The plot, lighter than a swirl of John Paul Mitchell’s mousse, centers on Crawford Mackenzie (Ferguson), a gay Scottish hairstylist who thinks he’s been invited to an international competition in Los Angeles. The talented but naive newcomer treks across the Atlantic with a British television crew, only to discover that the form letter he received entitles him merely to be a “guest observer.” Oops. After he bestows an impromptu makeover on a loopy but powerful publicist (played by Frances Fisher), she vows to help him secure the requisite HAG (Hairdressers of America Guild) card. Thwarting the duo at every turn are the contest’s snooty organizer (Mary McCormack), who only traffics in superstar stylists, and the reigning champion (David Rasche), a pseudo-Nordic boor with the oafish name of Stig Ludwiggssen.

It’s hard to tell whether the bubbly spirit of “The Big Tease” derives more from the lead character or the blast Ferguson’s having in his first starring role in a feature. Either way, the giddy mood partially compensates for the forced and underdeveloped patches in the script he and Sacha Gervasi wrote. So, too, do the performances of cast members like Fisher, who makes her stereotypical publicist-to-the-stars vulnerable, even sweet. “The Big Tease” doesn’t adhere strictly to the mock-documentary format, but the posse of celebrities playing themselves — including models Kylie Bax and Veronica Webb and stylist John Paul DeJoria (aka, John Paul Mitchell) — adds an appropriate real-life touch. (And if only unwittingly, the appearance of “Baywatch” star David Hasselhoff presents the film’s deepest philosophical conundrum: Is a bad actor capable of acting poorly?)

Crawford, supremely confident in his tonsorial abilities, maintains a relentlessly upbeat perspective in the face of multiple catastrophes. In one of the few instances in which the script elevates the acting rather than vice versa, he faces the Century Plaza Hotel’s skittish manager, played by Larry Miller, who’s demanding payment Crawford can’t make. The manager vacillates between firmness and neurosis, slowly losing his cool, confessing no end of troubles that he finally blames on the time his “uncle inserted his finger into my anus when I was a kid.” (It’s all in the timing, which Miller pulls off superbly.)

Despite the manager’s meltdown, Crawford gets booted from his fancy digs. But with the title character of “Braveheart” as his model — it wasn’t clear to me if the filmmakers had picked up on that picture’s homo-unfriendly overtones, not that it matters — the intrepid haircutter carries on. And on and on. As with any life-of-the-party type who refuses to give it a rest, Crawford’s prattling produces fewer chuckles as “The Big Tease” unfolds. And like their protagonist, Ferguson and Gervasi spend too much time patting themselves on the back for being clever — time that would have been better spent honing the humor. Too often, they’re content to suggest a scene’s comic potential rather than actualize it.

The director, Kevin Allen (whose only previous directorial effort was “Twin Town”), doesn’t help much, either. He’s just as apt to punctuate a scene by having Ferguson toss an “Aren’t I cute?” look at the camera as to put it anywhere interesting. Allen does, though, love swish-pans and jump cuts, which if occasionally irrational add a certain vigor to the transitions.

Given its title, “The Big Tease” focuses less on the salon world than one might imagine. Los Angeles itself is the real joke — as if that hasn’t been done a million times. L.A. generates new fodder for satire almost daily, but the revelations in “The Big Tease” are strictly retreads: Limo drivers proffering head shots and pitching scripts. Power lunches (not one, but two). Snobby receptionists, P.R. hacks, agents, hairdressers. (OK, but just because it’s true doesn’t make it original.)

The climactic if clichi-riddled competition almost salvages “The Big Tease.” The dueling specialists — you get one guess whether Crawford wheedled his way into the event — concoct four outlandish coifs. But though the hair imagery is entertaining enough, even this sequence lumbers when it should be frolicking, and when it finally kicks into gear it’s more hyperactive than inspired.

As with the rest of the film, the scene’s enough of a lark to make one wish the filmmakers hadn’t been so sloppy — or, since ersatz viriti appears to have been the objective, that they’d been more calculatedly sloppy. As for the foolproof pitch, “This Is Spinal Tap,” “Shampoo” and “Rocky” may have been the theory, but — at the risk of getting too cute myself — “The Big Tease” ends up tasting like refried “Bean,” that other pale tale about a Brit out of water in L.A.

