The scent of hypocrisy hangs heavy over this tedious memoir: the recollections of a French pin-up girl who came to Hollywood, was shocked by its crude lechery, had miserable affairs and marriage. . .and constantly stayed in touch with ""the voice of God."" Haunted by her mother's untimely death, 1940s schoolgirl Corinne toyed with nun-dom but instead wound up with an embittering teenage abortion. (""I was not the same person I had been before. . .I would set sail into the future. . ."") Then came acting school, cafÃ‰ life, another abortion (""I was going through the pain of damnation""), tanglings on French casting couches, a few early sexpot-roles. So, though angry to be seen as just-a-body, Corinne decided to give them what they wanted--becoming a pinup sensation. . .which led to an offer from Paramount and farewell to France. (""A part of me wanted to scream, wishing someone would ask me to stay. Didn't they understand that I was just a young girl, frightened to be alone, in a panic over men's desire?"") And--sacre bleu! Hollywood ignored the ""real me"" (""an aristocratic, French, spiritual woman""); Harry Cohn and Hal Wallis groped and leched; Rory Calhoun dumped her after a hot interlude; Cary Grant, Errol Flynn, and Joseph Cotten were gentlemanly exceptions. (""Joe understood my existentialist philosophical positions."") And marriage to minor actor John Bromfield was a nightmare--with her suicide attempt, his infidelities and violent opposition to children. . .which Corinne secretly defied by punching a hole in her diaphragm: ""It's up to you now, God. If you want one of John's sperm to be strong enough to get through this hole then it will be Your will, not mine."" Blandly tawdry confessions--with a humorless, sticky glaze of unwarranted self-righteousness.