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Scotty Bowers' engaging and sometimes creepy account of pimping many of Hollywood's marquee names, post WWII, actually left me feeling unwell. I'm no prude, but my love of Hollywood requires that some illusions be left intact. If brilliant careers can so easily be reduced to kinky anecdotes, what is the point of fantasy? Some of the material is already known. What's left made me wish I hadn't learned what proved to be sad and depressing, and only occasionally shocking.