🎬🎭📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🎭🎬: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Summary:

Look for The Land of Sweet Forever, a posthumous collection of newly discovered short stories and previously published essays and magazine pieces by Harper Lee, coming October 21, 2025.

Voted America's Best-Loved Novel in PBS's The Great American Read

Harper Lee's Pulitzer Prize-winning masterwork of honor and injustice in the deep South—and the heroism of one man in the face of blind and violent hatred

One of the most cherished stories of all time, To Kill a Mockingbird has been translated into more than forty languages, sold more than forty million copies worldwide, served as the basis for an enormously popular motion picture, and was voted one of the best novels of the twentieth century by librarians across the country. A gripping, heart-wrenching, and wholly remarkable tale of coming-of-age in a South poisoned by virulent prejudice, it views a world of great beauty and savage inequities through the eyes of a young girl, as her father—a crusading local lawyer—risks everything to defend a black man unjustly accused of a terrible crime. 

PART ONE

When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn't have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt.

When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimes discussed the events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, but Jem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out.

I said if he wanted to take a broad view of the thing, it really began with Andrew Jackson. If General Jackson hadn't run the Creeks up the creek, Simon Finch would never have paddled up the Alabama, and where would we be if he hadn't? We were far too old to settle an argument with a fist-fight, so we consulted Atticus. Our father said we were both right.

Being Southerners, it was a source of shame to some members of the family that we had no recorded ancestors on either side of the Battle of Hastings. All we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded only by his stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution of those who called themselves Methodists at the hands of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon called himself a Methodist, he worked his way across theAtlantic to Philadelphia, thence to Jamaica, thence to Mobile, and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley's strictures on the use of many words in buying and selling, Simon made a pile practicing medicine, but in this pursuit he was unhappy lest he be tempted into doing what he knew was not for the glory of God, as the putting on of gold and costly apparel. So Simon, having forgotten his teacher's dictum on the possession of human chattels, bought three slaves and with their aid established a homestead on the banks of the Alabama River some forty miles above Saint Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephens only once, to find a wife, and with her established a line that ran high to daughters. Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich.

It was customary for the men in the family to remain on Simon's homestead, Finch's Landing, and make their living from cotton. The place was self-sufficient: modest in comparison with the empires around it, the Landing nevertheless produced everything required to sustain life except ice, wheat flour, and articles of clothing, supplied by river-boats from Mobile.

Simon would have regarded with impotent fury the disturbance between the North and the South, as it left his descendants stripped of everything but their land, yet the tradition of living on the land remained unbroken until well into the twentieth century, when my father, Atticus Finch, went to Montgomery to read law, and his younger brother went to Boston to study medicine. Their sister Alexandra was the Finch who remained at the Landing: she married a taciturn man who spent most of his time lying in a hammock by the river wondering if his trot-lines were full.

When my father was admitted to the bar, he returned to Maycomb and began his practice. Maycomb, some twenty miles east of Finch's Landing, was the county seat of Maycomb County. Atticus's office in the courthouse contained little more than a hat rack, a spittoon, a checkerboard and an unsullied Code of Alabama. His first two clients were the last two persons hanged in the Maycomb County jail. Atticus had urged them to accept the state's generosity in allowing them to plead Guilty to second-degree murder and escape with their lives, but they were Haverfords, in Maycomb County a name synonymous with jackass. The Haverfords had dispatched Maycomb's leading blacksmith in a misunderstanding arising from the alleged wrongful detention of a mare, were imprudent enough to do it in the presence of three witnesses, and insisted that the-son-of-a-bitch-had-it-coming-to-him was a good enough defense for anybody. They persisted in pleading Not Guilty to first-degree murder, so there was nothing much Atticus could do for his clients except be present at their departure, an occasion that was probably the beginning of my father's profound distaste for the practice of criminal law.

During his first five years in Maycomb, Atticus practiced economy more than anything; for several years thereafter he invested his earnings in his brother's education. John Hale Finch was ten years younger than my father, and chose to study medicine at a time when cotton was not worth growing; but after getting Uncle Jack started, Atticus derived a reasonable income from the law. He liked Maycomb, he was Maycomb County born and bred; he knew his people, they knew him, and because of Simon Finch's industry, Atticus was related by blood or marriage to nearly every family in the town.

Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer's day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men's stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o'clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.

People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out of the stores around it, took their time about everything. A day was twenty-four hours long but seemed longer. There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go, nothing to buy and no money to buy it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County. But it was a time of vague optimism for some of the people: Maycomb County had recently been told that it had nothing to fear but fear itself.