This story’s heartwarming side happened off-screen. Allison Anders and Kurt Voss, the co-writers and co-directors of “Sugar Town,” scripted it in less than two weeks, shot it in three and set up financing with relative ease. @ la Mickey and Judy, they persuaded friends to donate their houses as sets and contribute their talents for lower-than-usual fees. The film’s unvarnished look only adds to its charm.

Things on-screen go less swimmingly, as a cast headed by Ally Sheedy, Rosanna Arquette, Beverly D’Angelo and musicians John Taylor (Duran Duran), Michael Des Barres (Power Station) and Martin Kemp (Spandau Ballet) enacts scenarios worthy of the VH1 series “Behind the Music.” A talentless youngster steals, sleeps and steamrolls her way into the big time. To cut an album, a producer lies, strings people along and even turns to pimping. Faded ’80s rock titans go contempo with godawful “fusion soul.” A sexy vocalist attempts to seduce a session man away from his wife, who is eight months pregnant. And his newly reformed junkie of a brother … well, you get the idea. When it isn’t reconstituting tales of rock-world woe, “Sugar Town” samples from “All About Eve,” “Nashville” and a previous Anders-Voss collaboration, “Border Radio,” a grainy, low-budget, fictional snapshot of the late-1980s Los Angeles punk scene. (The co-directors apparently love mocking the notion of “seminal” all-male bands.)

The story’s so familiar and the clichis about Los Angeles so careworn, if merrily rendered, that after a short while only my admiration for Anders’ “Gas Food Lodging,” about a mother and her two daughters living in a trailer in New Mexico, kept me from squirming in my seat. (“Mi Vida Loca,” about Chicana gangs in Los Angeles, and “Grace of My Heart,” inspired by the songwriting career of Carole King, are two of Anders’ less fully realized, though still affecting, efforts.) Voss’ films, such as “Baja” (Molly Ringwald on the lam in Mexico) and “Amnesia” (adultery leads to amnesia and sex slavery), are the very things that give “edgy” a bad name. But despite the attention given Anders for her contributions to “Sugar Town,” Voss seems to have the upper hand here.

After its manic opening sequences, though, the film slips into an appealing groove. Anders blends her real-life observations into fictive action in a way no other American director — except perhaps Henry Jaglom — does. “Sugar Town” may be a lark and its characters essentially stereotypes, but they end up being more substantial than the material suggests they’ll be. An added bonus is that most of them are in their 30s and 40s. Unlike the inhabitants of many of this summer’s movies, their underlying dilemmas are more pressing than getting laid for the first time.

Not that they’re any more grown-up about handling said dilemmas. Sheedy’s character, a successful production designer, is a font of New Age psychobabble about relationships. Needless to say she’s got a miserable track record in dating. That one sympathizes at all with this airhead is a tribute to Sheedy’s earnest playing of the role and Anders’ skill at revealing the psychic nuances of women who aren’t necessarily deep or intellectual. Likewise with the male characters, even when they’re acting like dicks — or thinking with them — they invariably rise above caricature. Des Barres, for instance, plays a haggard-looking rocker who’s ever on the make for nubile flesh. He’s ridiculous, but in a nice twist his comeuppance winds up being his entree to more mature (and satisfying) sexual relations.

Anders and Voss keep the tone of “Sugar Town” mostly glib, but toward the end its satiric and serious sides surface simultaneously. A husband who has nearly succumbed to temptation — “Sugar Town” seems pretty clear that women are better at fidelity than men — congratulates himself for only kissing his seductress. His wife declares that kissing is worse than fucking because it’s more intimate. The statement’s at once hyperbolic and not without a grain of truth. The contradiction hangs nicely in the air, unresolved until the film’s closing shot.

“Sugar Town” isn’t profound, but it is perceptive, and despite its earthier take on show biz the film ends up being just as sweet on its protagonists as the scrappy Rooney-Garland vehicles of yore were on theirs. Maybe it’s because the film was made on the fly, in something of the spirit of those 1930s and 1940s shows within the show. In any case it’s a pile of fun — but don’t be surprised if you find yourself thinking about it a week later.

“The function of silence,” he intones with a chuckle, before pursing his lips, easing back in his plush chair and closing his eyes. Interview over.

Pause, two, three, four. Gotcha.

