...Peter Biskind's EASY RIDERS, RAGING BULLS. The guy is as kick-ass a prose stylist as he is a journo. Cop a load of this bit of evocative metaphorage: "money was the solvent that dissolved the tissue of the '70s like acid on flesh". Great stuff.
But on the other hand, it does thoroughly spoil the illusion of Hollywood, leaving you wondering instead how any movie, even the cheapest, the worst hack job, gets made. I hate to generalise, but they're all nuts over there. Writers, directors, producers, actors. Psychotic, raving maniacs. Drugged up, perma-pissed, knife-wielding, gun-toting head cases. And that's just the nice ones.