We lived on the main residential street in town--Atticus, Jem and I, plus Calpurnia our cook. Jem and I found our father satisfactory: he played with us, read to us, and treated us with courteous detachment.

Calpurnia was something else again. She was all angles and bones; she was nearsighted; she squinted; her hand was wide as a bed slat and twice as hard. She was always ordering me out of the kitchen, asking me why I couldn't behave as well as Jem when she knew he was older, and calling me home when I wasn't ready to come. Our battles were epic and one-sided. Calpurnia always won, mainly because Atticus always took her side. She had been with us ever since Jem was born, and I had felt her tyrannical presence as long as I could remember.

Our mother died when I was two, so I never felt her absence. She was a Graham from Montgomery; Atticus met her when he was first elected to the state legislature. He was middle-aged then, she was fifteen years his junior. Jem was the product of their first year of marriage; four years later I was born, and two years later our mother died from a sudden heart attack. They said it ran in her family. I did not miss her, but I think Jem did. He remembered her clearly, and sometimes in the middle of a game he would sigh at length, then go off and play by himself behind the car-house. When he was like that, I knew better than to bother him.

When I was almost six and Jem was nearly ten, our summertime boundaries (within calling distance of Calpurnia) were Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose's house two doors to the north of us, and the Radley Place three doors to the south. We were never tempted to break them. The Radley Place was inhabited by an unknown entity the mere description of whom was enough to make us behave for days on end; Mrs. Dubose was plain hell.

That was the summer Dill came to us.

Early one morning as we were beginning our day's play in the back yard, Jem and I heard something next door in Miss Rachel Haverford's collard patch. We went to the wire fence to see if there was a puppy--Miss Rachel's rat terrier was expecting--instead we found someone sitting looking at us. Sitting down, he wasn't much higher than the collards. We stared at him until he spoke:

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," said Jem pleasantly.

"I'm Charles Baker Harris," he said. "I can read."

"So what?" I said.

"I just thought you'd like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin' I can do it. . . ."

"How old are you," asked Jem, "four-and-a-half?"

"Goin' on seven."

"Shoot no wonder, then," said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. "Scout yonder's been readin' ever since she was born, and she ain't even started to school yet. You look right puny for goin' on seven."

"I'm little but I'm old," he said.

Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look. "Why don't you come over, Charles Baker Harris?" he said. "Lord, what a name."

"'s not any funnier'n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name's Jeremy Atticus Finch."

Jem scowled. "I'm big enough to fit mine," he said. "Your name's longer'n you are. Bet it's a foot longer."

"Folks call me Dill," said Dill, struggling under the fence.

A widowed lawyer in Depression-era Alabama defends a black man against a false rape charge while teaching his young children about the sad reality of prejudice.

Release Date: December 25, 1962

Release Time: 129 minutes

Director: Robert Mulligan

Cast:

Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch

Mary Badham as Jean Louise "Scout" Finch

Phillip Alford as Jeremy "Jem" Finch

John Megna as Charles Baker "Dill" Harris

Frank Overton as Sheriff Heck Tate

Rosemary Murphy as Miss Maudie Atkinson

Ruth White as Mrs. Dubose

Brock Peters as Tom Robinson

Estelle Evans as Calpurnia

Paul Fix as Judge John Taylor

Collin Wilcox as Mayella Violet Ewell

James Anderson as Robert E. Lee "Bob" Ewell

Alice Ghostley as Miss Stephanie Crawford

Robert Duvall as Arthur "Boo" Radley

William Windom as Horace Gilmer, District Attorney

Crahan Denton as Walter Cunningham

Richard Hale as Nathan Radley

Awards:

35th Academy Awards - April 8, 1963

Best Picture - Alan J. Pakula - Nominated

Best Director - Robert Mulligan - Nominated

Best Actor - Gregory Peck - Won

Best Supporting Actress - Mary Badham - Nominated

Best Adapted Screenplay - Horton Foote - Won

Best Art Direction - Alexander Golitzen, Henry Bumstead and Oliver Emert - Won

Best Cinematography - Russell Harlan - Nominated

Best Original Score - Elmer Bernstein - Nominated

17th BAFTAs - 1964

Best Film from any Source - Nominated

Best Foreign Actor - Gregory Peck - Nominated

20th Golden Globes - March 5, 1963

Best Motion Picture – Drama - Nominated

Best Actor in a Motion Picture – Drama - Gregory Peck - Won

Best Director – Motion Picture - Robert Mulligan - Nominated

Best Original Score – Motion Picture - Elmer Bernstein - Won

Best Film Promoting International Understanding - Won

AFIs 100 Years . . .

