With 1969's The Godfather, the boss of all Mafia scribes took crime writing to operatic levels. He still sings the Sicilian arias of blood and brotherhood like no one else, and in this faultless and funny epic he adds a pinch of Gilbert & Sullivan for a change of pace. Lurking beneath the rubouts, skims (from casinos) and beak-wetting (payoffs) are some perfectly observed, hilarious subplots.
The main tale turns on the determination of aging Mafia don Domenico Clericuzio to get his family out of drug peddling and other high-risk scams so that they can disappear into legitimate society—the movie biz and legalized gambling. But his master plan is jolted by his bloodthirsty grandson Dante and gambling mastermind Cross De Lena, who plot and parry at the family's luxury Las Vegas hotel-casino. Meanwhile, Puzo (who cowrote the screenplays for all three Godfather films with Francis Ford Coppola and cowrote the first two Superman movies, among other films) skewers the machinations of studio executives, the twittery egos of "bankable stars" and the career consequences of "below the line" affairs (with grips, stuntmen and women, and others lacking major screen credits).
And then there's Ernest Vail, a gifted writer but failed Hollywood operator who wrote a highly profitable series of films but hasn't gotten a penny in promised percentages. The reason: His contract calls for net points. (Studio accounting makes sure that the picture shows no profit after expenses are deducted.) But Vail discovers that if he dies, his family is entitled to a piece of the gross, where the big bucks lurk. His solution is a classic example of Hollywood dealing: Vail threatens to commit suicide if the studio doesn't come through with a sizable chunk of cash.
You should not be surprised that Don will not be coming soon to a multiplex near you (although it will be adapted for a CBS miniseries). Still, Puzo offers his readers another story they can't refuse. (Random House, $25.95)
by D.J. Waldie
The nation turned its collective eyes to Lakewood, Calif., almost 50 years ago when LIFE published a photograph of one of its streets clogged with moving vans unloading furniture. For a while, 35 people a day headed for this new community, making it one of the fastest growing developments in postwar America. Waldie's parents were among the residents, and Holy Land is his bittersweet paean to his hometown. Part memoir, part history, Holy Land is a poetic, hypnotically appealing collection of essays, ranging from a sentence to a page, from past to present, showing how Lakewood—and the American Dream—have changed. Waldie's portraits are compassionate and critical, from eccentric citizens to Jewish developers restricted from living in the town by local, and illegal, deed covenants. Waldie also contrasts himself as a boy building sandbox cities and learning about the bomb with the grownup man waiting for paramedics after his father collapses and dies.
American suburbs—from Lake-wood to Levittown, N.Y.—are holy places, he contends, held together by the residents' abiding faith in the promise of houses, tree-lined streets and shops. Here that oft-disparaged and discredited vision is honored by Waldie's understated eloquence. (Norton, $24)
by Patricia Beard
Politics was a passion in the Todd family; Christie Todd Whitman's mother and father were both active GOP fund-raisers. The future governor of New Jersey went to her first Republican convention in 1956, when she was 9 and Ike was the nominee, rallied behind Richard Nixon during her teenage years, and hung in instead of dropping out throughout the turbulent '60s, becoming president of the Wheaton College Young Republicans. Whitman, Beard argues, was simply fulfilling her family destiny when she almost upset Sen. Bill Bradley in 1990 and did unseat Gov. Jim Florio three years later.
Written with Whitman's cooperation, this rose-colored biography diligently covers the highs and lows of Whitman's career. But despite the access, Beard provides few personal insights. How did Whitman react to the death of her mother, Eleanor, her best friend and political mentor? We're told only that Whitman started one of her many scrapbooks, and Beard then moves on to a tedious tally of condolences from ex-presidents and other Republican bigwigs. After 252 pages, the woman behind the photo op seems as glossy and two-dimensional as ever. (HarperCollins, $25)
by Matthew F. Jones
Poacher John Moon is trying to bag a buck at the start of this taut novel when, with one blast from his 12-gauge shotgun, his whole world is shattered. Instead of the deer, he kills a 16-year-old girl. And not just any teen, but a runaway whose possessions include a strongbox with more money than he's seen in his entire hardscrabble existence.
The stunned Moon hides his victim's body and makes off with the stash—which he hopes will somehow help win back his wife, Moira, who recently split with their infant son. Instead it sets in motion a backwoods drama that is part Crime and Punishment, part Deliverance and all white-knuckled suspense.
