The Hollywood movie studios in which Marra’s novel is set are in the business of illusion: They create glamorous alternative realities. However, illusions are not limited to the screen. Indeed, the boundaries between illusion and reality become so blurred in the novel that readers are ultimately invited to question the extent to which such distinctions are worthwhile.

Among the immigrant population, fabricated identities are the norm. This is why, as Artie reflects, the extravagant fraudulence of a figure such as Michael Romanoff wins respect:

Here, Michael Romanoff was royalty. Who among his regular clientele hadn’t changed their name? Who wasn’t an airbrush artist of autobiography? You couldn’t help admiring a guy for doing what you were doing, only less restrained by shame or plausibility (65).

Artie declares that in a world at war, realism is overrated: “What kind of masochist enjoys realism? Realism is everywhere. It stinks. Artie had emigrated from Europe to escape all that dour realism” (65). Indeed, the idealized realities of Hollywood are repeatedly chosen over the harsh everyday truth of life for immigrants. For Nino and Maria, the fake Italian piazza at the studios represents a version of “home” that no longer exists in the war-torn real world: