michael Hollister was born in Los Angeles, served in the U.S.
Army, graduated from the University
of Oregon
and taught fiction writing at Stanford while earning a Ph.D. As a boy, when his father worked in the movie business, his neighbors in the San
Fernando Valley included Clark Gable, John Huston and
Andy Devine. Subsequently he worked as a
sketch artist, intelligence agent and professor of American literature. He is the father of three and lives with his
wife Judy and two west highland terriers in Brookings,
Oregon.
He has published over thirty stories and articles in periodicals including Paris
Transcontinental, The Gettysburg
Review, North Atlantic
Review, Berkeley
Fiction Review, The Bloomsbury
Review and
Studies in the Novel.
Fay
talked and laughed with the producer between records, touching his arm and
looking up to him as he leaned closer and whispered like kissing her ear. Several of the dancers who had not yet had a
turn gave up and straggled out with their escorts. By the start of Kasch's
third waltz with Fay, all the other guests had left. Eisley
slouched alone with his drink at the far end of the living room, sullen and
nauseous with outrage, watching his wife being twirled. Kasch steered her
with ease. On one turn Fay looked over
his shoulder as she swept around and made a face to Eisley
that said, What else can I do? Turning her round and round, Kasch let his hand slip down from the small of her back to
her left buttock. Eisley
stood up. The Mexican bartender stepped
out from behind the bar with a long black club. Eisley
took a walk. He stepped outside onto the balcony into fresh air sweetened by
flowers. With a trembling hand, he
pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his white dinner jacket. Below him city lights sprinkled over a vast
blackness had a
feverish look of twinkling colors, lovely and
illusionary. He had to be patient. Kasch would finish
this dance and let her go and they could get the hell out of here. When the
waltz ended, in the quiet
he took a
drag from his cigarette, stared at the city lights and
waited. "Ryan?" Fay called behind him. They stood in the doorway, two
figures backlit. "This is my husband, Ryan Eisley."
Kasch sounded nonchalant, "You don't mind if I
show your wife the upstairs, do ya, Eisley?" "Thanks," Eisley
snapped. "I'd like to see the
upstairs." "It's all right, Ryan," her eyes unclear in the dark.
Kasch pulled her away out of sight. The lit doorway
framed a tapestry on an inside wall depicting a blocky pyramid, one of those
temples where up the stairs they performed human sacrifice. Eisley smoked his
cigarette as if quickly would make a difference. Then he shook up another. He paced back and forth along the balcony,
murmuring curses at the city. He would
get Kasch. He
would jump up and down on his face. He
flung away the butt and went striding into the room toward the staircase. The Mexican bartender came around and stepped
into his way, pointing a revolver at him.
He sounded apologetic, as though saying he had no banana for a daiquiri.
"No, Señor." Eisley
stood there staring back at the bartender.
He felt more sober than he had in hours, realizing that he could be cast
as a violent drunk or be mistaken for an intruder who came in over the balcony. He stood in place glaring hatred at the bartender. With a shaking hand he lit another
cigarette. He tossed the match on the
Persian rug. The bartender slipped the
revolver back out of sight under his white serving jacket as if to preserve the
illusion of decorum. Eisley
stood there smoking and thought of the emperor Caligula raping wives in front
of their husbands.