100 Movies - #34

100 Heroes & Villains -- Atticus Finch - #1 Hero

Film Scores - #17

100 Cheers - #2

100 Movies: 10th Anniversary Edition - #25

10 Top 10 - #1 Courtroom Drama

Harper Lee

Harper Lee was born in 1926 in Monroeville, Alabama. She attended Huntingdon College and studied law at the University of Alabama. She is the author of the acclaimed To Kill a Mockingbird, and was awarded the Pulitzer Prize, the Presidential Medal of Freedom and numerous other literary awards and honours. She died on 19 February 2016.

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Film

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🎬🎭⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳🎭🎬: Silent Sin by EJ Russell

Summary:

When tailor Marvin Gottschalk abandoned New York City for the brash boomtown of silent-film-era Hollywood, he never imagined he’d end up on screen as Martin Brentwood, one of the fledgling film industry’s most popular actors. Five years later a cynical Martin despairs of finding anything genuine in a town where truth is defined by studio politics and publicity. Then he meets Robbie Goodman.

Robbie fled Idaho after a run-in with the law. A chance encounter leads him to the film studio where he lands a job as a chauffeur. But one look at Martin and he’s convinced he’s likely to run afoul of those same laws—laws that brand his desires indecent, deviant… sinful.

Martin and Robbie embark on a cautious relationship, cocooned in Hollywood’s clandestine gay fraternity, careful to hide from the studio boss, a rival actor, and press on the lookout for a juicy story. But when a prominent director is murdered, Hollywood becomes the focus of a morality-based witch hunt, and the studio is willing to sacrifice even the greatest careers to avoid additional scandal.

Original Review July Book of the Month 2021:

Silent Sin is brilliant!

I've been looking for a story set in Old Hollywood for about 3 years and when this popped up in a FB group rec request I one-clicked immediately.  2020 screwed with my reading mojo so unfortunately I just got around to reading it and I loved it!  EJ Russell really sets scene of the silent era, incorporating real historical facts and scandals that add just the right level of reality into her fictional story.  Don't worry, Silent Sin isn't a tell-all, Hollywood documentary but it definitely shows the author's respect for the past with the balance of reality and fiction.

As for the characters, watching Robbie's journey from "runaway" country bumpkin to studio chauffer to stand-in to ???(well I don't want to give away all the lad's secrets😉) is an uplifting, heartfelt tale of entertainment.  Seeing Martin's journey of trying to stay true to who he is and who he lets the studio bosses and fans see makes you smile, laugh, and a few times you just want to shake him.  When their paths cross you just know that it's fate but you also know it won't be easy but it will definitely be captivating.  You can't help but want to wrap them both up in Mama Bear Hugs and tell them everything will be okay, of course there are a few times I want to smack them too and scream but that's what makes Silent Sin such a delight.

I have featured some of EJ Russell's books on my blog before but Silent Sin is my first read.  For me it's the perfect introduction to a new author, Sin ticks so many of my boxes: 

historical✅ 

romance✅

Old Hollywood✅

friendships✅

author's respect for the era✅

plenty of heart✅

I have to admit one of my favorite moments comes between Robbie and Martin's manager Sid, the actual activity happens off-page but we learn about it and it put the biggest smile on my face and a loud "YES!" in my internal monologue.  Just another example of how the author has written more than romance and how sucked into the story I became.

Again, Silent Sin is brilliant!

Original Audiobook Review March 2023:

It's been a year-and-a-half since I read Silent Sin and I loved listening to it just as much as I loved the original read.  Greg Boudreaux brings the characters and the era to life in a way that keeps you on the edge of your seat even, if like me, you already read the story and know it.  98% of the audiobooks I listen to are books I've previously read because I tend to zone out occasionally and that is no reflection on the story but because I listen mostly while working on the computer or in the kitchen and before I know it I'm concentrating on the task at hand and not the story, knowing the tale previously allows me not to have to try and find where I "zoned out".

Anywho, back to the narrator.  One of my boxes to tick that make an audiobook go from good to great is the expectation of hearing a sponsor's ad.  Now for those who don't know what I mean, I have been a collector of old radio programs since I was 10 and if you have never heard an ORP from the 30s & 40s they have one sponsor unlike the multi-commercials of television today.  Some shows incorporate the sponsor into the show others take a break for the ad in the middle.  So when I say "expectation of hearing a sponsor's ad" what I'm really looking for is a narration that gets me so involved I feel like I'm listening to an episode of Screen Actor's Playhouse where they often would bring a radio version of a hit movie to the masses.  Greg Boudreaux brings EJ Russell's words to life in such a manner and considering the setting is Old Hollywood I had a higher level of this expectation and he definitely delivered.  I look forward to re-listening for years to come.

