The public can’t seem to resist stories about the private lives of movie stars. We’re fascinated by who these beautiful flickering gods might be off-screen, and that fascination is exacerbated a thousand times over by the fact that these beautiful flickering gods don’t want us to know. It’s a recipe for infatuation and disaster. It’s also a recipe for some very bad movies. The truth may be stranger than fiction, but it’s awful hard to bridge the gap between the two.
“Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool” is a tawdrier, more