Customer Reviews

The Chrysanthemum Palace

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Reviewed by Cindy Dale for Small Spiral Notebook

Wagner's characters exasperate you with their LA-style self-absorption, self-delusion and paranoia. His high-speed prose makes you dizzy with its name-dropping, pyrotechnics and barbs. Part farce, part satire and part pathos, The Chrysanthemum Palace, Wagner's fifth novel, secures Wagner a top spot in the pantheon of Hollywood novelist all stars, right up there with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Nathaniel West. As he ably demonstrated in first Force Majeure and again in his triple-play `cellular trilogy,' I'm Losing You, I'll Let You Go and Still Holding, no one does Hollywood quite like Bruce Wagner.

As The Chrysanthemum Palace opens, we meet the self-dubbed `Three Muskateers.' There is Clea Freemantle, the fragile daughter of a long dead, once ravishing movie star of a certain era (reminiscent of Judy Garland). Then there is Thad Michelet, the rakish, 54-year-old Off-Broadway actor/straight-to-remainder novelist/"guest star on just about every CSI permutation to date." Thad is the sole surviving son of "Black Jack" Michelet, a womanizing literary lion without peers. And finally, we meet Bertie Krohn, our narrator and the only child of Perry Krohn, the incredibly rich and successful creator of "Starwatch: The Navigators", the longest running, wildly popular, beyond cult status TV space soap. These three scions of the rich/famous/borderline immortal, are about to co-star together in a special episode of "Starwatch".

Yes, nepotism is alive and well, and the trio of friends has Bertie's father to thank for their forthcoming celluloid adventure. One can not help but wonder where any of the three would be without their famous parent. How does one escape the shadow of `genius?' Can one ever live up to an icon? These are questions that have dogged Clea, Thad and Bertie for a lifetime. Bertie notes in one of his many asides, "Sorry, folks, but it's true-at the root of everything is the need to please one's parents."

Open the book to any given page and you will find it studded with bon mots-the Hollywood / LA variety. No one on the literary or Hollywood radar screen, living or dead, is out of reach of Wagner's skewer. Here is Thad's mother, a photographer of sorts who is putting together a vanity coffee-type book of literary greats (which will most definitely not include her son), telling Thad who she's off to shoot next:

Wallace Foster or Foster Wallace teaches nearby. Relatively. Someplace called Pomona. A lot of these colleges pay, Thad. Irvine too. Big, big budgets. They're going to drive me. Evidently they give him millions to teach. You know, he was a great fan of Jack's-they used to chat on the phone at indecent hours. Alice Sebold teaches there too. Her husband's quite well known, as well. A novelist. They're both bestsellers. I'm going to do both of them, then fly to San Francisco for Eggers and Michael Something.

"Chabon?" Thad replies. His mother answers, "Yes". He won the Pulitzer. And I believe he makes quite a living writing screenplays." To which Thad mutters, "Jesus. Mr. Spider-Man 2!"

Or consider the exchange that occurs between Thad and the lawyers after the death of Thad's father and the reading of the will. It should come as no surprise that `Black Jack' is still calling the shots even after death, having willed Thad $10 million dollars with one tiny provision: one of Thad's books must appear on the New York Times bestseller list. As the first lawyer explains to Thad, "I guess your father's intentions were that you use your gifts to write something either very commercial-a John Grisham, or what have you-a Da Vinci Code-or something artistic, with crossover appeal." To which Thad retorts, "Bergdorf Blondes?" A second lawyer chimes in, "Not Bergdorf Blondes. Like The Corrections. Remember the guy who pissed Oprah off? Didn't that make the list? Some years back? I'm pretty sure it did. My theory-it's only a theory!-is that Jack was thinking of this as an incentive, a goal to work toward. A reward, if you will." But inspiration soon strikes and Thad and his cohorts may very well have the last laugh.

We trail the narcissistic trio through two weeks of filming as they hatch their plan to fulfill the codicil. From the "Starwatch" set to The Shutters Hotel to Disneyland, the three fast friends ricochet through the story-all the way to the Bun Boy Hotel and the novel's tragic desert denouement.

The self-absorbed wannabes, the white wine swilling, the pill-popping, the AA meetings, the pitches, the agents, the lawyers-it's all there, and then some. Buckle up. You're in for quite a ride, and bring along a tissue. All but the most jaded will need it by the end.

I really wanted to hate "Chrysanthemum Palace"-the plot description and Bruce Wagner's penchant for punning titles had me ready to read it and rant. The first few pages didn't help either, full of relentless wordplay and pop culture trivia-why read something like this when I can watch "The Simpsons"? But somewhere around page 5, Wagner reached out from between the lines and absolutely grabbed me. He's some kind of genius-in only a few paragraphs he can sketch a character, weave him into a plot and weave the plot into a brutal critique of modern life, all while making you laugh and really feel for his creations. The pop culture patter updates some very serious and classic themes of family and friendship, yet he can let go with incredible bits like "a controversial, all-white version of 'A Raisin in the Sun.'" He's as close as I've seen to a modern-day Dickens, and "Chrysanthemum Palace" is as good a book as I've read in...weeks. Well worth a try.

does herself in? Thad -- well. The world was not worse off for such a morose beast in it, but tell me why I care about these characters?

This is Gatsby in Hollywood, or Gatsby's grandchildren, mooning after what is lost, without anything elegaic or acknowledging in the doing of it. I didn't put the book down, but I didn't come away feeling I'd done anything more than survive Bruce Wagner's ennui.

& I got enough of that on my own.

I am biased in that Bruce Wagner is one of my favorite writers, and this may be his most perfectly realized work. In the past his novels have alternated between the scathing and the poetic; this gem is for the first time a finely-wrought mixture of both: the scabrous and the elegiac, the hilarious and horrifying. The story of three friends working on a modern-day Star Trek-like TV series, in a Hollywood that is captured by sharp eye and pitch-perfect ear, it's a haunting and heartbreaking meditation on the wounds that leave their mark in art and how those symbols pulse and persist through the years, eventually to reach their targets. It ended too quickly and I only wish I didn't have to wait for Wagner to write another one. (And I can't believe I beat Harriet Klausner.)

This book is written from the perspective of Bertie, an almost-middle-aged Hollywood actor and son of the fabulously rich creator of a Star Trek-like television program. Bertie wanders through his LA life with his childhood friend Clea, actor/ daughter of a Hollywood iconic star; and her older boyfriend Thad, a writer/actor also second-generation to fame and fortune. The group barely functions as they careen off Southern California landmarks, dropping names and going to the gym and hanging at the Chateau Marmont and AA meetings.

At first, I thought the book was badly written and a little too Hollywood insider for me. There's Nick Nolte at Book Soup! Here's an anecdote about Brandon Tartikoff's funeral! I felt a bit stupid, like it was a book written for someone far hipper and cooler than I am. I was sure I wasn't getting the jokes because I'm outside that world. And besides, I wasn't sure I liked the characters, all trying to develop HBO series and make money and get recognition. The characters all have deep sadness in their lives. They're complicated people but a day at California Adventure gets as much attention in this book as a father's funeral.

Yet, within a few chapters, I was enthralled. These characters are so vain, so delusional, trying so hard to stay on top of the pop-culture wave du jour, that I couldn't help feeling amused at their lives and conversations. They weren't smarter than I. I finally got the joke.

This book is hilarious, a little sad, but definitely captivating. At the end, Bruce Wagner had me exactly where I believe he wants his readers. It's an amazing and deft work that makes a stark commentary on pop culture, fame and relationships.

So many authors have tapped into the seemingly unquenchable thirst of audiences eager to vicariously partake in the lives of the celebrated that it is easy to become blase about yet another venture. But wait, Bruce Wagner is a talented author and he puts his own stamp on the genre. I enjoy indulging in the Hollywood novel every now and again and this novel's up to the minute take on Hollywood is entertaining.

Filled to the brim and practically overflowing with the requisite references to the famous hotels, streets, restaurants, mansions, movie stars, authors, etc., this book more than satisfied this reader's delight in reading about the familiar and famous.
Wagner cleverly intertwines the real with the fictional.

The story is told in the narrative voice of Bertie, an actor who is writing this, his very first novel. Bertie is telling the troubled tale of his own life and those of his two friends. All three are the children of the uber famous and successful. Each of them is haplessly striving to attain the approval of their dominating and oppressive parents through their own artistic ventures. Unfortunately, none of them can adequately measure up and all fall woefully short in their endeavors.

This is not a book that one can haphazardly glide through. The excessive use of unusual and esoteric vocabulary is positively heady. The narrative exposition is rather convoluted and choppy. The prose is positively gymastic in it feats. However, where perhaps 10 somersaults would have been more than adequate the writer insists on doing 20! I was certainly entertained by the clever wordplay, the
irreverent humor, the insider knowledge of Hollywood and the book world as well. There is a self conscious, look at me quality to the writing that is intended to impress and by golly it does.

I will let the writing speak for itself in this abbreviated sampling:..."his father happened to be none other than that titan of our time, the singularly profane, lavishly gifted, beguilingly protean, salaciously elegant, carnivorously charming novelist who I presume was and is still known to most readers of these pages as both giant and giant-killer Jack Michelet - Michelet of the three Pulitizers and perennial Nobel short list, Michelet of the Lannan Prize...Michelet of the eight novels, countless screenplay adaptations, and three Academy Award noms...Michelet of the outrageously trenchant, scabrous, scholarly, dashed-off feeling yet meticulously crafted op-ed pieces....Michelet the now-and-then classically outrageous, outrageously classical rethinker, rewriter, and rearranger of Chevhov, Ibsen and Moliere....Michelet the mythic lion in winter of whom biographers and journalists high and low had gleefully written did not go gentle into that good night."

