From the Publisher

Karen Jacobs has landed the job of a lifetime at New York’s hottest film studio, Glorious Pictures, which is headed by a pair of famously competitive and ambitious brothers, Phil and Tony Waxman. The young publicist quickly finds herself with an all-access pass to the tantrums, whims, follies, neuroses, and unimaginable egos of the celebrities who star in Glorious’s films -- but this comes as no surprise. It’s the absolute insanity inside the company that knocks her for a loop. Extremely competitive and cutthroat, the Glorious executives continuously search for ways to outdo, outscheme, and outmaneuver each other in their attempts to impress the Waxmans. In the tradition of The Devil Wears Prada, real-life movie publicist Rachel Pine’s razor-sharp satire captures perfectly the behind-the-scenes machinations of the film industry in all its glory.

Rachel Pine is a former publicist for Miramax Films. She is currently director of marketing and communications for Doubledown Media, LLC, a magazine publisher. She lives in New York City. This is her first book.

Los Angeles Times

"A frequently hilarious account of show business politics."

Cosmopolitan

"So dishy, you'll dive into it like a pint of rocky road . . . it's the book to lose yourself in."

Kirkus Reviews

Loads of fun, a guilty pleasure that goes down very easily.

Booklist

A fun peek behind the scenes of a major Hollywood studio and the wackiness that ensues there.

Publishers Weekly

I wanted to love this book because I loved its conceit: a former junior staffer for Miramax Films writes a roman clef about what it's like to work for a place suspiciously like Miramax Films-and then she sells the book to her former employer's book division, Miramax Books. I thought it would show that cheekiness, that verve, that insidery sense of the media business that lots of us love. Well, The Twins of TriBeCa is cheeky, all right, full of the kind of industry jokes I expected. The film company in question is called Glorious, after Gloria Waxman, mother of the two very difficult, competitive brothers called Tony and Phil Waxman (see parents Miriam + Max Weinstein = Miramax, run by the Weinstein brothers). The dog on the premises is a big mean animal called Harvey (after Harvey Weinstein). The famously reclusive actor who co-owns the space in which the Waxmans work is named Eddie De Silva (Robert De Niro), and the performer everyone is dying to have at their premiere is a celebrity currently known as The Person. So far, I guess, so good. The problem is that jokes like these are exactly as far as The Twins of TriBeCa goes. Oh, yes, there's a plot (about whether the heroine, who works first in publicity and then in marketing, will get together with the foot fetishist Page 6 journalist) and a subplot (about some mysterious leaks from the famously manipulative publicity department). But, as in other employee-revenge novels-I'm thinking The Devil Wears Prada, as ToT author Pine clearly was, too-the plot is not just thin, it's as anorectic as the characters it's based on. Pine's heroine, Karen-like the heroine in TDWP-is supposed to be a modern-day Candide, a stranger in a strange land, an observer whose naivet inspires a kind of primitive insight. Instead, she comes off as a whiny, entitled brat. Sure, the Waxmans and their crew are impossible, but when Karen, at the end of the book, laments that working for them has made her forget to watch CNN and to discuss the news stories she used to think were so important, I was shocked. She did? Last we heard, at the beginning of the novel, she thought her job as a researcher at CNN was stultifying. In a better novel, this about-face would be an epiphany; here it just seems disingenuous. Karen's sense of entitlement is such that she'd bristle if she were asked to fetch coffee for the pope. Thanks to the success of The Devil Wears Prada, there remains a place for this kind of novel in the publishing landscape. And that's great, when it's done well-see 2002's The Nanny Diaries, which melded heart and humor with its social satire. Twins, on the other hand, is short on heart and predictable in its humor, altogether more gimmick than art. Agent, Katherine Boyle. 75,000 first printing. (June) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