Such mischievous geniality accounts in large measure for the appeal of “On the Trail of Mark Twain with Peter Ustinov,” a four-hour documentary that airs on PBS beginning this week. Twain took a round-the-world trip in the late 1890s that he documented in his book “Following the Equator.” Sir Peter retraces Twain’s steps a century later and compares notes.

On its surface, “On the Trail,” a co-production of WNET in New York and Granada Television, is a lighthearted travelogue. Sir Peter bathes at a Maori communal spa, speaks about Mercedes-Benzes with a young Tibetan Buddhist who’s revered as the reincarnation of an 800-year-old deity and drops in on the personals department of a Bombay newspaper. Cumulatively, the episodes at once illustrate the lingering effects of colonialism and the tenacity of indigenous cultural conventions — India’s ancient caste system and marriage customs, for instance — in the face of both imperial domination and modernity.

In “On the Trail,” Ustinov, who for three decades has been a goodwill ambassador for the United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF), poses some larger philosophical and political questions about how we can best settle old squabbles and right past wrongs. He hints in “On the Trail” that the answer sometimes lies in accepting that the idealized precolonial past never existed — or at least that it has been irretrievably lost. And bucking the standard liberal line a bit, Ustinov suggests that a country’s attempt to “reclaim” its heritage as a way of casting off the psychological shackles of colonialism will in most cases be futile, if not also counterproductive.

Another Ustinov project in current U.S. release is “Stiff Upper Lips,” a lame parody of period British films of the Merchant-Ivory variety. He doesn’t have much to say about his featured turn as the libidinous owner of an Indian tea plantation. Fine with me, as he’s done better work — most notably in “Spartacus” and “Topkapi,” for which he won best supporting actor Oscars, and in “Billy Budd,” which he also directed and co-wrote.

Our chat at Manhattan’s Regency Hotel feels at times more like a private performance than mere conversation. Sir Peter’s never met an accent he didn’t want to tackle, and as he recounts his global journey, the opportunities for doing so are limitless.

What made Twain a great travel writer?

He was a very good journalist. He had an individual way of looking at things and he noticed everything. I don’t regard “Following the Equator” as a very good book — it’s meandering and it came out at a time when picturesque qualities were more important than the discussion of social issues. But he did say one remarkable thing, which is that there’s no square inch of the world that hasn’t been stolen. For the period, it seems to me to be the most extraordinary way of advancing a view of the world. It’s absolutely true, of course.

Twain warns an ascendant America not to follow Britain’s lead as an empire builder.

Yes, and with the U.S. the imperialism is more of an anomaly. The U.S. is by definition anticolonial, and it had every reason to be anticolonial given how it was established. But when you look at the way Hawaii was annexed or how Puerto Rico was acquired, there were so many tricks involved. And more recently with Grenada in the 1980s — they were a wonderful, innocent country and they had their adolescence taken away from them. They had to become adult overnight and they grew up in a different fashion than what they were expecting. What’s sad is that the American students [whose safety was the stated rationale for the invasion by U.S. troops] were in no possible danger.

What did you learn about the world making “On the Trail” that you didn’t already know?

One interesting thing, which I never knew, was that Fiji was never occupied by the British, but gave itself voluntarily because it had a big American debt at that time. Fiji saw what was happening to Hawaii and didn’t want to suffer the same thing. So, it gave itself to Queen Victoria, but on the condition that she pay the American debt. Years later, they wanted to remain a colony because they knew their own natural dignity didn’t make them victims of a colonial power. The British had to send a delegation out there to say, “We’re getting into trouble in the United Nations for not giving you your independence. For God’s sake, take it!” Emotionally, Fiji’s still a colony — people wearing English wigs in court and all that. They’re more royalist than the English could possibly ever be. It’s bewildering.

The attitude is somewhat different in New Zealand, where you follow a discussion among native peoples about reparation payments for fishing rights lost during the colonial period. And you drop in on a Maori man having his face tattooed in a traditional way. Did his action test your limits regarding people’s attempts to reclaim the past?

It was absolutely a nightmare watching it being done. I said to the man, “Does it hurt?” He says, “No, it’s rather like having a piece of broken glass dragged across your face.” (Laughs quizzically.) Horrifying. Then I asked him, “Why do you do this?” “It’s a statement.” “Yes, but a statement of what?” “Well, it proves that I am what I am, and in any case with this on my face I can’t get any work.” Huh? It was an eye-opener to me.

