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DO HOLOGRAMS DREAM OF ELECTRIC CINEMA? He wanted Hollywood. He got Brentford. He wanted Spielberg. He got Fudgepacker. He got who?
Fudgepacker. Ernest Fudgepacker. Directed all those weird B-movies back in the Fifties. Whatever happened to him? He retired. Opened Fudgepacker's Emporium, a prop house catering to the more bizarre needs of the film industry. Amazing place. There you could hire anything from shrunken heads to a pickled homunculus. Trouble is, they just don't make that kind of movie any more. Ernie's going bust. In fact, if he can't come up with some big bucks pretty damn quick, he's going to lose the business. It will take a miracle to save him now.
Young Master Robert believes in miracles. He has a dream. He wants to star in movies alongside The Greats. The Golden Greats. The dead Golden Greats. He's a boy boffin with computers and he's invented this system that could put the stars of yesteryear right back up there on the screen. Next to him. He's written a script and he's got piles of money (his dad owns the brewery), but Hollywood isn't keen. And Mr Spielberg didn't ring back. The lad needs a director and Ernie needs the dosh, and Ernie only lives up the road. Could this be the perfect partnership?
Well, it could be...but then this is Brentford and when you make movies in this neck of the woods, you can be sure of a BIG surprise. And when Brentford takes on Hollywood, then Hollywood had better pack up and head for the hills.
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Customer Reviews
The real charm of Robert Rankin is the triumph of style over content. No, content over content. And the style. That.
Well, actually, I like the way he makes a big mess of a story.
This particular book is THE perfect introduction to Mr Rankin. He writes in such a personable way it's easy to forgive (and wallow in) some of the cheesiest gags, and forgive the totally bent physics. The pages are sprinkled with footnotes (some of the best stuff).
Few writers out there have the gall to totally interrupt the story to tell you another. Few writers have the sense of fun to call a chapter, "That Ludicrous 'It was All Just A Terrible Dream' Bit They Always Have".
Few writers apologise at the front of the book for the convoluted plot, with advice about what to do with the book once read. But Mr Rankin is unique, possibly drunk often, and nothing other than funny. So... Mr Adams: Yes he was a bit pompous and a bit Oxford/Cambridge, but he was funny (except for the tv series of H2G2 which was plain bloody awful). But ANYWAY, the charm of Mr Rankin fills that gap, and he does it without pretentions. I'm reminded of a quote about Mr Rankin - "A sort of drinking man's HG Wells".
I keep trying out comedic SF authors but only Mr Rankin has me laughing outloud in bed alone.
(jeez, how sad does that sound?) I used to work in advertising, hence: Buy the book, you idiot.
Having met Pooley & O'Malley before "Nostradamus..." made some of the references funnier. But I loaned the book to a friend who never heard of Rankin and he loved it, so the book stands on its own as well.
I started reading in on holiday in Glastonbury with my girlfriend. Having read 90% of the rest of Frater Rankin's work, I thought I was prepared.
Little did I know that this book would make me larf and larf. So much so, indeed, and so loudly that we were asked to leave the funeral service we were sitting in.
I was asked "exactly what is so funny" and attempted to explain. It seems that it is VERY hard to explain the running gags from this book. Or indeed any of them. I was branded a "Wierdo" and a "nimrod".
My life lies in tatters at my feet.
Bloody funny book, though.
(oh, and I wasn't reading it in a funeral. That was a "joke". It was while the police were questioning me.)
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