In this film-industry satire, Karen Jacobs leaves her boring (but respectable) job at CNN to be a publicity assistant at Glorious Pictures, owned and run by the notorious Waxman brothers (think Miramax's Bob and Harvey Weinstein). She expects excitement and glamour but is confronted with maddeningly difficult celebrities, dirt-digging columnists, and, most harrowing of all, the cutthroat office politics within the publicity and marketing departments. The premise of this first novel is exactly what you would expect, very similar to Lauren Weisberger's The Devil Wears Prada, with Karen fired after a year of toil at the company, realizing she never would have succeeded in such a scheming enterprise. There is nothing particularly exciting here, but Pines, a real-life movie publicist herself, has created characters heavily based on actual people, which gives the book some appeal. The complex publicity campaigns are related in great detail and will interest readers wanting to learn about the inner workings of the movie business. Recommended for popular fiction collections.-Dale Raben, School Library Journal Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

The latest fiction from a company insider lays bare the workings of a very thinly veiled Miramax Films. Our hero and viewpoint character, Karen Jacobs, has just landed a job as second assistant to the head of publicity for Glorious Pictures, an independent film studio run by the irascible twins Phil and Tony Waxman. In her first weeks, she finds that her hours are insane, she can never leave her desk, and she's surrounded by a sea of high-strung sharks in killer outfits. But she's determined to stick it out. In The Devil Wears Prada fashion, Pine serves up predictably crazy workplace conditions and Hollywood conventions, all with lashings of the foibles of the rich and famous. Karen drives out at midnight to get the first copies of the New York Times film reviews, tries to deliver a pair of tickets for a film premiere to "The Person" (presumably the rock star Prince), and seeks a look-alike for a deceased canine star so he can still make a crucial Today Show appearance. Silly set pieces are book-ended by the ongoing workplace horror: no space, impossibly demanding superiors, and a culture that destroys any kind of life outside the office. Films and stars are generally easy to decode: a film called Perp Friction, an actor named Marvin Fischell (presumably Harvey Keitel) who got his start in films with Eddie Di Silva (presumably Robert DiNiro) and staged a comeback when he starred in The Oboe (read: The Piano). Marvin, it's said, is such a fan of large-breasted women that he hired the woman who used to have Karen's job; Karen was recruited partly because of her lack of endowment in that area. After a year, our girl is outta there-thanks to someone else's mistake-but with plenty of materialand possibly a new boyfriend. Loads of fun, a guilty pleasure that goes down very easily.

What People Are Saying

Elisabeth Robinson
"A perfect beach read that'll have you laughing with disbelief at what studio publicists go through to make you see their movies. "
—author of The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters

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THE TWINS OF TRIBECA

HYPERION

Chapter One

It was the shove that got me thinking. This was no just-passing-by accidental bump-it was a swift and vicious push clearly meant to get me out of the way. More interesting than the shove, though, was its source: a ponytailed action star who was supposedly some kind of lama incarnate. I must have been blocking his path to enlightenment, because when I politely told him that he had more guests than we could accommodate, his only response was to hit and run. One quick shove and I was gone, all five feet of me, reeling backward in my heels as he dashed down the red carpet with his gang. Only the obscene thickness of that carpet kept me vertical; otherwise, I would have landed on my butt. Still recovering from my brush with greatness, I heard my earpiece squeal.

"Karen, Jesus, what are you doing up there? He's got too many people-why did you let them in?" It was Vivian Henry, the executive vice president of publicity at Glorious Pictures. Not my boss, directly, but one of the twenty-five or so people who had attained a position in the Glorious hierarchy that entitled them to yell at me.

"Vivian, I tried. He just shoved me and they all ran past!" I said.

"Forget it. Forget it. You're useless," she snapped. "I'll take care of it on my end."

I turned and peered at the entrance. Vivian was "taking care of it" by enthusiastically ushering my assailant and his flock inside. He tossed off a dismissive wave in my direction with one of his gigantic hands before ducking through the mosquito net covering the doorway. My heart still pounding from the shock of the encounter, I tried to slow down my pulse to its normal rate and concentrate on greeting the other, less violent celebrity guests as they arrived at our gala. After an arduous Oscar campaign-ordered by Phil and Tony Waxman, the fraternal twin brothers who'd founded Glorious Pictures, and carried out by everyone who worked at the company-we'd achieved our goal: The Foreign Pilot had won the Academy Award for Best Picture.

