Film Freak Christopher Fowler
The American critic Ralph Gleason once wrote of Frank Sinatra (in the latter’s heyday at Capitol records) that he (Gleason) would be happy for the singer to record every single song in the great American songbook in whatever tempo he chose or with whatever arranger. My own spin on that scenario would be for the writer Christopher Fowler to write nothing else but books about the experiences in his own very curious life. Not that these experiences are ever likely to affect the fate of nations or give an insight into the most rarefied films and literature. Or tell us how to be rich, slim, or how to arrange the most appropriate feng shui for our living rooms. None of this is Fowler territory.
Until recently, Christoper Fowler was best known as a horror writer (one of the best in the UK), something successful in the UK film trade and a collector of Lois Lane comics, but he is now celebrated as the creation of the eccentric detectives Bryant and May. Quirky fun though that series is, my favourite books in his catalogue are those which are his most personal – such as his memoir of growing up in Greenwich, Paperboy, and now Film Freak, his outrageously entertaining chronicle of his adventures in the film advertising world. And if that doesn’t sound particularly appealing, I strongly suggest you purchase the book instantly in order to be swiftly seduced; this is absolutely delicious entertainment, written in Fowler’s very individual, self-deprecating (but never mock-modest) tone of voice. The book conveys his jaw dropping knowledge of popular culture – and in particular the less respectable bywaters of British film – couched in the skilful comic writing that is the equal of any one at work in such areas today. But if the above conveys that we are in for a riotous romp through Hollywood and Wardour Street, that’s only part of the story — yes, Fowler’s dealings with the culturally challenged idiots of the film world (on both sides of the Atlantic) are scandalously entertaining, but this is in fact a deeply dyspeptic book. The section on Fowler’s desperate sojourn in Los Angeles makes it sound like one of the lower levels of hell in the Divine Comedy. As I’m someone who (largely speaking) only meets well-read and intelligent Americans visiting this country, it was something of an eye-opener for me to realise just how we Brits are regarded in Los Angeles (although perhaps things have changed since Fowler’s days there, when — on hearing Fowler’s British accent — Americans would routinely slip into a Dick Van Dyke Cockernee impression).
But the real pleasure of the book – as in the earlier, equally diverting Paperboy — is in that singular tone of voice, one seemingly possessed by Christopher Fowler alone. Whether you’ll most enjoy the very personal autobiographical elements (Fowler ironically discusses his own sexuality, something conspicuously absent from the earlier book), or the scabrous picture of the bottom-feeding sharks in the British and American film industry, or the deep pleasure to be had from bad British movies, or what London was like in the distant 1970s and 1980s, the book is absolutely essential reading. Like me, you will probably consume it at a few sittings and even forgive the few errors of fact that have tripped up even the encyclopaedic Fowler. Oh, and in case the above did not convey my message clearly enough, here it is in three words: buy Film Freak.
Film Freak by Christopher Fowler is published by Doubleday