RATING:

Chapter One

July 28, 1921 

Robbie slid the last crate of fruit out of Mr. Samson’s truck and only wobbled a little as he handed it off to a grocer’s assistant on the dusty Bakersfield road. He took off his battered straw hat, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the side of his arm, and settled the hat back on his head. Not that it kept out much sun—it was more holes than straw by this time. 

Mr. Samson, the orange grower Robbie had been helping for the last two days, strolled out of the little store, tucking a wallet into his back pocket. Robbie snatched his hat off his head again. 

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Not here.” Samson’s gaze slid away from his. “Don’t have the cash to pay you anything now, but I might have something for you back home at the groves.” He nodded at the truck. “I’ll give you a lift.” 

Robbie’s empty belly sank toward his toes, but he forced a smile. He’d learned in the last six weeks that the promise of a job rarely translated into money in his pocket, even if he actually did the work. A lift with the promise of work at the end of the ride—anything that got him farther from Idaho, really—was more than he could hope for. “Thank you, sir.” He stumbled toward the truck cab. 

“Hold on, you. Not up front.” Samson jerked his thumb toward the truck bed. “Back there. But give us a crank first.” 

Robbie nodded and scuffed through the dirt, where a pebble worked its way through the hole in the bottom of his right boot. He waited for Samson to get behind the wheel and then gave the handle a practiced crank. The engine caught, and the truck belched exhaust. Robbie hurried to the rear before Samson could change his mind about the lift too. 

As he was about to scramble over the tailgate, he spotted half a dozen discarded half-squashed fruits—a lemon and five oranges—almost beneath the wheels. He scrabbled them out of the dust, rolled them into the truck bed, and heaved himself in after them. The jerk when Samson put the truck in gear nearly sent Robbie over backward, but he grabbed on to one of the rough slats that bracketed the bed to save himself, driving a sliver into his thumb.

He crawled forward, herding his contraband in front of him until he could sit with his back to the cab. As the truck jounced along, raising clouds of dust in its wake, Robbie gathered the precious fruit in his lap and hunched over his knees. Fingers trembling, he tore into the skin of the first orange and dropped the peel through the slats. He shoved the first section into his mouth and moaned as the tart juice hit his parched mouth and throat. Squashed or not, this is pure heaven. How wonderful that people can grow something this marvelous, let alone make a living at it. 

His last meal was nothing but a hazy memory, so he ate one fruit after another—even the lemon, so sour it made his eyes water—as the string of discarded peels fell behind, a trail of gold dimmed by dust. 

After he polished off the last orange, he licked his fingers. Then he picked at the sliver in this thumb as he tried to dodge puddles of fermenting juice whenever Mr. Samson took a corner too sharply. The exhaustion of weeks of rough travel, most of it on foot, caught up with him, and he fell into a fitful doze. 

With a bone-rattling thump, the truck pulled to a stop. Robbie blinked, disoriented, and peered around in the glare of the setting sun. Where are we? His heart sank when he took in the sturdy buildings lining both sides of the road. A good-sized town. He tried to keep to open country whenever he could—less chance of getting work, but easier to find a stream for a drink and a wash or a secluded barn where he could catch enough shut-eye to go on the next day. 

Mr. Samson slapped the side of the truck. “End of the line, kid.”

Robbie scrambled to his feet and wiped his hands on his trousers, not that it did much good. His pants were as sticky as the truck bed. 

He hopped down onto the road and caught the tailgate when a wave of dizziness threatened to take him down for the count. “Thanks for the lift. I appreciate it.” 

Mr. Samson tilted his cowboy hat back and scratched his forehead. “No skin off my nose. You were a good worker. But turns out, now I think about it, I don’t need any help on the farm.” He shrugged. “Sorry.” 

“I understand. Thanks anyway.” He wished he hadn’t fallen asleep on the ride. He had no idea where he was. “Does this road lead to Mexico?” 

Mr. Samson hitched his dungarees up under his prosperous paunch. “Whatta you want to go there for? Nothing you can get there that you can’t get here.” 

“Where’s here?” 

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Hollywood.” 

