Amazon.com Review
If contemporary fiction has one thing to teach us, it's that working for the rich and glamorous is a living hell. This simple truth has already been revealed by such books as
The Nanny Diaries and
The Devil Wears Prada, but for those who feel that the message bears repeating, Clare Naylor and Mimi Hare's
The Second Assistant: Tales from the Bottom of the Hollywood Ladder offers yet another enjoyable (though fairly forgettable) lesson.
The heroine of this gossipy tale is Elizabeth Miller, a young, former campaign worker for a US congressman who finds herself between employment opportunities. Unable to obtain any more socially responsible work, Lizzie is lured into the job of second assistant to an executive at a glitzy Hollywood agency. Once there, she's hit with all the "pick-up my dry cleaning," "walk my dog," "hire strippers for my party" torment that the higher-ups can dish out. At first Elizabeth is isolated, out-of-place, and underdressed in her new world, but she makes friends, builds her wardrobe, and eventually grows to care for her menial job, her Ritalin-snorting boss, and the entertainment industry in general. Finally, she reaches the conclusion that thousands of other Californians have before her: what she really wants to do is produce. At times, Lizzie seems far too naïve to survive long in the shark-infested waters that the authors describe, but there can be only one kind of ending to such a light-hearted book, so we know she will somehow muddle through. Hare (who was once a Hollywood executive herself) and Naylor throw in a dreamy guy and a few plot twists that most readers could see coming from space, stir, and serve. Of course, a little frivolity is not a bad thing, and The Second Assistant is certainly an entertaining addition the new underling subgenre of modern fiction. --Leah Weathersby
From Publishers Weekly
Books about bright young women learning the ropes of glamorous careers under corrosively evil bosses are catnip to a generation of readers, so this West Coast version of
The Devil Wears Prada fills a niche, with brio. Elizabeth Miller gives up an idealistic job as a Washington senator's aide to join the Agency, a super-powerful Hollywood outfit that represents stars, producers and directors. The young L.A. newcomer may not be as clearheaded and full of self-knowledge as she's intended to be (she does jump topless into the agency head's pool with a lecherous producer), but she's a paragon of virtue compared to her boss, Scott Wagner, who is loutish, sex-obsessed, terminally addicted to any abusable substance, lazy and overbearing. Despite her misgivings and scads of unjustified abuse, Elizabeth throws herself into Xeroxing and party planning ("Dancers from Crazy Girls on La Brea. Though only small-nippled girls") and is rewarded by brushes with a parade of A-list personalities (Cameron, Jennifer, George, Harvey). The insider peeks at Tinseltown are more engrossing than the plot, but a hot script and backroom Agency dealings keep the pages turning. Contrivances aboundâ"Elizabeth keeps meeting key figures at just the right momentâ"and the jokes often fall flat. The book undoes itself by offering as chapter headings some of the great dialogue from old movies ("What's the going price on integrity this week?"), and there's simply no comparison between what those old scriptwriters and these joint authors offer up. Still, this is a fast, fun, trashy read.
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