The Foreign Pilot had all the ingredients of a Glorious Pictures legend from the start. Rescued from the trash heap of a major studio, it starred marvelously talented (though previously unknown) European actors and had been adapted from a novel by a literary genius who'd escaped his country's brutally oppressive regime with the manuscript stuffed inside his shoes. As Phil had said nearly a year earlier in a meeting with the entire publicity department, "If that's not enough of a story for you people to work with, you might as well shoot yourselves in the head." This was Phil's characteristically subtle way of letting his staff know that The Foreign Pilot had better be a big picture. A Best Picture. Or else. That meeting took place about nine months before my arrival at Glorious, but it had been recounted by my colleagues so often and in such detail that I felt as if I'd actually been there. By the time I started in the publicity department in February, saying the place was exceptionally tense would have won Best Understatement.

And so I'd stumbled like a toddler on unsteady legs into a world of bleary midnights and head-splitting sunrises spent in the service of The Foreign Pilot's corps. We'd made thousands of phone calls to Academy members, cheerily asking them if they'd enjoyed The Foreign Pilot. We'd dialed until our fingers cramped. We'd stayed up all night to reach voters in every single time zone. We'd manned those phones with the fervor of televangelists offering Heaven for just three easy payments. How skilled the leading actor's performance! How deft the direction! How breathtaking the scenery! The score! The costumes! We'd brayed our praises at the members who deigned to take our calls and then, because so many of them were elderly and hard of hearing, we'd brayed even louder. We'd raeticulously executed a brilliant awards campaign that mimicked the tactical plans of the nation's finest political strategists. (We knew this to be true because when the president's congratulatory telegram arrived at the party, he told us so himself.) Now it was ten o'clock, the ceremonies were over, the Glorious party was in full swing, and we were awaiting the arrival of our victorious leaders.

In L.A. for five days and awake for most of the past three, I'd helped to mount our assault from the elegant confines of the Four Seasons, and my experience of Hollywood so far had proved both glamorous and humiliating. My room was beautiful but I hadn't had time to enjoy its amenities, most noticeably the multipillowed, elegantly duveted chariot of sleep for which this hotel was famous. For the right price, those beds could be shipped directly to one's home, high-thread-count shams and all, and rumor had it they were responsible for more than a few celebrity spawn. Now, as I choked down a room-service breakfast, I eyed mine wistfully, noticing that I'd barely made a dent in the dainty white coverlet during my three-hour snooze after our all-night party-logistics meeting. My Frosted Flakes had arrived with all the pomp and circumstance of a grand feast, surrounded by silver bowls of berries, yogurt, and bananas, but I had no time to contemplate the views from the flower-bedecked balcony on which the table had been set-I had an eight o'clock appointment at the Glorious hair and makeup suite. Lapping up the last drops of sweetened milk and taking a few gulps from my third cup of coffee, I grabbed my loaned designer gown and headed down to the second floor.

I stepped inside and immediately felt a hand on my back. The hand belonged to Marlene MacFarlane, the senior vice president of publicity, who had been placed in charge of the department's "look" for the event. She propelled me toward the hairdressers' room, noting, "Your hair will certainly be the most labor-intensive." There was no denying that most of the time my hair defied all styling products and betrayed a casual disregard for the laws of gravity. Still, this remark stung coming from Marlene, who wore her usual unflattering pageboy, although she'd stuck on some kind of glittery headband in deference to the day. I was seated in a salon chair specially installed for the occasion, while two stylists tag-teamed me. Gradually, I saw a glossy light brown mane evolving in the mirror. Glancing from side to side, trying not to move my head, I could see that we were all becoming shinier, sharper, more polished versions of ourselves: it was like that scene in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy and her fellow travelers get spruced up before they go to meet the wizard.

