Crome Yellow by Aldous Huxley - funny but rather dated.
Laura Lamont's Life In Pictures by Emma Straub - not sure why I picked this one up, probably because it was a cheap Kindle offer. It's pretty awful but a very easy read, which suits me fine at the moment. Straub seems to think she's the new F Scott Fitzgerald. She isn't. Part of the problem is that despite the fairly accurate historical setting based on real people and places, all the studios and stars have been fictionalised, which largely prevents me giving a fuck about any of them. And I can't help thinking there's a much more interesting story begging to be told here. The narrative is told from a limited third person point of view, which is the worst of both worlds. You don't see anything outside Laura's restricted purview, but nor do you ever feel you really get inside Laura's head, which is a shame because she could potentially make a brilliant unreliable narrator if the story were cast as a first person memoir. Instead, it's just sentimental tosh about the golden age of Hollywood with nothing original to say on the subject.
