Picks and Pans Review: Lucky
Collins Trying to read this book is like staring into a big cauldron that is bubbling over with every half-baked idea ever spewed out by Jacqueline Susann, Harold Robbins and all the writers of television's soap operas. It is a hardcore, awful novel. A profusion of worn-out plots and characters revolve around the sexy daughter of an ex-mobster, now hotel owner, in Las Vegas. Her name is Lucky. Lennie Golden, an utterly talentless comic, is the hero. His idea of a joke is to say that a pregnant woman looks like a "ripe watermelon just about ready to burst." There is a billionaire-Greek shipowner and his overweight, oft-married daughter. A bastard turns up, drug deaths wipe out a couple of characters, and child pornography is exploited for all it's worth. There is also a kidnapping, and the heroine is jailed for a murder she didn't commit. The only original thing that Collins brings to this exhausted genre is remarkably foul dialogue; her characters especially like to discuss a certain part of the male reproductive system. The author gets so carried away when bedtime rolls around that she forgets to make sentences: "A wild ritual of incredible sex, followed by the release of being with each other at last. It was a joining of soul mates. A fusion of energies." As that sample indicates, Collins is in the front rank of the worst prose producers in the history of the English language. The author of Hollywood Wives and eight other novels, Collins is to writing what her big sister Joan is to acting. (Simon and Schuster, $17.95)
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