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<text id=90TT2719>
<title>
Oct. 15, 1990: Wide-Bodies On The Runway
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1990
Oct. 15, 1990 High Anxiety
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BOOKS, Page 86
Wide-Bodies On the Runway
</hdr>
<body>
<p>Coupling adverbs and--surprise!--some good writing
</p>
<p>By JOHN SKOW
</p>
<p> Your connecting flight has been delayed another three hours,
and you feel as if you are getting a lavender tan from the
lighting. You are buzzed on cardboard coffee and too woozy from
an airborne snackoid served on your incoming flight to risk
alcohol. But do you despair? Of course you do. Do you give up?
Certainly, by reaching into your flight bag and withdrawing one
of this season's airport novels. You know the kind. Literary
wide-bodies with plenty of plot that allow you to leave the
real world in the first half paragraph and stay away through
several flight-delay announcements. No-qual prose and
cereal-box characters are customary, though an occasional lapse
into good writing does no harm. The Odyssey and Moby Dick, both
wide-bodies before their time, would have been perfect airport
novels. Herewith a random grab of half a dozen new airporters,
none written by Homer or Herman Melville:
</p>
<p> LADY BOSS, by Jackie Collins (Simon & Schuster; 608 pages;
$21.95), offers the reader a rare opportunity to watch adverbs
mate. "Slowly, languorously" the naughty parts of speech tumble
about during the sex scenes. But why aren't the scenes sexier?
Never mind. The point of the story is to watch "darkly,
exotically" beautiful but ruthless, yet sensitive and
vulnerable female tycoon Lucky Santangelo--she heads a
billion-dollar shipping company but doesn't seem to go to the
office much--knife her way to ownership of Panther films, a
big Hollywood studio. This she does without telling her actor
husband ("Lennie was tall and lanky, with dirty-blond hair and
ocean-green eyes"), who is having contract troubles with
Panther. Alas, she fails to consider that Lennie's fierce male
pride will curdle when she reveals herself as his boss.
Disaster! And he...And she...
</p>
<p> MEMORIES OF MIDNIGHT, by Sidney Sheldon (Morrow; 399 pages;
$21.95), is one of a large and growing subgenre of
evil-Greek-shipowner thrillers. Nasty fellows, those fictional
Greek shipowners. This one, rich and loathsome Constantin
Demiris, has arranged that his unfaithful mistress and her
lover, Demiris' pilot, be executed for the supposed murder of
the pilot's wife, beautiful, trusting American Catherine
Alexander. But he is still angry, and he strides about his
villa like Richard III, gloating in a long, italic aside about
what he is going to do to Catherine, who lost her memory during
a boat explosion and has been living in a rich, evil nunnery
owned by Demiris. "It's too bad I can't afford to let her
live," he whispers to empty air. "But first--my vengeance I'm
going to enjoy myself with her." Reading Sheldon's drivel
offers an important reassurance: travelers who stick with
Demiris and Catherine till the end can endure whatever misery
the airlines throw at them.
</p>
<p> SURRENDER THE PINK, by Carrie Fisher (Simon & Schuster; 286
pages; $18.95), is the sort of novel writers write between
novels, about the sort of love affair a young woman might have
between affairs. It has the odd quality of being funny and well
written, despite an occasional outbreak of coupling adverbs
("passionately, tenderly"). But it is utterly unmemorable. The
author can't seem to care much about her heroine, a pretty but
underexposed young woman named Dinah Kaufman who writes soap
operas in Los Angeles. Although Dinah likes sex and wants to
be in love, the men she meets are either too strong or too
weak, never just right. In fact, the reader decides, the men
are handsome fakes, big-jawed 42 regulars snipped from a Ralph
Lauren ad to act out Dinah's problem. They meet Dinah in a fake
world, where no one has money troubles and there's nothing
between Los Angeles and East Hampton.
</p>
<p> THE POWER, by James Mills (Warner; 406 pages; $21.95), is
a brave and probably foolhardy try at combining the structure
of a conventional spy thriller with what spy fans are likely
to consider a lot of annoying nonsense about occult forces and
psychic phenomena. Jack Hammond is a U.S. spy who gets caught
between two beautiful Soviet witches. Evil, gorgeous Darya can
dematerialize herself and drive men mad with multiple orgasms.
She can also fox computer memories and detonate nuclear
warheads. Good, gorgeous Valentina uses the power of Jesus for
psychic healing. Hammond's problem is to keep sickly General
Secretary Yuri Andropov alive until Mikhail Gorbachev is able
to take over. This reader's problem is that he doesn't believe
a word of it.
</p>
<p> FOUR PAST MIDNIGHT, by Stephen King (Viking; 763 pages;
$22.95), offers a quartet of horror novellas that show this
vexing and engaging storyteller at close to his best. What has
always charmed and exasperated about King's enormous run of
books is a quality not exactly childlike--James Thurber could
be childlike, and so could E.B. White--but rather
teenager-like. The early teens, at that; King is stuck
permanently at about 13 1/2. He bops through these stories with
the mischievous imagination of a young adolescent, and also the
wearying energy, sloppiness, ignorance and complete lack of
subtlety and taste. At the length of a good ghost story, he is
amusing and enjoyable with spooky stuff about, for example, an
airliner, most of whose passengers disappear as it flies,
leaving behind (wow!) their tooth fillings and pacemakers; and
a well-sketched village miser who steals a Polaroid camera that
obstinately produces shots of (eek!) a savage dog.
</p>
<p> THE FIRST MAN IN ROME, by Colleen McCullough (Morrow; 896
pages; $22.95), is a truly astonishing work, the first of five
planned volumes about life--mostly political life--in
ancient Rome. Robert Graves covered this ground, in I,
Claudius, and so did Shakespeare, for that matter. McCullough,
who wrote The Thorn Birds, is not awed, and her narration
marches sturdily through a period of fascinating turmoil in the
last years of the Republic. Terrifying German barbarians have
wiped out most of Rome's legions. The Senate dithers; Gaius
Marius, a wealthy military man of low birth, has the energy but
not the bloodline to save the situation. The author is
interested in everything: how the city's sewers worked, how
marriages were arranged, and how the horsehair plumes in a
soldier's helmet could be detached for storage. She has drawn
maps and even portraits of her characters, and supplied an
encyclopedic glossary. The result, though dangerously
overweight, is airport fiction at its best.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>