Do you remember Bogart and Gable and ""Coop"" and ""Spence"" and all those other golden idols of the silver screen before they headed into the ""gunmetal twilight?"" Wilder does, in a novel which doesn't amount to much more than the curriculum vitae of the industry with its barely-there plot and walk-on characters. Among them Deke Kinkaid, Academy Award director who comes back to the Hollywood that was at the end of World War II to resume a not altogether satisfactory marriage to Midge and working relationship with her father, a mogul who goes by his monogram L.B.L.B.'s wife leaves him after an affair she considers unworthy of them both; he dies of a heart attack; Deke takes over and then faces the attrition of the motion picture world as well as the competition of his own son who sells the studio from under him. . . . Schlockmeister Wilder has held his audience through the years on the basis of the commercial hedonism of novels that moved; this one doesn't and in spite of Wilder's assiduous name-dropping, it's hard to summon up the glamor of a premiere at Grauman's Chinese when the writing's as lifeless as Forest Lawn.