Movie stars get mad—and get even.
Lola Sanchez is the hottest thing in Hollywood—and is insisting on action star Linc Blackwood for her next picture, secretly vowing revenge for his getting her pregnant on a boozy night ten years ago, when she was just plain Lucia Nobody. At 15, she was so innocent—and then he’d walked in to the party . . . “Linc Blackwood! Her favorite movie star! She’d seen all his movies three times. She could hardly believe it!” A subsequent back-alley abortion left her infertile and bitter. But her dopey tennis-god husband Matt Seel doesn’t seem to mind. Hey, Lola’s limo is so big he can practice his backhand in it, and he doesn’t appear to notice that Lola is screwing her former flame Tony Alvarez, a druggin’, thuggin’ lowlife who’s made it big as a director. Lissen up, chica, Lola rules: Forget Linc’s loyal wife, raven-haired, totally talented English actress Shelby Cheney—Lola gives blowjobs that make men loco. But Shelby loves Linc no matter what—and only she knows that he drinks and cheats on account of his abusive father beat his doormat mother to death, then blew his worthless brains out. Okay, then, moving along to Cat Harrison, the 19-year-old ultrahottie writer/director of a breathtakingly hip new movie, married to sensationally sexy, perpetually stoned Aussie rock star Jump. Cat is writing and directing Shelby’s next movie, when not dodging the amorous advances of Nick Logan, the handsome, horny male lead (she fends him off for about five minutes, a record for self-restraint in a Collins heroine). Eventually, Matt, who seems to have fuzzy green tennis balls for brains, figures out what’s going on—and the real shooting begins. Nice girls finish first.
Very familiar plot tarted up with skin-tight tracksuits and backwards baseball caps. But the cheekiness and bitchy energy of Collins’s previous trashy treats just ain’t here—as if written by someone else: uncharacteristically dull.