I absolutely loved Eve's Hollywood (1974), but apparently Babitz's style doesn't translate well to fiction, at least in this one. Plotless and meandering novels are fine, but the bright and perceptive voice has turned dull and introspective. One minute you're reading choppy reminiscences, and next there's a barrage of long sentences without punctuation marks. There's no cohesion or charm in the mess.

Eve's Hollywood is dreamy and breezy and has pink sunsets, rock stars, and best taquitos in the world. L.A. Woman is stiff, goes through the motions, and doesn't hold its shape. Even worse, I couldn't care less about Sophie and her navel-gazing. Gets one extra star purely because the parts about Jim Morrison at the end were pretty good.