This is indeed 'Death in Venice' revisited. A late middle-aged widower, a respected author of elite fiction, makes an unprecedented visit to a cinema, goes to see the wrong film and is immediately captivated by one of the film's young American actors. Captivated and, increasingly, obsessed: secretly buying teen movie magazines and reading and re-reading the bland articles, cutting out photographs, kissing them - and more. Eventually, his obsession takes him to America and a meeting with the actor, and a pathetically awful denouement.
This is an uncomfortable book. It is written in the first person and brilliantly portrays the pedantic, solitary life of the narrator, the self-aware subterfuge by which he begins his quest for his hero and the final unravelling in which all self-awareness has disappeared.
The happy picture portrayed on the cover is a far cry from the reality of this dark book in which the path to humiliating tragedy is all too clear from the first.