The art of popular biography has for a long time been in trouble, but now it has officially sunk to its lowest possible level when works of prurient fiction masquerading as biography can get published. A case in point is David Bret's miserable ERROL FLYNN: SATAN'S ANGEL. This book is so badly researched, amateurishly written, and lackadaisically edited it is amazing that a reputable publisher would have the nerve to charge for it. The seemingly endless procession of blunders, distortions, and outright lies about Errol Flynn is mind-boggling. David Bret's goal is clear from the outset: to portray Errol Flynn as a sick, conscienceless pedophile and sexual predator who used people of both sexes mercilessly to slake his insatiable, selfish thirst for more and more sexual gratification. The number of men (including young boys) which the allegedly bisexual Flynn had affairs with in this book is too ridiculous for words. Others are also said, without any evidence at all, to have been gay or bisexual - even Flynn's nemesis in THE ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD, Basil Rathbone. In this connection an unforgivably lewd comment is attributed to Rathbone on the set of one of Flynn's films. Such a vicious slur against the memory of Hollywood's greatest film villain, Its finest Sherlock Homes, and a truly great gentleman is nothing short of despicable.

This, of course, is just one of the most recent installments in the disturbing trend that has been dominating popular culture now for over two decades: the bringing down of our national icons, demonizing them, smearing them with as much vile and unsupportable innuendo as the market will allow. And why not? These people cannot hit back from the grave. Hence distortion, defamation, and outright lies that serve further to incite media bias are routinely accepted as the norm.

ERROL FLYNN: SATAN'S ANGEL is the worst sort of hack-job. And, as with most hack-jobs, its modus operandi is to provide no documentation of where the author has found his information. The author gives no evidence of having interviewed Flynn's family, close friends, or those who worked with him in his films. Nor, would it appear, has he taken the trouble to consult the Warner Brothers' studio files housed in Hollywood, Wisconsin, and New Jersey. Had he done so he could not have related the ridiculous and perversely outlandish incidents he claims took place on the sets of Flynn's films. The bulk of the book is made up of long conversations, mostly of an explicitly sexual nature, which are made up out of thin air. The apparent goal is to disgust the reader. On that count, Bret has succeeded admirably. But the disgust attaches to the author of this mess, not to Flynn. The number of spelling and factual mistakes is also appalling. A partial list was made on the first reading: The name of Flynn's trial lawyer Jerry Giesler is misspelled 32 times. "The Garden of Allah" is five times "Garden of Alla." Costume designer Orry-Kelly is repeatedly "Orry-Kerry" (pp. 84, 232-4, 269). The last name of Flynn's lawyer Justin Golenbock is "Golenblock" (pp. 190, 222, 264). Blanca Rosa Welter (Linda Christian) is "Bianca Rosa Welter" (p. 108). Screenwriter Howard Koch (who co-wrote "Casablanca") is "Howard Kock" (p. 236). Veteran Life photographer Peter Stackpole is "Peter Stackmore" (p. 120). Cinematographer Tony Gaudio is "Tony Gaudlo" (p. 234-5). Character actor G. P. Huntley Jr. is "G. P. Hartley Jr." (p. 232). Joan Blondell is "Jean Blondell" (p. 259). Flynn's 1945 film "Objective Burma!" is "Operation Burma!" (p. 136). Flynn is said to have appeared at the 6th Malvern Festival in July/August 1935 (p. 229); in fact it was a year earlier, in 1934. And on and on. Even the subject of the book is spelled Erroll (twice on p. 252!) and "Flyn" (p. 82)." As mentioned, this is only a partial list. Many more absurdities could be provided, but the reader by now should realize that this book was done in considerable haste, not to mention total confusion. It is sloppily researched, carelessly written, and just as carelessly edited. Blame for the disaster must be shared equally by Bret and the editors at Robson. The author's acquaintance with the life of Errol Flynn is little short of horrendous.

Certainly such shoddiness in dealing with facts and details falls well below the standards of professionalism which the public has come to expect from an established publishing house. At some point in the process, the brakes should have been applied, and a responsible person should have advised Robson's that this is one typescript that should never see the light of day. Where the editors at Robson's asleep?

What we have here, in short, is biographical ineptitude at its worst; it will be detested by all true admirers of Errol Flynn. It is a bizarre mixture of fact, innuendo, clouded judgement, and propaganda and smear-fiction at its meanest. Errol Flynn struggled with (and suffered from) his flaws throughout most of his life, and he left more than his fair share of human damage in the wake. But does Flynn deserve this? The answer is a resounding no. Whatever the case, he will continue to fascinate millions for the foreseeable future, long after David Bret and works of despicable rubbish such as this have exhausted their precious fifteen minutes of fame.