Next up was the dressmaker, who pinned and basted and then swapped me a robe for my gown, so that she could make the needed alterations. While I waited for the dress, a makeup artist applied multiple layers of cosmetics to my face. "Now; I gif you new undervear," the seamstress said, in a vaguely Baltic accent. She handed me two paper ovals that looked alarmingly like mailing labels, right down to their peel-off backings. Seeing my confusion, she said, "It ees the bra. You steeck it on. Panties you leaf here." After maneuvering the stickers into place, taking care to create some cleavage, I stepped into the gown, marveling at its perfect fit and lack of distracting lines. I might be a little chilly tonight, but it would be worth it. She put a tiny vial of liquid in my hand. "For later. Eet dissolves zee glue." I tucked it into my evening bag.

Looking in the mirror again, I barely recognized myself. My hair gleamed, my skin looked bronzed and healthy, I had a curvy figure, and everything about me glowed, sparkled, shone, or did these things in combination. I felt like I was starring in the E! True Hollywood Story of my own life, the good part, where the narrator's voice would contain just a hint of warning as to the downfall sure to follow the commercial. For now, I turned slowly, submitting myself to Marlene's inspection, so that she could decide if I had achieved a sufficiently glamorous faux finish. After receiving her begrudging approval-"You're as good as you're ever going to get"-I dashed over to the Hotel Modigliani to begin rehearsing for my role as VIP doorstopper.

My actual boss, Allegra Orecchi, president of publicity for Glorious Pictures, was standing on the curb in front of the hotel, clipboard in hand, looking impatiently imperious-which was how I believed her face had frozen many years earlier.

"Sorry I'm late. My alterations took a while," I said, self-consciously running a hand through my now-luxuriant length of hair.

"Line!" Allegra whispered fiercely, by way of a salutation. The previous day, Allegra had suddenly developed serious doubts about my ability to greet the evening's guests.

I snapped to attention. "Welcome, Big Star. Thank you for coming." This was my single line, no ad-libbing allowed. I'd been reciting it over and over, trying out different inflections, cadences, and volumes, but nothing worked for Allegra.

"No, Karen, that's still not it," she frowned. "You need to accentuate the 'you.' You're thanking each person for coming. These are some of the most famous people in the world and you're representing Glorious," she said, as if training me in the Method. Trying to arrange my expression into the proper blend of politeness mixed with awe, I tried again.

"Welcome, Big Star. Thank you for coming."

She tilted her head and sighed. "No, no, that's still wrong." Allegra's cell phone rang and she stepped away, as if to prevent me from overhearing her conversation. This was merely a symbolic gesture; Allegra was generally inaudible even when standing uncomfortably close. I stood and waited for her to return, unpleasantly aware that the straps of my sandals were already beginning to pinch my insteps. She finished the call, spun around, and frowned. "You were supposed to keep practicing, Karen. Just because I'm on the phone doesn't mean that I'm not still working with you. I really don't feel like you're trying."

While in charge of a party for two thousand and supervising a staff of forty full-time publicity staffers and twenty freelancers, Allegra had curiously fixated on her invention of my inability to say seven words. The pressure was excruciating. Now she was inviting other people to add their comments. She had me rehearse a few more times and then brought over Matt Vincent, the vice chairman of marketing. Matt ranked just a hair above Allegra in the Glorious hierarchy and she was always turning handsprings in her attempts to impress him. Most of the time he ignored her.

"Welcome, Matt Vincent. Thank you for coming."

Matt was one of the people I liked best at the company. He seemed to have weathered six years of Glorious drama with his sense of humor intact. Just a few days before we'd flown out for the Oscars he'd climbed up on a milk crate in our TriBeCa office and delivered a hilarious rendition of Tony's acceptance speech, flawlessly imitating the raspy Bronx growl we all feared. For the last forty-eight hours, however, he'd been run ragged, putting together a tremendous ad campaign touting The Foreign Pilot's Oscar win as well as a contingency plan should the unthinkable happen. Harassed and sleep-deprived, he looked like a different person. Now he listened to the line, looked at me distractedly, and said, "Well, there's no one else we can stick out here, so I guess she'll have to do." Then he left to get dressed for the evening.