Robbie shaded his eyes with one hand and scanned the storefronts across the road. Hollywood Dry Goods. Hollywood Haberdashers. Hollywood Drug Store. “I guess it is.” 

With a touch of his hat brim, Mr. Samson climbed into his truck. “Give us another crank, will you?” 

Robbie complied and then backed away as the truck rattled off up a side street. 

What the heck can I do in a place like this? Robbie doubted his years of scratching out a living on a potato farm would qualify him for work in some other grower’s orange grove. There weren’t any factories that he could see, and Hollywood Haberdashers wouldn’t hire somebody with only one set of clothes—and those almost too worn to be decent. 

Mexico still seemed like the best bet, but suddenly he couldn’t muster the energy to take the next step or cadge the next lift or scrounge the next dime. 

So he shoved his hands in his empty pockets, forced his back straight, and strode down the sidewalk as though he truly had someplace to go, as though he wasn’t adrift or as castaway as his namesake—Robinson Crusoe Goodman. He shook his head as he followed the route Mr. Samson’s truck had taken, away from the main street and up a slight hill. Ma sure had some odd notions when it came to naming her sons. Eddie had been lucky. At least Pa had put his foot down over Oedipus. 

At the back of Mr. Samson’s orange grove, Robbie found a wooden shack worthy of his old man’s farm and secured with nothing but a two-by-four across its door. He slipped inside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the gloom after the brightness of the westering sun. The dirt floor was littered with arm-long sections of metal pipe as big around as his head, and a stack of broken crates leaned against the wall like a rummy who’d never heard of the Volstead Act—not the most comfortable flop but better than he had any right to expect. 

He curled up on the floor with his back to the wall, arms wrapped across his belly, and begged sleep to take him before he cried.

*******

“I’m not working with Boyd Brody again, Sid. I can’t.” Martin Brentwood met his own gaze in the mirror over the drink cart in his living room. God, he looked like ten miles of bad road. “He tried to drown me.” 

Sid Howard, Martin’s manager, emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Come on, Marty. He was just kidding. Giving you the business, same as he does with any actor. You can’t take this personal.” 

“I damn well do take it personally. He’d never try that shit with Fairbanks.” 

“Shite.” 

Martin frowned at Sid. “What?” 

“A baronet’s son from Hertfordshire wouldn’t say ‘shit.’” 

“But I’m not a baronet’s son from Hertfordshire.” Martin sloshed more gin into his glass. “That would be you. Me? I’m only a tailor’s apprentice from Flushing.” 

Sid tossed the towel on top of the piano and pried the glass out of Martin’s grip. “No. That would be me. And don’t forget it, even when we’re alone. Even in your own head. It’s easier to remember the lies if you live ’em full-time.” Sid sniffed the contents of the tumbler and made a face. “And don’t drink this shit. You’ll go blind.” 

“I’ll have you know this gin was brewed in Barstow’s finest bathtubs.” Martin shuffled to the davenport and flopped down on the cushions. “But you’re right.” He bared his teeth. “It’s shite.” 

“That’s more like it.” Sid settled in the wingback chair across from Martin. “So. I met with Jacob Schlossberg today.”

“Better you than me,” Martin muttered. “I loathe the bastard, and the feeling is decidedly mutual.” 

“Maybe. But the reasons for the hate are different. You hate him because he’s—” 

“A pontificating blowhard with delusions of grandeur and the morals of a weasel?” 

“Because,” Sid raised his voice over Martin’s, “he’s the one who controls your career.” 

“He’s not the only one. Ira owns half the studio.” 

“Yeah, but Ira’s the talent-facing brother. Jacob’s got his sausage-like finger on the studio’s financial pulse. And when it comes down to it, at Citadel Motion Pictures, money’ll trump talent every time.” 

Martin snorted. “So much for art.” 

“Pictures aren’t art, Marty. They’re business. Big business. And if nobody pays to see your picture, it don’t matter if it’s as arty as the Russian crown-fucking jewels.” 

“Really, Sid,” Martin murmured. “Your language.” 

Sid grinned. “Unlike some, I don’t forget who I’m supposed to be.” Sid folded his hands on his knee, and no matter how much he might be able to ape a working-class stiff from Queens, if anybody in Hollywood paid attention, his hands would give him away. Tailor’s apprentices didn’t have the kind of practiced grace that had been drilled into Sid when he was busy getting kicked out of every prep school in England. 

“As I said, I met with Jacob today.”

“And?” 

