DATELINE: Don’t Hold the Hot Sauce
The latest salacious book from Darwin Porter and his partner in crime Danforth Prince is a kiss and tell sexography on James Dean.
Tomorrow Never Comes is 750 pages—a big one, a war and piece on James Dean. It seems epical to depict every sexual encounter of the long-ago star of Rebel Without a Cause and East of Eden. The authors turned over every rock, and every Rock Hudson, to find the sex life of a 1950s movie star.
We are sure they missed a few trysts.
We can’t recommend the book to anyone with moral values. Dean, in this tome, is a switch-hitting, all-purpose, never turn them down, kind of guy. No detail is off limits. If you want to know every sniff, leer, and last drop, this is your kind of book.
We tend to doubt many of the anecdotes. After all, everyone involved is dead—and many probably wish they could come back to refute the dirty deeds. With occasional anachronisms, the writers make odd errors—suggesting “gay” was a common word in sex culture of the 1950s. It wasn’t.
Our admiration for the few people who seemed to turn down a chance to bed, or not bed Dean grew in the miasma of endless assignations. If he did all they attribute, he never had time for much else.
Names are dropped faster than trousers. The book does reveal some interesting tidbits of a nonsexual nature—but you will be covered in slime by the time you find them.
We presume this is the end-all of James Dean books—until someone discovers he was a monk who never had sex with anyone.