Office Christmas Party
Another reminder that allowing your cast to madly improvise instead of actually providing a coherent script with a scintilla of inherent logic often leads to…
Jacqueline Susann probably doesn't know anything more about the private lives of the stars than you and I do. What's more, she'd be the first person to agree with that statement, since her "novels" are rip-offs of ancient, mostly fictitious rumors about people who may be (but probably aren't) who you (but not Jacqueline) think they are. And then she goes on TV and archly denies that anybody in "Valley of the Dolls" or "The Love Machine" bears any resemblance to any person, living or etc.
Meanwhile, voyeurs and other specialists among the great mass of American pornography fans buy Jackie's books to get the lowdown on certain singers, actresses, network executives and so on, little suspecting that their lives are as typical and dreary as the average character on a daytime soap opera. Take away several dozen suicide attempts, rapes, overdoses, bottles of vodka consumed whole, plunging necklines, dirty words and shower stalls built for three, and your average Jacqueline Susann character is, shucks, jes' folks.
The problem is, if the folks you know are like the folks I know, we wouldn't be as bored as the folks Jackie knows. I mean, suppose you wake up this morning and there are two chicks in your shower stall, and your bedroom is on fire, and you have to be out on the Coast by noon for an important conference. Would you begin to fret at the inactivity?
And if the beautiful wife of a network president was after your bod, and a gorgeous young model had just killed herself, and the last tape recording she left was in the hands of a homosexual fashion photographer who wears a bracelet with your name engraved inside (but you're only friends) and the network president has had a heart attack, plunging you into a desperate power struggle for control of the network, and there you were being interviewed on television, dripping wet, with only a raincoat on, after the fire in your apartment, and with two dripping wet twin sisters giggling next to you - would you be bored? How bored? This much bored? More?
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