Sid’s heavy brows drew together. “He and Ira are split on whether they want to re-up your contract. Ira’s liked you since he brought you in from Inceville and put you in a suit instead of a cowboy hat. He thinks you’re the best bet the studio has to counter Valentino. But Jacob… well….” 

“I know, I know. He hates queers.” 

“Nobody knows for sure that you’re queer, Marty.” Sid’s scowl said, “And keep it that way” louder than words could. “Anyway, Jacob may hate queers personally, but he depends on them too, as long as they’re in their place.” 

Martin’s snort was a low-class sound, but nobody could hear him except Sid, who already knew the truth. Sid had invented Martin’s backstory. Hell, Sid had lived Martin’s backstory and he’d traded it with Martin’s when it became obvious which one of them could make a go of it in pictures. 

“Right. In wardrobe. In the art department. Where the public never sees.” 

“It’s not the invisibility that he cares about. He covets their taste. He knows he’s got none. He’s a stevedore’s son from the Bronx. He craves sophistication, so you’ll keep delivering it, because the only thing Jacob really hates is a threat to his profits. You can be as queer as Dick’s bloody hatband and he wouldn’t care as long as your pictures make money. But they won’t make money if your fans turn away. Remember what happened to Jack Kerrigan.” 

“Kerrigan’s popularity dropped because he made that asinine comment about being too good to go to war, not because he’s queer.”

“Exactly. But with the Hollywood press in their back pocket, the studio didn’t lift a finger to save him. He’d become a liability with all his talk about no woman measuring up to Mother, and his lover tucked cozily away downstairs, masquerading as his secretary. You don’t want to be in that position.” 

Martin pinched his eyes closed. “If it’s not because they suspect I’m in the life, then what is it? The cocaine? Because I told you, I’m never taking that stuff again, no matter how much the studio doctor prescribes.” 

“No. It’s because of your last driver. What was his name? Homer?” 

“Vernon, actually.” 

“Right. Well, they don’t like that you fired him.” 

“I fired him because he was a manipulative son of a bitch who saw driving a studio car as a sure way to stardom, provided he could fuck the right people.” 

“Swive.” 

“What? Are you telling me a baronet’s son wouldn’t say fuck?” 

“Baronets’ sons definitely do, especially when imprisoned at boarding school with dozens of other baronets’ sons. But Martin Brentwood, leading man and one of Hollywood’s finest gentlemen, does not.” 

Martin leaned his head on the cushions. “Jesus, Sid. Don’t you ever get tired of the act?” 

“I’ll keep up with the act as long as it pays the bills. And so will you.” Sid crossed his legs. “I met with Ira too. He needs you back in to do retakes on that pro-Prohibition picture you wrapped last week.”

Martin groaned. “Good lord. Must we pander to the temperance unions and morality clubs even more? Wasn’t it enough that I died horribly in the gutter at the end?” Martin should have gotten a clue about where his career was headed when he was cast as the drunken lout instead of the fellow who heroically takes an axe to the kegs of evil whiskey. 

“It has nothing to do with your performance. There were light flares in some of the scenes, and the cutter can’t fix it.” 

“Very well. I’ll return tomorrow to die again.” 

“Good. They expect you at ten.” 

“Ten.” Martin cracked open an eye. “That’s a civilized hour, but how am I supposed to get there? No chauffeur, remember? The studio still won’t let me drive, and you refuse to learn how. I’d take the streetcar, but—” 

“No. The last time you tried that, you nearly caused a riot.” Sid stood up and collected his briefcase from the ormolu side table. “I’ll contact the studio. They’ll assign you a driver, although you may have to share.” He lifted one perfectly straight eyebrow. “You’re not Valentino, after all. Yet.” 

“Isn’t it grand that I don’t want to be, then?” 

Sid sighed. “Marty, you need to think about your image. The studio’ll only protect you as long as you’re an asset, and you’ll only be an asset if—” 

“If I make Jacob enough money.” 

“If you don’t make their job harder. Having a car at your disposal twenty-four hours a day is more of a temptation than you need right now.”

Martin pushed himself upright with clenched fists. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Lay off the steak and pinochle parties with Bill Taylor and George Hopkins. Stay away from Pershing Square. The only reason Homer—” 

“Vernon,” Martin murmured. 

“—was a real threat was because he suspected what was really going on there. If one of those jokers decides to spill to the press—” 

“They wouldn’t. Nobody who’s in the life would ever give me away. We don’t do that to one other. Not ever.” 

“That’s what everyone says until the first time. If anyone suspects the truth—” 

“Truth? This is Hollywood, Sid. Truth is what the fan rags print, and the studios have all of them in their back pockets, cheek by jowl with their string of crooked cops.” 