Make no mistake, this third outing by the Charlottesville, Va., writer, whose previous work, Cotter Farm, also veered into the gothic, isn't the sanitized, cartoon action of so many thrillers. Shot is dripping with the ripe smells of sweat, fear and death. Like a slug of moonshine, it may not go down easy—but it packs a helluva punch. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, $22)
by Aaron Spelling with Jefferson Graham
Born in Dallas to Russian-Polish immigrants, young Aaron Spelling endured both poverty and prejudice. ("I grew up thinking 'Jew boy' was one word," he writes.) Now 73, the multimillionaire Spelling has clearly come a long way. The Guinness Book of World Records cites him as the most prolific producer in prime-time television history, with successes like Dynasty, Melrose Place, Beverly Hills, 90210, Charlie's Angels, The Love Boat and The Mod Squad. The home he shares with his second wife, Candy, has been described as Los Angeles's largest single-family dwelling. With its 12 bedrooms, bowling alley, swimming pool, screening and video-game rooms, doll museum, staircase modeled after Tara and, count 'em, two rooms for wrapping presents, it has become something of a tourist attraction.
So Spelling's rags-to-INSTYLE story ought to have made good telling, but A Prime-Time Life suffers not only from padding-including page after page from various teleplays-but also from a lack of the sharp gossip one expects from a Hollywood insider who in his 40-year career has worked with such stars as Barbara Stanwyck, Dick Powell and John Travolta. Of Beverly Hills, 90210's notoriously difficult Shannen Doherty, for example, we learn only that, "Yes, Shannen was late to the set.... We talked to Shannen and her agent, and we all agreed it would be best to move on.... I wish her only the best."
Then there are the soppy clichés, presented as insights, and the startling awkwardnesses. "To find true love," Spelling writes, "I think one has to stop loving themselves." Hollywood's treatment of aging actresses? "The moment a woman's breasts droop one inch, they [the actresses, not the breasts] don't work anymore." Discretion and an outwardly sunny disposition may get you in the Guinness record book, but they don't make for much of a read. (St. Martin's Press, $23.95)
by Carol O'Connell
Beach Book of the Week
IF SUFFERING THE SLINGS OF OUTRAGED reviewers wasn't bad enough, now the sultans of SoHo's trendy art scene have something else to worry about: murder. As this crafty page-turner opens, the overhyped and undertalented Dean Starr is dispatched at his own opening, a fact undiscovered for over an hour because his death has been cunningly disguised as performance art. The exceedingly unusual MO jogs the memory of NYPD Sgt. Kathy Mallory; she recalls a sensational double murder from over a decade ago (it also took place in a gallery) that her late foster father, Inspector Louis Markowitz, never solved to his satisfaction.
Oddly, Mallory's superiors don't seem interested. In fact, the brass forbids her to delve into the old case. Readers familiar with the frostily beautiful street kid turned computer whiz from O'Connell's two previous mysteries know this is just the kind of challenge Mallory relishes. It's a treat to watch the always intriguing detective joust with her adversaries—especially when, as in this case, they include the deliciously satirized artsy set. O'Connell seems to take as much delight in slicing and dicing them as the killer does. (Putnam, $23.95)
>Nick Waplington
FAMILY ALBUM
NEATNIKS, BEWARE. MARTHA Stewartites, abstain (or get thee to a garden). ThighMaster slaves, steer clear. Entering the cluttered, garish living rooms of Nick Waplington's chainsmoking, beer-drinking, fun-loving, blue-collar British protagonists in The Wedding could give you a major cardiac episode. His kinetic, riotously colorful photographs transport you to the low-income housing in Nottingham, where big, tattooed, redheaded Janet and her five children live and play. Waplington lets you roll on the floor with them, belly up to the refreshment table (Janet is marrying her boyfriend Clive) and loll with them on the couch.
If his subjects seem exceptionally uninhibited in front of the camera, it's probably because he's one of the gang—a pal who has been hanging out with them and taking their pictures for years (his first book, in 1991, was the equally rowdy Living Room). The photos are socioeconomic litmus tests, bound to measure one's reactions to everything from obesity to interracial marriage to—reaching for a neutral word—flexible standards of decor and decorum. He, like his subjects, is obviously untroubled by it all, and his embrace can be seen in his light, whether flash or available. Everything in Waplington's family circus is bathed in brightness. The message is equally clear: If you have a problem with his people, it's your problem—not theirs. (Aperture, $40)
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