What are your philosophical reservations about the scheme whereby the government will provide land to people who can prove they’re at least 50 percent native Hawaiian?

That’s Bosnia. That’s Kosovo. “Is your mother Chinese?” “My mother was pure Chinese.” “Well it shows here she’s got Laotian blood.” It’s such an absurd way of doing things. Why should land be allocated in relation to the purity of your blood? This seems to me to be no different at all from ethnic cleansing.

You seem more mellow about this on camera.

One’s polite. The alarming thing is that, as usual, the quota system was a decision of Congress [in the 1920s].

What impressed you about South Africa’s establishment of
the Truth and Reconciliation Commission as an alternative to
conducting criminal trials of people who’d committed
atrocities during apartheid?

One feels in the courtroom how very different the proceeding
is when it’s done under the chairmanship of an archbishop
[Desmond Tutu] compared to what it would be under the
chairmanship of a judge. Tutu said, “Without the truth we
can’t make a fresh start.” And by doing it the way they did,
they probably got better mileage out of these idiots. That’s
why I put South Africa at the conclusion on the show. I
really believe that if the millennium is going to work, it’s
going to be due to the ratio between how much we are allowed
to forget and how much we are incited to remember. The whole
of Northern Ireland, Kosovo, the Middle East — all that is
based on incitement to remember.

Archbishop Tutu talks about it being pragmatic not to
seek retribution, but the approach was also a Christian one
– turn the other cheek, though in this case also seek some
accountability. Did you find it ironic how both sides
applied Christianity to such different ends?

When I met with Tutu I said, “I’m a little surprised that
both you and the Afrikaners took Christianity to be their
guiding light and yet your interpretation of it seems rather
different. Theirs seems to be a bit more pharisaical than
yours is in that they seem to be saying, ‘Thank you, God,
for making us different from them. But if there’s any way we
can help them, you only have to send us a signal.’ [Laughs.] Yet your form of worship is much more choreographic and symphonic.”

And he said, “You mustn’t be too hard on the Afrikaners.
They are in the position of a minority people surrounded by
a stronger majority. And because they have selfish needs,
they regard themselves as the chosen people. And after all,
it’s not the first time that this has happened,” he said
with the faintest grin. It was interesting comment because
it was taking a kind of risk and at the same time being very
perspicacious — and very generous.

Certainly more generous than Twain, who called their
forebears “profoundly ignorant, dull, obstinate,
bigoted.”

Indeed. Tutu’s a delightful character. He told me, “I never
saw a light. I never thought of the church as a vocation. I
went in because I thought it was the one place where a black
boy could be on equal terms with a white one. And it was
only once I was inside that I began to believe.”

Did your meeting with the 97-year-old widow of Hendrik Verwoerd, the architect of apartheid, feel as peculiar in person as it looked on camera?

I must say our visit to old Mrs. Verwoerd proved what Tutu
was saying. She came out of her house, and I put out my arm
and she searched for the arm and then the eagle had landed.
Ah, I was in such pain as these bony fingers dug into my
skin. Then she sits down. “No blacks, only whites.”

This is in Orania, the segregated area some Afrikaners are trying to develop
into a separate state?

Yes.

By contrast, Robben Island, once a notorious prison, has been so transformed that you see it as a positive metaphor for the new South Africa.
What fascinated you so much about the place?

One had doubts about the way things are going in the new
South Africa. Robben Island is a pretty island off the coast
with a wonderful view. It’s made for luxury, yet it had a
fearful penitentiary. But it’s no longer a prison; it’s a
place of pilgrimage. People go to cell No. 5, which
was Mandela’s, and they meditate and talk.

The extraordinary thing is that among the guides are people
that have settled on Robben Island for good — ex-political
prisoners, ex-criminals and ex-warders. This was a place
where savagery was encouraged. One of the punishments for
prisoners was to cover them up with sand until only their
heads were showing and then pee on them. But then political
prisoners like Mandela began cultivating little gardens and
beautifying the place. Suddenly everybody joined in,
mystified by this. Now, these disparate people are also
joining in together. Robben Island is growing into a
community based on this terrible place which by their
presence is somehow exorcised. There’s an example of
forgiving and forgetting.

Where has your work for UNICEF taken you?

