Plenty of locales familiar to anyone who watches The Hills make a cameo, from Les Deux - scene of so many Speidi-related tear-fests - to an awkwardly gushy description of the boutique Madison. So we assume LC didn’t invite her former bosses to the book party.
Shocking! But the executive producer is portrayed as a scheming puppet-master who arranges plot twists without cluing in the cast, and doesn’t want his main characters to follow their hearts if it won’t lead to good ratings. Shoots for the show within the book are scheduled meticulously, locations aren’t spontaneous, the show provides telegenic accommodations, and the edits don’t reflect reality. Or, in this case, “celebrity.”īehind-the-Scenes Hills Insight: Obvious. Maybe LC didn’t realize these books are only fun if the reader is busy ferreting out which character is based on which real-life celebrity. Even the scene-obsessed Hollywood boys don’t bear much resemblance to Brody Jenner, or Lauren’s myriad exes. But aside from a bland Whitney-style office-mate who is great at asking leading questions, the only specific similarity to LC’s own life is when the heroine, Jane, has embarrassing semi-nude photos leaked to the tabloids by her fame-hungry, villainous female co-star - recalling the summer Spencer Pratt spread the infamous sex-tape rumor about Lauren. The book hews to the general details: Girl from beach town joins reality show on a whim, gets in over her head. Maybe she’s hoping none of them can read?
LC thanks none of her cast mates except Lo. Hello, Heidi!īest Dis by Omission: The acknowledgments. But the first 70 or so pages do include copious jabs at girls who move to L.A., bleach their hair, plump their lips, get boob jobs, and become generic, useless bimbos. We craved cracks about, say, a douchey, self-impressed blond man of moderate height, minimal intellect, and Mephistophelian facial hair the best we get is a bitchy, vain boss who becomes a different person for the cameras ( Teen Vogue’s Lisa Love, mayhap?). The gold standard, Nicole Richie’s secretly awesome The Truth About Diamonds, refers to the Paris Hilton character as functionally retarded compared to that, L.A. Could she write better than she feigned interest in her Hills jobs? Could she write better than she designed A-line jersey dresses? Could she write, period? And how much transparent gossip would L.A Candy contain? We swallowed our pride - for you, dear readers, for YOU - and blazed through Lauren’s magnum opus so that you don’t have to. Candy, the first in a loosely autobiographical young-adult series, we’ve been dying of curiosity. (Announcing “It’s for WORK, we SWEAR” only made the clerks more skeptical.) But from the moment LC announced she’d be penning L.A. There is something tragic about dashing out first thing in the morning to purchase a hot-from-the-storeroom copy of Lauren Conrad’s debut fiction novel.
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