2025 reads, #3. I freely admit that two of my biggest guilty pleasures is reading random weird crap I find at the various Little Free Libraries around my neighborhood (at least ten of them here in Chicago’s Hyde Park where I live, greatly influenced by this also being the neighborhood of the University of Chicago); and reading the commercially popular books from the 1970s that were up on the shelves of my parents’ bookcases when I was a kid and the bookcases of all my friends’ parents, which here in my fifties I have a massive nostalgia for. So imagine the pleasure I experienced the other week when finding a chance to do both of these at the same time, when a few blocks from my house I discovered a donated copy of Sidney Sheldon’s 1973 trashy classic The Other Side of Midnight, which believe it or not I had still never had a chance to read in my entire life.
Who’s Sidney Sheldon? Oh, you must be a Millennial or younger, right? Because if you were any older than that, you would know deep within the pit of your soul who Sidney Sheldon is, because Sidney Sheldon was freaking impossible to get away from back in 1970s and ‘80s American pop culture. Interestingly, he started as a television producer before he ever became an author, and among the shows he created are the classics I Dream of Jeannie and Hart to Hart. But in the early ‘70s, inspired by the loosening of obscenity laws that were happening right in this period (it had only been about ten years previous when the Supreme Court got rid of government censorship in the first place, through the trifecta of sequential wins by Barney Rosset and Grove Press with first Lady Chatterley’s Lover, then Tropic of Cancer, then Naked Lunch), Sheldon decided to try his hand at the kinds of more edgy potboilers that you couldn’t get away with on broadcast television, full of sex and gore and people behaving very, very, very badly, now that he lived in a world where such books could be put in the front window of Kroch’s & Brentano’s instead of the dank corner of a porn store.
That gets us naturally to the book’s delightfully evil protagonist, and the main reason to be reading this book in the first place, one Noelle Page who can be thought of pretty accurately as Emma Bovary on crack. A beautiful, intelligent French girl who starts getting screwed over by the men in her life literally starting as a teen (literally screwed by one, a local shop owner who’s giving her a job in return for sexual favors, then metaphorically screwed by her father, who was the one who made the deal with the shop owner in return for some rewards of his own). Learning quickly that the odds are stacked against women in this world, but that sex as power is one thing women do have, she decides that she’s going to make all this start working to her advantage instead of her father or the shop owner or any other man, and takes off for Paris in the middle of the night one night and never looks back.
There’s a lot of storyline here (I’ve only told you the events of the first chapter so far), but it essentially all revolves around an American GI she falls in love with during World War Two, who gets her pregnant, pretends to marry her, then takes off one day to never be seen again. This makes something in Noelle’s brain just snap, and that’s when she becomes the woman we’re there to see, the one who created this massive cottage industry in the ‘70s of books and movies and TV shows about such women -- she becomes a complete and total sociopath, to be specific, and at that point vows to one day get soul-crushing revenge on this GI who did her wrong, no matter what she has to do to achieve it.
That turns out to be a rip-roaring adventure around the world over the next 400 pages or so, as Noelle uses her now perfected charms and her highly experienced genitals to woo a series of rich, famous, and/or highly educated men, who both fund her plans over the decades and teach her to become an expert at every subject under the sun. She uses this knowledge and these resources to slowly build more and more of a convoluted yet perfect plan to finally enact what she hopes to be the life-destroying revenge against her wartime lover, which we watch unfold over those pages too; but with a lot of hard-R sex scenes thrown in as well, absolutely delightfully batshit dialogue and plot turns, and a sweeping global scope that makes you feel like you’re caught up in a ‘70s miniseries.
To be clear, though, what really elevates this from simply a potboiler to an undeniable classic in “turning it up to eleven” is that the steely, determined, absolutely insane Noelle maintains such a consistent, soul-dead calm the entire time, whether she’s crushing the men around her, offering up her body for the crudest violations (the sex scenes here are unusually odd and dirty on top of everything else), or strutting into her 1940s private airplane in designer clothes on her way to her private Greek island. That’s what made the 1977 movie adaptation* such a big disappointment, which I watched immediately after finishing the book; Noelle just acts like a normal human being in the film version, and sometimes gets angry and sometimes gets sad, expresses happiness when things go her way, etc. The brilliance of the book is that Noelle actually does none of these things; she has devoted her life so thoroughly and completely to the act of destroying her far-off ex-lover, she just marches determinately through all the highs and lows without bothering to be emotionally moved by any of it.
[*And some interesting trivia: since the book sold so massively well, 20th Century Fox was convinced the movie version was going to be a massive hit too, so much so that for theaters to be able to get a copy, they also had to agree to screen this stupid little sci-fi kiddie film that everyone was a little embarrassed by, called Star Wars. Alas, Midnight bombed at the box office that summer, and of course we all know what happened with the other film.]
When you look at it this way, it’s easy to plot out the ever-spreading tree that happened throughout the rest of the ‘70s with this story trope: how it morphed and expanded with people like Danielle Steel (her first big hit, Now and Forever, came out five years after Midnight) and Judith Krantz (whose Scruples came out that same year); how it hopped into film with grungy classics like Joan Collins’ The Stud (which came out the same year as Steel and Krantz’s novels -- 1978 was a good year for trashy classics!); and how by the end of the decade the subgenre had gone mainstream with the explosion of nighttime soap operas such as Dynasty. But this ‘73 book that started them all is different than those, too; Sheldon really does have good chops as a writer, and this is a well-done melodrama that also deftly enfolds the real events of the French occupation during the war, and makes interesting fictional shades out of actual famous people of the time (like Ari Onassis, for example, who is the clear inspiration for the Greek tycoon in this novel who eventually provides Noelle all her massive wealth).
I’m not sure if I would ever read him again (if I did, it would probably be the other really well-known one from these years, 1977’s Bloodline), but I’m certainly glad I got the chance to read this one, which turned out to be much better than I was expecting. It also made me understand that every ‘70s trashy classic about a cold, manipulative woman can all eventually be traced back to this ur-example, whose unexpected massive success inspired them all. It comes warmly recommended in this spirit.