Pammy's no literary Star
This book has been billed as a novel, but it's really a not-very-thinly disguised autobiography. The story concerns a small-town girl, Star, who goes to Hollywood to follow her dreams as a centrefold.
Star's father is an alcoholic; Anderson's father was an alcoholic. Star has breast implants; Anderson enhanced her 34D breasts three times. Star gets her big break in a show called Lifeguards Inc; Anderson made her name in Baywatch. Star rescues baby birds; Anderson is a non-leather-wearing spokesperson for Peta...
Either way, truth or fiction, this book is a disaster. It was done with the help of a ghostwriter, Eric Shaw Quinn, and although Pammy (a bit of an expert, surely, if the notorious home video with Tommy Lee is anything to go by) swore recently that she wrote "99 per cent of the sex scenes ...", even the raunchy bits are, I'm afraid, of the chocolate-on-the-nipples variety, about as clichéd as everything else here.
It all seems hopelessly dated, as if it was dreamed up in the Seventies, but then Anderson herself, with her high-heeled boots and hot pants, seems ridiculously retro too, as outmodedas issues of Playboy now that the MPEG has arrived in bedrooms the world over.
I can't really think of anybody who would want to read this book; it is not even quite bad enough to be funny.
What it is is deeply sad: the story of a woman from an abusive family who, because she had hair the colour of custard, a handspan waist and a sweet disposition, ended up the helpless victim of countless men with tattoos and vicious tempers.
The frustrating thing about her story is that she is so helpless and naive (she doesn't even understand the concept of a hotel mini bar) you find yourself wanting to slap her, too. Surely the wrong response?
The book jacket features Pammy prone and naked, as usual, her heart speared by the sharp Star of the title, lips parted, eyes glazed like a Krispy Kreme doughnut. Round, brown and sticky. Yeuuuuwww.