The most recent mission was to Cambodia, which may be the
saddest place I’ve ever been. Cambodia, I think, is the
fault of the West, because Cambodia had more bombs dropped
on it than Vietnam. You feel like you’re flying over a
plucked chicken because the deforestation has been so
thorough. And when you get killing on that sort of scale it
brings on a habit of killing, so that in a way Pol Pot was
almost a logical follow-on to that.

The problems for children are enormous, and what makes you
furious is that you can live with acts of God, earthquakes
or natural disasters that seem inevitable. But that people
do terrible things, deliberately not foreseeing the
consequences, putting children at the age of 10 into
uniform when they enjoy playing soldiers and perverting
their natural tendencies, that’s unpardonable.

So, what makes you optimistic about the future?

I don’t think there’s any alternative to optimism. One
skeptical German journalist said to me, “Isn’t all you try
and do for UNICEF like just like a drop of water on a hot
stove?” That’s a German expression. I said I honestly think
it’s a little better than that: “It’s a drop of water in the
ocean: It doesn’t get lost.”

Ari, the nihilist protagonist, has two solutions for every quandary in his life: rough sex and even rougher drugs. He’s the type of self-indulgent lout
audiences either find captivating or exasperating –
particularly when the entire narrative unfolds from the lout’s point of view, as it does
here. What intrigued me about Ari was the way he, like many kids his age, uses
his body to thrash out his metaphysical conflicts. During
the slightly more than 24 hours in his life the film
depicts, he gets an inkling that an easier strategy might
exist, though he’s a ways off from shifting paradigms.

“Head On,”
which has begun to pop up in U.S. art houses, was a box-office hit
in Australia — something of a surprise given its modest budget and trippy style.
Heavy doses of hand-held, choppy and swooping camerawork give the film an
edgy feel, one that’s accentuated by the contributions of editor Jill
Bilcock, who cut the equally frenetic “Romeo + Juliet.”
Kokkinos goes overboard in spots and isn’t above hot-dogging
with the camera angles, but in general the cinematography
complements Ari’s emotional state.

Kokkinos puts a specifically Greek-Australian spin on a
familiar coming-of-age tale. Everyone around Ari, especially
his family, offers the same predictable advice: Get a job.
Get married. “Then you can do whatever you want,” his
friend’s mom tells him — a stance he finds too hypocritical.
As a “wog,” or foreigner, in a Melbourne suburb, Ari doesn’t
fit in with the white majority. “They look at us and all
they see is a hairy back,” he says of Anglo girls. But his
parents and their generation — many of them political
activists in Greece during the 1970s — seem not to notice
the psychic upheaval immigration has induced in their
offspring. Lacking imagination, most of the kids opt for
what Ari derides as the marriage-mortgage compromise.

Alex Dimitriades, an Australian TV star and teen heartthrob,
plays Ari with robust impetuosity. All his sex being
metaphorical, Ari lurches into some skanky episodes, not the
least of them an Oedipal back-alley tussle with a portly
fellow his father’s age. Ari’s at first debased when he’s
forced to give head — until now, he’s only been the top
– but afterward recoups a portion of his pride by forcing
the guy to jerk him off. When his partner momentarily gets
caught up in the act’s intensity and makes a slight move to
kiss him, Ari brutally twists the man’s head away and
maintains the hold until finally shooting. Kokkinos
choreographs the scene to mirror an earlier one in which
Ari’s father attempts to seduce his son back into the enveloping
comfort of patriarchal affection during an impromptu Greek
dance they share. Both scenes emphasize the grip Ari’s
family and heritage have on him, and from the dance it’s
apparent that the ties binding him aren’t entirely negative.

What’s telling about Ari’s tryst is that whatever
self-respect he’s regained at its conclusion is on the old
terms — namely, macho one-upmanship. But the older man is paradoxically the first person to
force Ari to accept his sexual vulnerability. Given his
chemical intake, however — Ari has already shot up, smoked,
snorted various drugs and had several drinks to boot — most
of this is lost on him in the short run.

Ari has so much homosex, and is so
trashily proficient at it from the get-go, that it took a while for it to
dawn on me that “Head On” is also his coming-out story. Ari
hasn’t yet accepted being queer — the sex for him is always
about something else. Early on, he meets a white Aussie,
Sean, who sees more of Ari’s potential than Ari does himself.
Sean’s projected too far into the future — it’s hard to
learn much in a day, and Ari is a slow learner in any case –
but in their interactions lies the nucleus of his
transformation.

