UP WITH THE SUN

The author of a smart, tart series of political novels—most recently Landfall (2019)—casts an equally well-informed, unromantic eye on the entertainment industry and its closeted gay denizens.

Once a moderately successful actor, then a shady antiques dealer, Dick Kallman is dead when the novel opens on Feb. 23, 1980. Narrator Matt Liannetto, a Broadway pianist and intermittent friend, recalls the strained dinner party Dick threw on the night of his murder, interrupted by the arrival of a supposed client who in retrospect is a glaring suspect. (Kallman’s career and death are factual; the circumstances of his murder are bent to fictional use.) Matt then flashes back to 1951, when he was pianist for the musical Seventeen, Dick had a supporting role, and both were smitten by leading man Kenneth Nelson (among the many real-life show-biz figures who make appearances). Dick’s crush proves to be a lifelong obsession as chapters alternate with mechanical regularity between the rise and fall of Dick’s career and the grim aftermath of his death. The crime brings love to Matt in the person of much younger Devin Arroyo, a former hustler now working at the police precinct, and their sweet romance provides a welcome respite from Mallon’s depressingly accurate portrayal of life on show business’s striving fringes. From landing a promising spot in Lucille Ball’s television empire, through decent gigs as the lead in Broadway touring companies, to a one-season television flop, Dick always finds that his embarrassingly obvious scheming ends up thwarting his naked ambition. He stops getting work by the 1970s, he admits to himself, “because nobody, at least nobody that knew him, liked him.” Dick’s personality is skin-crawlingly plausible, but that makes it hard to feel sorry for him, even as Mallon acidly limns the ridiculous games gay actors were forced to play—dates with “beards,” fake engagements—in those pre-Stonewall days. The novel’s tone is generally sour and sometimes nasty. That may be why Dick’s unrequited love for Kenneth Nelson, clearly intended to be a poignant leitmotif, never rings wholly true.

Readable and intelligent, like all Mallon’s work, but overall a disappointment.