“Maybe. But you can’t depend on that lasting forever. Remember Kerrigan.” Sid settled his straw boater on his head. “A studio driver’ll pick you up tomorrow by nine thirty. I’ll take care of it.” 

Martin heaved himself to his feet to walk Sid to the door. “Thanks, Sid.” 

“And next time? If you’re gonna fire your driver, at least make sure you wait until he takes you home.” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

Sid grabbed Martin’s wrist, his dark eyes serious. “I mean it, Marty. Be careful. This may be your last chance at Citadel, but if you pick the wrong man, you may not have another chance at anything.” 

Martin opened his mouth to argue, but Sid walked out before he could gather his thoughts. He stood in the doorway as Sid strode down the sidewalk, the July sun beating down on the dusty boxwood hedges that lined the bungalow court. 

Damn it, he’s right. 

The places where it was safe to be a man who preferred men were few—New York, San Francisco, Hollywood. And even there, security was an illusion. The only thing that shielded them was the total obliviousness of most of the country. Hell, they didn’t even have a word for it. 

In the life. A nice, nondescript phrase that could mean anything. But to the men and women who sought their partners from their own gender, its very blandness was the only thing that stood between them and ruin, scandal, imprisonment… worse. With sodomy laws on the books in every state, the punishment for a conviction could be positively medieval. 

Martin shuddered, and as he wandered back to the drink cart, the streetcar bell clanged on Alvarado. I’ve still got some of my costumes from my vaudeville days. I could take the trolley to Pershing Square. Just for a little while. If he dressed in the rough clothes of a dockworker or the cheap suit of a salesman, nobody would know him for Martin Brentwood, movie star.

He leaned his forehead against the wall, excitement warring with shame in his belly. One last time. Without a driver, nobody would know. 

So much of being a star was in behaving like one. Presenting yourself like a person who would prompt people in middle America to shell out their dough for the privilege of watching you caper around on a screen for an hour or two. Hell, he’d heard United Artists was going to charge a two-dollar admission for Fairbanks’s next picture. 

It was nuts. 

It was nuts, but Sid was right. It paid the bills—his and Sid’s. He owed it to them both not to destroy his career, not to destroy his life. Because the sailors in Pershing Square might be thrillingly rough, but you never knew where they’d been. The last thing he needed was a case of the clap. Sid was right about that too. 

Martin wandered over to his desk. He had a pile of fan mail that needed answering. He probably should do that—he had few enough fans left. He’d best keep the faithful remnants happy. 

With one last sorrowful glance at the gin bottle, he sat down and picked up his fountain pen.

EJ Russell
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.

E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).

E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.

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February Book of the Month: Season of Hope by Ellie Thomas

Summary:

Season of Joy #2

By the beginning of 1944, Walter Webb and Stanley Gardner have been together for twenty years. They live quietly above the grocer’s shop on Cheltenham’s Lower High Street, outwardly two middle-aged bachelors sharing a home.

Cheltenham might have escaped the worst of the bombing raids, but the privations and dangers of the second war have put a strain on the whole community. This includes ongoing concern about loved ones on active duty. Stanley’s beloved nephew Jack is serving in Italy, while engaged in the fiercely fought Battle for Rome.

Walter worries about the strain on Stanley’s health, never robust after the Great War, as they both deal with family issues and direct threats from the enemy.

As St. Valentine’s Day approaches, can Walter and Stanley find solace in the hope of a peaceful shared future after the war?

This was an unexpected surprise. Ellie Thomas' Season of Joy was one of the first books I read when my mom was in hospice and near the end, which really helped me stay sane, as well as one of my favorite reads in 2025 so when I came across the author's FB post about the pre-order of a 3rd story, I immediately looked and 1-clicked this second entry.

In Joy, we met Walter and Stanley, both dealing with post-WW1 life and in Hope, we see them 20 years later dealing with WW2 on the homefront, from ration books to unexploded bombs to worrying about family. Speaking of family, we get to see Stanley's nieces and nephews all grown up in their own stages of life, especially his nephew, Jack who is currently serving his country.

So I won't give anything else away. I can't lie, I think I liked Joy slightly better, not because it was first but because of the post-WW1 element as there is just not enough WW1/post-WW1 era stories in the LGBTQ+ genre for my liking. As much as I was missing that time frame, I loved seeing the characters older, how far they've come and grown, seeing what kind of life they were able to create for themselves. Don't mistake my missing the post-WW1 element as a negative because its not, its just a tiny reason why Joy inched ahead, I was thoroughly entertained riding along on Walter and Stanley's heartwarming and loving journey. Add in a little Valentine's Day factor and it's an extra layer of yummy goodness. Considering it's a romantic holiday, there aren't very many stories that touch on the love holiday. A delightful treat.

