- Taschenbuch: 448 Seiten
- Verlag: W&N; Auflage: 01 (14. November 2017)
- Sprache: Englisch
- ISBN-10: 9781474608404
- ISBN-13: 978-1474608404
- ASIN: 147460840X
- Größe und/oder Gewicht: 23,3 x 3,3 x 15,8 cm
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- Amazon Bestseller-Rang: Nr. 14.478 in Fremdsprachige Bücher (Siehe Top 100 in Fremdsprachige Bücher)
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The Vanity Fair Diaries: 1983–1992 (Englisch) Taschenbuch – 14. November 2017
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A mile-a-minute memoir I read like a parrot with my nails embedded in Pirate Tina's shoulder, yelling 'What??!!' 'What!?!!' 'WOWZA!' as she swashbuckles through the eighties, her sword slicing up the staid shibboleths of New York. I remembered why I was afraid of her in those days. And why that energy and imagination, turned to making the world better, has galvanized so many of us now. A cultural catalyst, she makes things happen. Thank god she wrote it all down. Hang on - it's a wild ride (Meryl Streep)
It's brilliant, concretely realised social history as much as a fabulous odyssey, and I read it in a mad frenzy (Stephen Fry)
Full of creative glee, passion and wild-ride excitement, The Vanity Fair Diaries features a cast of characters like Mad Men (and women) on speed; an epic of a legendary magazine's dazzling re-creation; moments of laugh-out-loud comic asides, juicy gossip and sketches of Austen-like sharpness, all put together by an editor of high-octane genius who pauses only to reflect that however good she might be, it's never quite good enough. Oh yes it is. Read the diaries and feel better about everything. The word lives! (Simon Schama)
There has been fevered speculation about Tina Brown's diaries for decades ... Well, here they finally are - and I read them in one six-hour sprint of pure pleasure and joy. These are the most compelling media diaries since Piers Morgan's The Insider but with a tonier cast of characters, indiscreet, brilliantly observed, frequently hilarious ... Her turnaround of the relaunched Vanity Fair in the mid-Eighties is the stuff of journalistic legend - an electrifying, glitzy, gritty triumph - and these are the years covered by these diaries. And it's all here: the Demi Moore naked and pregnant front cover, Claus von Bulow photographed in black leather, Donald and Ivana Trump, the whole sweep of Eighties Manhattan reported at first hand in Tina's fresh, beady, borderline-paranoid style ... As a primer for how to edit a hot magazine, there is much to learn here ... Tina encounters it all, and deals with it (Nicholas Coleridge EVENING STANDARD)
Who could resist Tina Brown, that then 30-year-old blonde Brit who stormed New York in the Eighties, reading her memoir of how she did it? Not me ... Her voice is taut, her eye is everywhere. She doesn't bring us into her circle but tells us, firmly, proudly, sometimes wickedly, what it was like ... Listening to her is as delightful as eating a whole box of chocolates, without a trace of weight gain ... She's irresistible (Gillian Reynolds DAILY TELEGRAPH)
High, low, smart, sexy, Tina Brown's The Vanity Fair Diaries is like the magazine she reinvented, a must-read for anyone interested in Hollywood, high society, and the movers and shakers of pop culture (Anderson Cooper)
The party-by-party, cover-by-cover story of how a Brit conquered New York publishing. As a novice editor, I can tell you it is packed with priceless advice from one of the greatest of them all (George Osborne NEW STATESMAN Books of the Year)
Right there. That's what makes Brown such a fabulous diarist. It's not just that she's a wonderful writer (although she is: fluent, funny, fierce). It's more that, even after taking her seat at America's top table, she never stops noticing. Amid the narcotic stupefaction of great wealth, Brown is invariably alert and on the money (Allison Pearson SUNDAY TELEGRAPH)
Because you can never have too many books - and this one will be the juiciest of the year (COSMOPOLITAN)
[A] terrifying, breakneck, hothouse, backstage tour of how magazines, news and views, and reputations are made and destroyed. [It] made me crave an anti-anxiety pill! In [my] next life I will definitely be a snail (@MargaretAtwood (Twitter))
The irreverent diaries of Tina Brown's eight spectacular years as editor in chief of Vanity Fair.Alle Produktbeschreibungen
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In 1987, Andy Warhol did me the favor of dying on a Sunday morning. By Wednesday, I had written 7,500 freshly reported words for New York Magazine. On Monday, my Warhol piece appeared on the cover of New York. The following week, Tina Brown took me to lunch and showed me a Helmut Newton photograph of Faye Dunaway. “Your first cover,” she said. Would I come to Vanity Fair for $70,000 a year? I was then earning $35,000; my wife, a writer, her two young children and I lived, high above our means, on Central Park West. At that restaurant it was a career effort not to hug Tina.