Whew! Are you having fun yet or are you becoming just a tad irritated? Speaking for myself, I need to consult my dictionary!

This is a genuinely fun read for those who want to experience a rather jaundiced view of the inner workings of the entertainment industry, and author Bruce Wagner has a swaggering, scabrous writing style perfect in providing this perspective. Filled to the brim with his insider knowledge about Hollywood, Wagner's novel focuses on three friends who have grown up as the progeny of legends, spoiled misfits really, and now are fully ensconced in what remains of the dream machine.

First, there's Bertie, who acts the part of a cocky pilot on a long-running "Star Trek"-like show called "Starwatch", created by his father Perry. But he is tired of what he considers hack work and tries to create his own show for HBO, an unpromising soap called "Holmby Hills". Then there's Thad, a hugely successful Robin Williams-type comic actor in his fifties, who is overshadowed by the far more serious reputation of his legendary novelist father, Jack Michelet, a three-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize. Thad's father is larger than life, to put it mildly, fulfilling his macho archetype by living a hedonist lifestyle, maintaining a high standing among the literati and being psychologically abusive to his son, whom he unfavorably compares to his dead twin in an "Ordinary People"-style twist. And finally there's Clea, Bertie's old friend and Thad's current girlfriend, who is the daughter of American screen icon Roos Chandler, who has achieved the unprecedented feat of winning three consecutive Oscars. Clea accepts Bertie's offer of work as an ingenious alien mechanic on "Starwatch" as a way of keeping ahead of her addictions.

What Wagner picks up on quite accurately is the way everyone speaks in that cynical, campy, self-conscious language of Hollywood that you suspect real people there are really talking. It's all about one-upping the other person with a gallows humor laced with a patronizing, know-it-all attitude. They celebrate their hypocrisy when justifying why they would accept a job working on a commercial movie, even though they know they need to develop indie cred to develop the image they want. In fact, the three friends all have projects in development that they believe will stir their creative juices and bring them the respect they feel they deserve. The funniest is Clea's plan to develop a Seinfeld-type show about show business children starring herself and Thad, of course. On the other hand, Thad naturally wants to mount a one-man autobiographical show directed by Mike Nichols (just like Whoopi Goldberg). Your enjoyment of this book will depend on your interest in getting intimate with Hollywood studio politics and the lifestyles of the privileged Southern California ennui set. Despite such alienating trappings, Wagner actually makes us care about these quirky, never-satisfied characters, while giving us ample opportunity to laugh at their exploits. A great commuter read.

While not quite up to the standards of 'Memorial' his most recent (?) and definitely best book, 'the Chrysanthemum Palace' once again reveals Wagner's acid wit, viscious satire and fantastic writing. It can't be easy to create a book with 3 main characters who are all basically unappealing people, yet make you despartely yearn to find out what happens to them, and Wagner deserves credit for that. This is a well-written book about Hollywood, but not just about Hollywood. Definitely recommended, 'Memorial' is his high bar at the moment, although that is an incredibly dense and long and intricate work, this is a little easier to absorb, but still quite good!

Bruce Wagner has bigtime talent. This book confirms the depth of his insight to motive, behavior, and the inner life of his characters. But this is a literary novel, and it contains the formulaic cancer of most literary novels. The cancer cause is 10% foreign language quotes, 10% esoteric/arcane references, 15 % authorial riffs (go on for pages sometimes)and 65% story with an ambivalent ending. Best novel ever, with none of these: The Horse's Mouth (ca 1945)by Joyce Cary (he's a guy, folks).

I was preparing to fault Bruce Wagner for his swaggering, smug narrative voice in THE CHRYSANTHEMUM PALACE. But then I realized that pretension is more virtue than fault in this type of Hollywood insider novel. I haven't read anything else by Mr. Wagner, so for all I know the voice is more his than Bertie Krohn's, his protagonist. But it doesn't really matter. Here, at least, voice and subject matter form a perfect union.

The same cannot be said of Mr. Wagner's ménage a trois of central characters and any of the people in their lives. And that's a problem. It's a hard sell trying to engender any sympathy for the disgruntled, vacuous spawn of the rich and famous. Not impossible, but definitely not easy. And for me, the few attempts at pathos fall universally flat. I simply didn't care much.

On the plus side there is much inventive word play and sharp humor. And Mr. Wagner is certainly au courant with our cultural benchmarks. Names are dropped on nearly every page and much of the roasting is right on target. But could it all be a little too hip and too trivial for its own good? It's too soon to tell, for example, whether the next generation of readers are going to remember Alice Sebold or Cameron Crowe, MILLIONAIRE or FAHRENHEIT 9/11. I suspect THE CHRYSANTHEMUM PALACE will have a short shelf life.

What we are left with is a book that rates a solid three stars which, with limited time and an abundance of five star materials to choose from, just isn't good enough for me.