4 MAY 1985, Page 39

High life

Soapbox

Taki

New York T was limping up Park Avenue after some lmayhem at the karate dojo when I noticed a good-looking blonde girl staring at me in that particularly shifty-eyed man- ner people assume when unsure whether or not they should say hello. Upon closer inspection it turned out to be Miss Cather- ine Oxenberg, the latest British (Yugoslav- American really) import gracing Dynasty, the soap opera that is doing for the rich in America what the alleged remark of Marie-Antoinette concerning cake did for the house of Louis Capet. When she finally did say hello, she was friendly although quite catty. But I was ready. Not to worry,' I said, 'I've got Pentonville to be ashamed of, but you've got Dynasty.' In all fairness, Catherine wasn't trying to be rude. Far from it. She has simply lived in New York too long, and oneupmanship in the Big Apple is what name-dropping is in Hollywood. Second nature.

Speaking of Dynasty, and Dallas, I wonder who are the role models used by scriptwriters who turn out such trash every week. Although my recent neighbours were embezzlers, thieves, drug-pushers and thugs, most of them seem to be the moral superiors of the ghastly soap opera characters. (Having just read that Candy Spelling, the wife of the producer of Dynasty, flies the entire Dior collection over in a private aeroplane in order to view it and choose, I ant beginning to get a good idea whom the characters are based on.) And although it is only a soap opera it does manage to get its message accross: that people who create the wealth in America are avaricious and dishonest and never to be trusted. Who needs Pravda when we have the shylocks of Hollywood giving us the word? Well, perhaps I'm over-reacting, but in a country where there are more libraries stocking videos than there are libraries containing what libraries normally contain, I fear that Dynasty's ghastly image of America might be getting across, and soon the Carringtons will be far better known than the Karamazovs. Worse, the upwardly mobile young in New York are starting to talk and act like those idiots on the television screen, which makes my life so much more difficult. Let me explain.

One thing I promised myself while lan-

guishing in Pentonville last winter was never again to get caught up in the kind of New York merry-go-round I was trapped in before my bust. The nightly rounds of chic restaurants and louche nightclubs, the staying-up all night in the company of people one would avoid even while in prison, the clocking-in at parties where there were more persons in the lavatories than on the dance floor, all those horror nights were to be a thing of the past.

My plan was simply not to go nightclub- bing. Lunch and dinner and c'est tout. Three weeks in New York, however, and I see it is not enough. Although I have avoided the riff-raff of the louche night- clubs, I have not managed to avoid the Dynasty-based riff-raff that hang out in chic restaurants. The kind that refer to tables as power table number one, or two, or three. The type that count agents like Swifty Lazar and Morton Janglow as their friends (if you think Lazar is bad news, you should meet Janglow) and try to behave h La Joan Collins and J. R. Ewing. If you think I'm exaggerating, pay a visit to Le Cirque or Mortimer's during lunch, and the newest chic pizzeria called Primadonna for dinner. First of all, the women all look the same, with tough jaws, layered hair- styles, and dresses that cost as much if not more than a B-52. Their only conversation is which status symbol costs how much. The men are even worse. They wear their power look and talk about success. It is enough to drive one back to Pentonville, or worse, to louche nightclubs.

Needless to say, having realised what I was up against after only three days in New York, I was still not ready to stay quietly at home with — heaven forbid — a book and the wife. So I did the next best thing. I decided once again to turn intellectual and had my friend Norman Mailer to dinner, followed by Bob Tyrrell, and even Haden- Guest. Mailer arrived well in his cups and he was a delight. He wanted to know all about British prisons, gave us a long account of Mohammad Ali's life at pre- sent, and admitted that his 17-year-old son can now handle his case in the boxing ring. He also told a marvellous story about Harry K. Thaw, the man who murdered

Stanford White, the great architect who was portrayed on the screen by Mailer himself in the movie Ragtime.

Thaw served 15 years and after being released was shown the new family house by his adoring mother. 'Oh, my God,' he screamed. 'I shot the wrong architect.' The house was the type people in Dynasty think has class. Fifteen years in the clink made Thaw a wise man. That is more than I can say for the Dynasty people and those who act like them.