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TIME: Almanac 1990s
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Time_Almanac_1990s_SoftKey_1994.iso
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1994-03-29
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<text id=90TT1321>
<title>
May 21, 1990: A Novel Treatment Of A Legend
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1990
May 21, 1990 John Sununu:Bush's Bad Cop
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BOOKS, Page 80
A Novel Treatment of a Legend
</hdr>
<body>
<p>By Jay Cocks
</p>
<qt>
<l>WALTER WINCHELL</l>
<l>by Michael Herr</l>
<l>Knopf; 158 pages; $18.95</l>
</qt>
<p> It's got a dark, obsessive, partly despicable and wholly
compelling protagonist; a strong supporting cast (Damon Runyon,
Ernest Hemingway, Hedy Lamarr); a marvelous milieu (vaudeville
in the '20s, New York City cafe society in the '30s, radio in
the '40s, television in the '50s); a plot that comes in
Gatling-gun bursts; and a resonance that is part parable of
American success and part caution. Walter Winchell would make
a great movie.
</p>
<p> It didn't, though. Michael Herr, whose 1977 Dispatches was
one of the seminal books about Vietnam, first wrote this
semifictional portrait of the man who turned gossip into a
heavy industry as a film script. Herr recalls in a preface that
he thought of the piece as "something `more' than a
screenplay," while the prospective producers regarded it as
"something less." Salvaging his unproduced work, he has kept
much of the shape, hard rhythm and clipped language of the film
format, as well as the occasional camera direction.
</p>
<p> The result is a bold stylistic stroke. The short scenes and
pungent dialogue are ideal for catching the rhythm of
Winchell's beat, while the residual piece of screenwriter's
carpentry ("closing credits come up") underscores not only its
artificiality but also Winchell's own purblind flair for
self-dramatization. As a literary form, the screenplay
generally rates as much respect as restaurant menu prose, and
a novel molded like this slips past any easy characterization.
</p>
<p>novel with a camera in it."
</p>
<p> Winchell would have cooked up his own word--cinetome?
flickfic?--something that catches the brash fluency and
gritty romanticism of his own life. He would never have dared,
though, to convert himself, as Herr so elegantly does, into a
pint-size paradigm of scrambled patriotism and American success
gone crazy. Herr's Winchell is an ex-vaudevillian who dances
as he writes and lives: with little grace but an overabundance
of berserk energy. He starts by posting sheets of trade tattle
and pillow talk backstage at the crummy vaudeville theaters he
plays. Within a decade he moves center stage, prowling
Manhattan for scoops and scandal, making himself as feared and
famous as the people he features in his column. Looking at
dancers snuggling close one night at the Stork Club, his
personal action-central, Winchell remarks, "Personally, I think
it's all for show." Asks his long-suffering wife June: "But for
whose benefit?" Replies a surprised Walter: "For whose benefit?
For my benefit."
</p>
<p> An NBC radio show, broadcast weekly "from ocean to ocean,
with lotions of love," makes Winchell, in every sense, a media
monster. He knows there is something cancerous about American
celebrity ("The spotlight," he says, "sheds a poison"), but he
can't see that he himself will eventually succumb. In the '50s
Winchell gets trounced by television while arch rival Ed
Sullivan becomes an unlikely Sunday-night institution. A
scrappy booster of F.D.R.'s, Winchell gets flummoxed and
outfoxed by Roy Cohn and the red-baiters. An anomaly, Winchell
throws in his famous fedora and moves to a resentful retirement
in Arizona. Herr's vision of Winchell's fate is a fitting
postlude, balancing irony and sympathy. He knows that, for
Winchell, true hell is closing out of town.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>