RATING:

When they were back in the kitchen together, washing and drying the dishes after their evening meal, Stanley and Walter were free to discuss the letter at leisure. For once, they didn’t have to dash off promptly for a Home Guard meeting, but were merely joining their pals for a drink at the Plough Hotel.

“I know Jack can’t tell us exactly what’s going on. Loose lips sink ships and all that,” Stanley said, as he dunked a plate in the regulation amount of water. “But having been a soldier, I can read between the lines and imagine all too well. The Battle for Monte Casino sounds as grim as anything we faced in France and Flanders. I’m only grateful that Jim and Donald aren’t there too.”

Walter nodded in agreement as he dried the crockery. Both Jack’s older brothers were in the Royal Engineers, patrolling the coastline to keep the country safe from invasion.

Stanley added, “At least Jack’s dad is spared our memories. That’s another blessing.”

“It certainly is.”

During the Great War, Stanley’s brother-in-law had been turned down by the military on account of his poor vision.

Not that he hadn’t done his bit on the home front.

Walter recalled sanctimonious individuals handing out white feathers to apparently able-bodied men of conscription age. He’d been appalled by their lack of insight to the recipient’s inner convictions or hidden health issues.

He wouldn’t resent any man spared from the hell of mass conflict. It was a miracle that he and Stanley had emerged relatively unscathed.

 If there is a God, please let Jack come through this, he thought for the umpteenth time.

Stanley coughed. His slim frame shuddered as he covered his mouth with his hand.

Walter was reminded amongst the uncertainty of wartime, some things remained worryingly constant. They weren’t through the winter yet. He hasn’t got the strength to cope with another bout of pneumonia.

Walter kept his observations to himself. Stanley would brush off any concerns up to the point where he was struck down by a full-blown chest infection. Tactfully Walter kept to the subject in hand.

“I was chatting to Dad today. With Jack and the others away, it’s dawning on me how he must have struggled. At the time, I was too bloody busy trying to stay alive to think about how worried he must have been.” Walter added casually. “If anyone understands what you’re going through, it’s Dad. He said you could call round anytime.”

Stanley’s face brightened.

“That’s very kind of him. I certainly appreciate the offer. But I always have you to talk to.”

“Of course you do, love.”

Walter tried not to reveal the helplessness he felt at the worry that ate away at Stanley. “Dad thought a chat might help. You’ll probably be sent home with an extra sack of potatoes too.”

“He’s a good man, just like his son.”

Stanley smiled. Not the restrained expression of recent times, but a real smile, crinkling the skin around his eyes.

That particular smile never failed to pull at Walter’s heartstrings. It also provoked a reaction below the belt, even after two decades together.

“I’m not that good,” he said lightly.

Stanley’s smile widened.

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

Walter put his hands on Stanley’s shoulders, turning him around so they were face to face. He bent down and kissed him.

When they’d first met, Stanley had sported a pencil moustache. Walter had loved how it framed his lush lips and the feel of those coarse hairs against sensitive areas of his body had driven him wild.

Stanley had been clean-shaven for some years. This also had its advantages. Walter found the prickle of his five o’clock shadow equally alluring. He pulled Stanley closer, making him laugh, his damp hands either side of Walter’s waist.

Stanley’s body moulded against Walter’s as their kiss deepened.

What a difference a letter from Jack makes.

Walter pulled back slightly, before burying his head in Stanley’s neck. He kissed the bare skin above his shirt collar.

Stanley shivered appreciably.

“If we carry on like this, we won’t get to the pub,” he joked. “Only Monty, Sam and Jonesy can make it tonight, so we need to make up the numbers.”

Walter continued to hold Stanley, enjoying their closeness.

“If we turn down our homemade entertainment for the sake of a pint with the chaps, I’ll be seething if the landlord has run out of beer again.”

Joy  /  Hope

Ellie Thomas

Ellie Thomas lives by the sea. She comes from a teaching background and goes for long seaside walks where she daydreams about history. She is a voracious reader especially about anything historical. She mainly writes historical romance.

Ellie also writes historical erotic romance under the pen name L. E. Thomas.

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Season of Hope #2

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Season of Joy #1

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Season of Change #3

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