DAME ALICE HITS HOLLYWOOD

A fake mystery writer finds herself searching for stolen jewelry and missing—or possibly devoured—persons in exuberant 1937 Hollywood in this frothy period yarn.

When bestselling mystery writer Dame Alice Cartwright declines to traipse from the English Cotswolds to L.A. to do contracted rewrites of her Lady Irwin’s Diamonds screenplay, her New York publisher Dermot Delaney panics over the prospect of returning her $25,000 advance from the Farley Brothers studio. Fortunately, he hits upon the absurd workaround of sending office assistant Penelope Greenleigh to Hollywood, posing as the author, to do the rewrites. Arriving in L.A. as Dame Alice, sporting a gray wig, frumpy British tweeds, and an improvised English accent that doesn’t always obscure her Jersey roots, Penelope is whisked to the storied Chasen’s restaurant to hobnob with Hollywood stars, wannabes, and sharks, including Lady Irwin’s hack director, Skipper Farley; the picture’s vain star, Zsa Zsa Le Coque, currently carrying on an adulterous affair with Argentinian playboy Federico Fulco; and baleful gossip columnist Hattie Holiday, who immediately marks Penelope as an impostor. More panic ensues when Zsa Zsa disappears from Chasen’s along with the $30,000 Miramar Diamonds necklace used as the movie’s titular prop. Taking after Dame Alice, Penelope starts sleuthing, assisted by gal pal Molly Lopez, handsome Det. Jake Chu, pixilated oil heiress Emerald Elliman, and Skipper’s factotum, Toby, a teenage wunderkindwho’s addressing Hollywood’s direst medical problems by inventing early versions of Botox, collagen lip injections, and Alka-Tonic, a hangover remedy made of 100 percent relabeled vodka. Penelope and her posse rummage through glitzy parties, swanky mansions, and the chic Beverly Hills Hotel in pursuit of the necklace but come up dry—until the real Dame Alice unexpectedly arrives and threatens to expose Penelope’s charade.

Journalist and author Mahoney provides a fun panorama of an old Hollywood that’s very much like a classic screwball comedy: glamorous, slightly tawdry, and full of glorious grifters remaking themselves from starry-eyed hicks into silver-screen deities. The cheerfully ridiculous plot makes no more sense than is necessary to keep the characters buzzing as they wander through Hollywood landmarks, spy Marx Brothers on the horizon, fend off the occasional mobster, theorize about a possible cannibal murder of a beer maker by a chowder manufacturer, and generally mill about firing witticisms at each other. Penelope is a passive heroine: She mainly plays straight woman to the colorful antics of the various supporting characters who dominate the plot until Dame Alice arrives to impart some direction to the narrative. Still, Mahoney’s whip-smart prose and sparkling dialogue supply plenty of entertainment, from bitchy repartee (“‘I’m 40 myself, though you’d probably never guess!’ offered Emerald merrily. ‘What birthday is coming up for you, Hattie—70? Or was that a few years ago?’”) to material-girl reverie (“‘There are some diamond mines and about a million acres of land,’ said Zsa Zsa, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the dollar signs which had appeared in her huge blue eyes. ‘But I love Federico for himself. I mean, he’s gorgeous’”), to droll suspense (“‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ I whispered. ‘That Morty chopped up Barry King, and turned him into soup?’ asked Molly. ‘You bet I am!’”). The result is a laugh-out-loud whodunnit that sends up Hollywood’s beguiling nonsense.

An effervescent Tinseltown romp, crackling with atmosphere and nutty humor.