Making a pitch to Hollywood executives can lead to an exciting rush of optimism, which might vanish without further communication. This is colloquially referred to as the ‘American No.’ This concept is the backbone of Rupert Everett’s anthology of short stories, derived from two decades worth of rejected movie concepts. On face value, it might not be the most appealing notion for potential readers, but Everett’s inherent charisma manages to make it work.
Few individuals comprehend the multifaceted beauty of a disco ball as well as Everett does. He meticulously discusses its unhurried rotation and the manner in which it sprinkles light across the vicinity. The author captures its dual identities – seedy yet fabulous, radiant yet fragile. In one poignant short story, he portrays a vivid character from the nocturnal scene of 1980’s Paris, where the disco ball takes on a spiritual role. “He may just be embarking on an everlasting dance. Round and round. Immersed in celestial light fragments.”
Everett’s anthology provides a testament to an impressively consistent artistic vision. Key narratives range from Oscar Wilde’s end days in Paris, narrated through a deadly night out, to the sensual interaction between a fading countess and a hopeful gigolo in a quaint English tea shop. Enthralling dream sequences from Marcel Proust’s disintegrating psyche cover opera houses and festive ballrooms. A washed-up actor and a recovering addict plan a conspiracy to build their fortune in Los Angeles. Celebrity appearances include the likes of Andy Warhol. Characters are wearied but quick-witted. Everett successfully intersperses personal anecdotes throughout the narratives, filled with his experiences of loitering around Soho on damp nights, while reflecting on the decline of his career.
However, not everyone might enjoy Everett’s particular blend of lush theatricality. Personally, my principal critique of this anthology lies in the structure. Several dialogues that might be most effective in films are unanimated in print. For instance, a perplexing dialogue from an audition scene reads: “’Honey?’ he said. ‘(You should hand me the flowers now.) “These are for me?” (We should now kiss.)’ ‘Uh huh.’ ‘Kiss. Kiss. Barf.’” Towards the end, it’s clear that Everett has stopped making attempts to mould his film concepts to suit the short story format, instead, he leaves us with a long hundred-page film script.