Chemical guide to the Internet Book

Putting on the Ritz is not the period piece I was expecting, in spite of the references to Wilde, Wodehouse, and Coward on the cover. I understand the references to those giants of comedic chaos replete with send-ups of high society and pseudo-elegance; there are similarities of style (at least through the first three quarters of the book and the last sixth of the book). In particular, author Joe Keenan is a master of the snarky simile and unexpected bon mot. Yet, although the book does not take place in some posh yesteryear, it does build off the classic Broadway songs of Gershwin and Sondheim, as well as place a key scene in the Rainbow Room (the swank dining room atop the NBC HQ in Manhattan).

Still, that wasn't the only thing I didn't expect about the book. True to its cover, the situations are "Wodehousean" and the word play is "Wildean." Yet, the latter seems most apropos since the protagonist is unabashedly gay as are a great number of the supporting characters. It is frank, not flaming, in that aspect of its sexuality. It is not pornography though it is promiscuous while using the equivalent of the old fade-out or comedic interruption to keep the novel from getting sidetracked with steamy prose. If one assumes that reading a book with a homosexual protagonist is tantamount to endorsing the lifestyle, I cannot recommend this book. If the idea of Broadway lyricists and performers being gay isn't any more of a surprise to you than Anderson Cooper coming out of his transparent closet, you'll probably enjoy this …dare I say…high-society "romp."
Even though I'm so unabashedly heterosexual that I am to "gaydar" what the F-117A was to Iraqi radar in the Gulf War, I couldn't stop reading this book because of the plethora of brilliant similes and clever wordplays. Here, I offer a sample of my favorites (pausing to point out that the gap in page numbers in the following list reflects a "dead zone" in the book after the main plot line had run its course'to be addressed later).

The novel describes a feud begun when an architect's "style" was described as, "Albert Speer goes to Las Vegas" (p. 17) and one of the major players who was so hideous, "…she has to wear a wig because snakes won't hold a wave." (p. 21) The protagonist describes a questionable decision by offering this aside to the reader: "I'd juggled my moral books with the skill of a Hollywood accountant, and my qualms had, like the profits of a hit film, entirely vanished." (p. 35) Much the same idea was described significantly deep in the book when it is said of a character, "…whose moral arithmetic makes up in swiftness what it lacks in precision." (p. 273)

For me, the appeal of the book is strictly about the descriptions. Early on, there is: "She's not the face in my locket, either." (p. 36), "…people who make the Borgias look like the Amish." (p. 36), "…he complied with the crestfallen air of a python ordered to cough up the rabbit and apologize to it." (p. 45), "…a look you could store fur in." (p. 49), "…a rough Old New York way of speaking. She was like Nathan Detroit after a transsexual operation." (p. 66), "…a woman who ovulates Faberge eggs." (p. 95), "…her fanny undulating like a lava lamp." (p. 105), and "…gazing fretfully across at her like a Polynesian virgin contemplating a volcano." (p. 123). At a much later point, an "overserved" character is described: "His repertoire of consonants was somewhat diminished, but he was still fairly lucid…" (p. 255). Instead of the proverbial "deer in the headlights," a character who is caught off-guard was said to be: "…looking rather the way Oedipus must have looked in the moments preceding his elective surgery." (p. 268).

I believe my favorite lines, however, were the observation on Irish women: "I hope I won't offend my countrymen if I acknowledge that although we do produce many beautiful women, they tend as a rule to be somewhat Faustian in nature, enjoying themselves tremendously for a few years, then going straight to hell." (p. 44) I almost laughed out loud on the "L" train when I read this summary of the outcome of a duel between rivals: "He congratulated me, too, of course, but with the bleak, upstaged air of an archaeologist who's just presented his few shards of Roman pottery, only to have Indiana Jones calmly produce the place mats from the Last Supper." (p. 104)

The Wodehausean plot is simple. After a Broadway musical crashed and burned, an out of work lyricist and composer are hired to develop a night club act for a socialite "wannabe." Although that sounds straightforward (an adjective with which I'm sure the protagonist would be uncomfortable), it isn't. The plot is twisted with some surprises being authentically unexpected while others are clearly telegraphed (including the mix-up at what I consider the climax of the book). Let's just say that if you enjoyed Sergio Aragones' "Spy vs. Spy" cartoon strip in Mad magazine, you're likely to enjoy this tale of blackmail, snooping, misdirection, convenient accidents (and inconvenient accidents) up to the point at which the entire plot reaches a clear climax and Keenan inexplicably adds a lengthy denouement that adds little to the story (and clearly lacks the polish of the first three-fourths of the book). This book was entertaining, but it lost its luster after the main event was complete.