Cattle Call

By J. D. Reed

THE WHOREHOUSE PAPERS by Larry L. King Viking; 283 pages; $14.95

The high rollers in the Great Entertainment Sweepstakes, well versed in the arts of spin-off and tie-in, have created a devious form of autobiography: they hitch their histories to their hits. The follow-ups are often more compelling than the blockbusters. The Godfather Papers and Other Confessions, for example, revealed a talented and sensitive Mario Puzo far more than it explored his Mafia megaseller. Texas Writer and Journalist Larry L. King extends this technique in his seventh and best book. At street level, he hilariously and venomously chronicles The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas--from 1974 Playboy magazine piece to Broadway smash to film--with country-boy cunning. But beyond the ribaldry and self-promotion lies a melancholy, intriguing tale of a writer in trouble. This saddle-sore veteran of his first collaboration emerges brutalized, agonized and hospitalized, although "about two-thirds rich."

King relates his backstage odyssey in the voice of vintage Slim Pickens. When Songwriter Carol Hall and aspiring Director Peter Masterson, both fellow Texans, want to turn his story of the "Chicken Ranch"--a LaGrange, Texas, bordello closed by politicos--into a musical comedy, the financially troubled journalist promises himself to do "big work." But, as he admits, "whether a musical about a whorehouse made the weight" is debatable.

The debate soon rises to rage. Less innocent than powerless, King finds his "book" for the show increasingly interrupted by caterwauling songs. His prostitutes, college boys and blue-mouthed sheriff-hero are transformed into sanitized cartoons. Disputes with collaborators become glacial standoffs or public snits. A fourth Alamo irregular, 6-ft. 7-in. Director and Choreographer Tommy Tune, fears that the shorter King will "strike" him: "I go home exhausted and all I can see when I close my eyes is your angry face!" King scratches his head. "That dude grew up on a different planet," he decides.

Backstage, an entire galaxy of misfits awaits him. King is horrified by the "cattle call," an open audition at which nearly 3,000 players vie for fewer than 20 parts. He discovers a homosexual tryst in a packing crate, loses his grip when a chicken called Modine pecks its understudy to death and is replaced by Cluck Gable, and suffers a painful disorientation when he stands in for Leading Man Henderson Forsythe. The amateur actor drops his prop pistol, is smothered by a Texas flag and walks into a brass pole trying to exit. During a pantomime phone call, instead of staying in character, King mutters into the instrument, "Gonna drank me a batch of that ol' Cutty Sark tonight."

The batches become flagons. He insults studio executives. When Miss Edna, the real-life madam of the Chicken Ranch, proves too proper for the columnists, the author steps in with scattershot malice. He tells Women's Wear Daily that Actress Alexis Smith, star of the national touring company, "can't carry a tune in a goddamn sack." The antics end at a sad and quiet Maryland retreat, "where they teach you not to drink whisky."

But sober, King loses no energy or acrimony. As the trumpeted film version of Whorehouse steamrolls over King's screenplay, the writer is asked if Dolly Parton will wear her fabulous wigs. King nods. "And probably Burt [Reynolds] will wear his, too. I understand they're both bald." Wiser and wryer for his pains, King has absorbed one lesson from those Left Coast slickers: timing. His book will be comfortably in place for the movie's July release. This outrageous split-level tale just may make its author three-thirds rich. Hot damn. --By J.D. Reed

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