Dissatisfied that I hadn't received a negative review from anyone else, Allegra couldn't restrain herself from one last mumbled barb before she left me. "Karen, don't move your hands when you greet people. They might think you're trying to touch them." Finally alone, I marveled at Allegra's ability to make me feel insufficiently welcoming yet intrusive at the same time. I reminded myself that Matt and Allegra had a way of bringing out the worst in each other. There was a lot riding on tonight's awards, not the least of which was their jobs. Post-Oscar housecleaning was not uncommon in the industry, and Glorious was no exception.

It was just after one in the afternoon, and while guests wouldn't be arriving for the viewing for about three hours, I had to hold my post in case anyone showed up early. The viewing party, where guests would watch the awards on a huge screen in the hotel's ballroom, was for people who hadn't been invited to the actual awards ceremony, like the author of The Foreign Pilot. (The Oscars are about screenplays, not novels.) The rest of the crowd would be mostly Glorious "friends and family"-industry executives and stars on the decline. They would need to be directed to the regular, non-VIP entrance. The viewing party was going to be small, but we described it as "intimate." The actual Oscar party would be enormous, and Glorious had rented the hotel's entire lobby, its three restaurants, the pool area with its two outside bars, as well as a penthouse suite on the fifteenth floor to serve as a VVIP room.

Behind me, a construction crew put the final touches on the red carpet entrance. It had been designed to look as if a biplane had crashed into the building, with just half the cockpit, the tail, and a piece of wing jutting out. The huge lobby doors had been replaced by large swaths of mosquito netting, and tremendous potted palms were being rolled into place to line the walkways. From where I was stationed I could hear Marlene barking orders at florists, bartenders, hotel employees, and anyone else who she thought might not be up to his or her given task, which was everyone. Several men unloaded tables and chairs from a truck and one of them offered me a seat, which I gratefully accepted.

At two-thirty Dagney Bloom, who made up the other half of Allegra's assistant team, arrived with Robert Kojima and Clark Garland, two of our colleagues from the New York office. Dagney was in a terrible mood. In the weeks leading up to the Oscars, she'd lobbied nonstop for an "inside" position. "That way, I'll get to see everything," she'd told me authoritatively at the desk we shared in New York. Marlene, who didn't really care for any of us but liked Dagney even less, had acquiesced to her repeated requests by awarding her the job of VIP elevator operator. Dagney would spend the entire evening in a tiny service lift, shuttling only the most "V of the VIP's" to and from the penthouse suite. "I can't believe that I'm going to be in that shoebox for six hours!" she hissed at me.

"At least you'll see all the stars up close," I replied coolly. I was still annoyed at Dagney for skipping off yesterday to shop on Melrose, leaving me at Allegra's beck and call for eight interminable hours while I covered for her. She and I got along about as well as could be expected for two people who shared both a crowded desk and a boss who was maddeningly vague about what she wanted from us.

As Robert handed me my headset and showed me how it worked, six delivery men arrived with the red carpet and began to painstakingly unspool it behind us. Seconds after they finished, Marlene materialized by my side and interrupted Robert's instructions. "Karen, why didn't you call me when the carpet arrived?"

"The guys just got out and unrolled it."

"Can't you see that it's all wrong?"

Clark, Robert, Dagney, and I all stared down the carpet's length. It stretched out like a wide red ribbon from where we were standing and ended right at the entrance. None of us said a word.

Marlene shook her head and frowned, as if I was trying her patience. She tapped one of the carpet deliverymen on the shoulder and began shouting, and soon the entire crew was struggling to drag fifty yards of red carpet an inch and a half to the left.

"As I was saying," Robert said, "this little part fits right in your ear and then you adjust this microphone so that it's not too close to your mouth. All of us with 'outside' jobs will be on channel three tonight." He and Clark got wired up and then we tested to make sure we could hear one another.

Twenty minutes later, Marlene came back up, looked at the carpet critically, then nodded. "That's much better. At least people will know where they're going," she said, before striding off to torture a hapless caterer.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from THE TWINS OF TRIBECA by RACHEL PINE Copyright © 2005 by Rachel Pine. Excerpted by permission.
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