The themes “Head On” juggles — sexual identity, cultural
alienation, conformity, individuality — lend themselves to
didacticism. For the first hour or so Kokkinos, who’s
Greek-Australian herself, merges her philosophical
observations into the action. Toward the end, though, she
falters. In a scene that’s not in the book, Ari and his
cross-dressing friend Toula (nee Johnny), who’s been
teaching him about standing up for one’s truth, get themselves arrested while tripping.
One of the cops is a textbook
white racist. The other’s a Greek guy who’s trying to
assimilate and becomes infuriated and embarrassed by what
Toula represents as a Greek. Only the sly performance of
Paul Capsis as the sassy Toula gives any bite to the
less-than-subtle confrontation.

Its missteps and excesses aside, “Head On” is a promising
feature film debut for Kokkinos, who previously directed the
hour-long drama “Only the Brave,” about a Greek-Australian
lesbian teen’s coming out. The director puts Ari through no
end of macho paces — though nothing anywhere near as gross
as the ear surgery in “Reservoir Dogs” or the toilet scene
in “Trainspotting” — but doesn’t revel in his bravado.
She’s clearly fond of the character, even moved by his
predicament. I’d almost say she nurtures him, for despite
his fatalistic ranting that closes the film, I think she sees
a future for a boy with this much fire in him. But then, that’d be
stereotyping her, wouldn’t it?

In “Fannie,” the first full-fledged biography of Hurst, Brooke Kroeger concedes her subject’s literary shortcomings. But she makes a convincing case that Hurst was a literary trendsetter who used her celebrity to promote an agenda that included racial equality and women’s rights. An early supporter of African-American writer Zora Neale Hurston (who worked briefly as her secretary) and a friend of Eleanor Roosevelt’s, Hurst saw beyond the jargon of the causes she championed. She encouraged men to support equal opportunity for women, for instance, but challenged her gender to live up to the bargain, mocking the “languid psychology” of women engaged in “the industry of gold digging.”

Hurst came into prominence before World War I with a string of heartwarming yet realistic short stories that led reviewers to dub her the female O. Henry. Literary types scorned her sappy plotting and “careless” writing, though some praised her intuitive rendering of women’s emotional lives. One superb example is “Hattie Turner versus Hattie Turner,” which ran in Cosmopolitan in 1935. The title character so fervently wishes her abusive husband would die that after he is killed she has trouble convincing herself she’s not the murderer.

Short stories were Hurst’s strong suit, but then as now, book publishers preferred novels, and her novels could be excruciating reads, full of corny metaphors and clunky prose. From “Anywoman”: “The days were transmission belts under her feet, moving her along.” From “Imitation of Life”: “Delilah might be said to have risen like a vast black sun over the troubled waters of the domestic scene, laying them and the hordes of fears, large and small, that had dogged her heels all day.” (No wonder Langston Hughes was moved to pen the theatrical parody “Limitations of Life.”)

Hurst described herself as “a ‘bleeder’ under criticism” but seems not to have heeded any of it, and despite Kroeger’s impressive research — her book is meticulously documented — “Fannie” never satisfactorily explains why not. The best the biographer can offer is the simplistic psychological speculation that “at some level [Hurst] seemed to invite the biennial opportunity to hemorrhage. Perhaps it was a way to bring back the verbal lashings of her St. Louis childhood.”

Hurst appears not to have inspired Kroeger as fully as did her previous subject, journalist Nellie Bly. This reduced affinity may explain such flaccid, Hurst-like similes as “Wednesday the telephone in Fannie’s apartment rang like a bell concert” and “Success for Fannie kept coming, like popcorn kernels exploding in hot oil.” Actually, Hurst herself provides some of the pithiest sequences in “Fannie” by way of the numerous citations from her autobiography, “Anatomy of Me.” She may shade (or delete) the truth, but she emerges more distinctly on her own pages than on Kroeger’s. Together, though, the two books provide a complete portrait.

Fitzgerald may have been too dismissive when he damned Hurst to obscurity, but by the time she died in 1968, interest in her had all but disappeared. Kroeger believes the time is ripe for a revival, and Hurst deserves one — though let’s hope, for the reading public’s sake, that it’s a selective one.