If you've already pored over Bowers' book, there's a bit of redundancy and repetitiveness to the gentleman hustler's revelations. But honestly, who tires of hearing gossip about A-list gang bangs, fetishes, and hook-ups?

We get a lot of opaque Scottys, all semi-attached to an alternate "history" that feels maddeningly incomplete and barely surface-scratched.

A living rebuke to the imagined America of Hollywood's golden age.

It’s like a depressing sequel to his memoir, rather than an adaptation of it.