In fine Hollywood fashion, the jacket for Sue Cameron’s ”tell-all” Hollywood bodice-ripper proves more entertaining than the novel itself. ”I loved it!” screeches Joan Rivers. ”Honey Dust knocked my sensuous socks off!” bubbles Angie Dickinson.
Cameron’s unsubtly Oedipal plot lines do hold a certain campy promise: Locked as a child into a closet, ambitious Honey (”she knew that her honey-blonde hair was her best asset”) King methodically hostesses her way to ownership of a major studio; she proceeds to alienate her daddy’s-little-girl daughter, Powar, who then unseats her mother as studio chief. The task of reconciliation is left to Powar’s surly love child, Jordan. Unfortunately for the author, any Hollywood trash novel faces the challenge of creating a world even sleazier than the original. Long-clawed show-biz cat fights are hardly a secret, which leaves Cameron two saving graces — sex and gossip — both of which she fails to exploit. D+