PAL JOEY

O'Hara has had two redeeming characteristics, even in his least successful books, — a keen ear for the language and speech of his fellows, no matter in what social class, and a vigorous sense of plot. Now, in Pal Joey (some of which has appeared in The New Yorker), the plot limps badly, as a series of letters from one night club entertainer, in "the sticks" writes to another and more successful friend back home (in New York). It seems to me a bit of cheap fustian; tough without the underlying human quality that redeems toughness; common — or should we say vulgar — in the recurrent boasts of his male prowess and his low estimate of the female sex, members of which he characterizes as "mice". He has no conscience about taking them for a ride; he confesses to the reverse side of the picture now and again.