I was a Vanity Fair contributing editor from 1987 to 1993. As a writer who could deliver a late-breaking cover story against a ridiculous deadline, I was the happy recipient of Tina’s attention. Thrilled to share a masthead with the magazine equivalent of the 1927 Yankees, I returned it. I also saw Tina’s few but surprising weaknesses. Like: limited peripheral vision. Literally: she didn’t have much awareness of someone behind her or to the side. And metaphorically: her relentless focus on the magazine and her hellacious workload sometimes blinded her to her writers’ feelings. Once, on a car phone, she killed months of my work. (That gnawed on her; a decade later, she apologized.) And she had the unfortunate tendency, not unique to her, to be disproportionately influenced by the last person she talked to; at VF, office politics was a blood sport. (Someone posted a sign in the office: “On the side we put out a magazine.”) And she tolerated and maybe enabled an epidemic of Terminal Fabulousness — like, in a morning meeting of a dozen VF heavies in a windowless inner office of a Hollywood soundstage, I was the only one not wearing sunglasses.
I offer these criticisms so I don’t come off as a fanboy. The fact is, Tina Brown was a once-in-a-lifetime creative force in a business that generally rewarded dull competence. She set the bar high (“Always do the impossible thing first”), urged writers to have a big life (“Go out, go out, and bring something back, even if it’s only a cold”), and took her greatest pleasure in marking copy with a red pencil (“It’ll cut like butter.”) These days, when New York media folk tell me how hard they work, I just smile. And think, “Not compared to Tina Brown.”
Her diaries are a record of her creativity, decisiveness and pluck. For those who didn’t discover her crisp prose in "The Diana Chronicles," the diaries also reveal that she is a wickedly good writer.
This book is not for everyone. If you missed the ‘80s in New York or are thrilled they’re gone, you won’t love sustained coverage of big egos and big money. If the inner workings of a media machine and the name Conde Nast mean nothing to you, take a hard pass. On the other hand, she’s intimate to a degree you won’t expect on the subject of motherhood and her concern for her son, whose Asperger’s syndrome was undiagnosed for years. Her inability to be acknowledged for what she was achieving at VF — for her first four years, she was so scandalously underpaid that Hearst very nearly poached her — will remind you that economic inequity for women extends right to the top.
Candid? Interesting? Consider…
- Walter Mondale “would make an excellent prime minister of Norway.”
- Betsy Bloomingdale “has the wind-tunnel look of a recent face-lift.”
- New York Times society reporter Charlotte Curtis: “a coiffed asparagus, exuding second-rate intellectualism.”
- Arianna’s husband Michael Huffington: “a tall glass of water with a weak smile.”
- Amanda Burden: “a charming sparrow-faced blonde who clearly longs to be looked after.”
- Swifty Lazar: “tiny and bald and hairy in the wrong places.”
- Mica Ertegun “seems to have made a career out of the enigma of her marriage.”
- Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne, “who I find are always a struggle.”
She’s at her aspish best on Conde Nast management. Alex Liberman is “like a spider in the center of a web. Spinning and spinning and reeling you in on silken thread.” His wife Tatiana is “a barking dinosaur.” S.I. Newhouse and his brood are “a family of gerbils.”
At the end of this book, she decamps to The New Yorker, which she transforms into a success that David Remnick will build on. Her beloved mother dies and she launches Talk, unwisely seduced by Harvey Weinstein’s promise of equity. Massive spending and an advertising desert after 9/11 doom that magazine. She launches The Daily Beast, another budget-buster, on the Web. And now she’s found a home in the women’s conference zone.
Back at Vanity Fair, Graydon Carter, standing on her shoulders, staged a holding action for 25 years, freezing the magazine’s DNA while making a 7-figure salary, plus perks, and building his personal brand as a restaurateur and film producer. With his departure, that ends. Conde Nast told his potential replacements that they’ll have a vastly lower salary and that “they’d like them to reimagine the magazine, its digital properties and its conference business — but that the title’s budget would be shrinking.” The brave new editor, Radhika Jones, comes from the books department of the Times, which has been brutally slashing budgets for years. Translation: Conde Nast is preparing this tired title to be a smaller, less successful brand.
Sic transit Gloria? Well, magazines, like all organisms, have a life cycle. Tina Brown? “Unless I’m working, I am agitated,” she writes. Does Act 3 lie ahead (or is it Act 4) for her? Never say never.
The book's strength resides in Brown's smart, witty take on situations and personalities. She mixed with literary lions, celebrities and the social glitterati, and she has entertaining tales to tell. Wide open to experience and sharply observant, with a gift for the telling detail, her writing is a treat to read.
Now, it is repetitive. And if name dropping is offensive to you, DON'T READ!. If continual descriptions of dinners is pretentious, DON'T READ. And I must admit that it is too slow when it leaves the magazine story and moves too much in to dinner parties. But in the end it is a very compelling read of how an underpaid Brit finally gets what is coming and really makes a name for herself in NYC. I enjoyed immensely. But it is a commitment and not without slow, dull parts. But when Warren Beatty calls you for lunch, it's worth reading why. Enjoy.