"Outrageous Old Crook"

THE LAST HURRAH (427 pp.)--Edwin O'Connor--Atlantic-Little, Brown ($4).

A Boston newspaper recently decided that it had just the right reviewer for this book: famed patriarch of Boston pols, ex-Mayor James Michael Curley. When he agreed, the paper mailed him a check along with the review copy. Back came the book and check in a few days, with a curt note from the doughty octogenarian: "The matter is in the hands of my attorneys." Reason for his indignation: a strong resemblance between the book's hero, Frank Skeffington, and James Michael Curley. Asked if he considered Skeffington to be a portrait of himself, Curley snapped: "No question about it."

Curley's chronicler, Novelist Edwin Greene O'Connor, 38, is a onetime radio announcer who made $720 from his first novel, and shelved the second in disgust. This one is already a smash success. Even before publication, Columbia Pictures bought the movie rights for $150,000. The novel also won the Atlantic Prize, was chosen by the Book-of-the-Month Club (February) and Reader's Digest Book Club. It is the bristling, flamboyant saga of the decline and fall of the big city boss.

Out of the Cellar. If Curley really sues, it will be like biting the hand that applauds him. For Skeffington is a lovable rogue--a combination of Santa Claus, Robin Hood, a Chinese warlord and the late John Barrymore. Over 70, Skeffington decides to run for re-election as mayor of the nameless big city, where the candidates usually share three qualifications ("All were Democrats, all were Irish, all were Catholics"). The old campaigner invites his nephew Adam to tag along and get acquainted with politics. It is through Adam's eyes that one sees the great old pro and his enemies go into action.

"The main reason I went into politics," Skeffington tells Adam, "was because it was the quickest way out of the cellar and up the ladder." Skeffington never forgets that there are plenty of votes to be picked up, back in the cellars of poverty, with new dentures, a pair of eyeglasses, some funeral money or a job. He runs on two planks: 1) "All Ireland must be free"; 2) "Trieste belongs to Italy."

His speeches are classics of hammy, outrageous irrelevance: "I remember some years ago when I proposed building the public baths along the Strandway, I was greeted with a chorus of recriminations from the opposition party. They had a terrifying vision: hundreds of the poor would now be able to take baths regularly! For their part, they want our poor to be like Frenchwomen. A Frenchwoman, as you know, takes a bath but twice in her life: once when she enters it, and once when she leaves it. In between times she uses talcum powder. It's a well-known fact that the Republicans have a vested interest in the talcum powder industry!"

Generation of Ciphers. Roaming with Skeffington from waterfront to wake ("Never neglect the relatives, friends or enemies of the deceased"), Adam sees the old campaigner turn on the charm and put on the pressure. Disloyal allies are axed, appointees are squeezed for campaign contributions, the opposition newspaper is promised "a little trouble with the building inspectors shortly."

Half-grudgingly, Adam becomes fond of the "outrageous old crook," his bluff-and-blarney court jesters, and his chief ward boss, a shrewd, taciturn man with the scars of half a century's political battles on him. Warns Adam's managing editor: "He's going to get his ay double ess beaten off this time." Skeffington's enemies finally unite against him. There is the choleric cardinal who believes Skeffington has demeaned his church and his people. There is a jackal pack of disgruntled rivals. There are the earnest young New Dealers who see Skeffington as a throwback to "the Age of the Dinosaur." They all rally round a decent, colorless nonentity named McCluskey, "the spearhead of a generation of ciphers." McCluskey wins, and the last of the dinosaurs goes down, though not without a last brave hurrah on his lips.

Bostonian Author O'Connor makes his novel ring with the harsh brogue of the Boston Irish, and ripple with Irish fancy. He may not always see his hero with 20-20 vision, but he does something even rarer among modern novelists--he makes him come alive, with love.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.