A scene in an old “I Love Lucy” episode succinctly describes Rachel Pine’s dreadful debut novel “The Twins of TriBeCa” (Miramax Books, 374 pages, $23.95). Lucy, in a typical get-rich-quick scheme, decides to write a roman à clef, much to the consternation of husband Ricky Ricardo and friends Fred and Ethel Mertz, who attempt to sabotage her efforts. Lucy finally prevails in publishing part of the book, but it’s in a writer’s manual under the chapter “Don’t Let This Happen to You.”

Ms. Pine, a former publicist for Miramax Films, will probably have better luck than Lucy in making a few bucks, but it certainly has nothing to do with the quality of her writing. The one positive comment I can make about her novel is that the name “TriBeCa” is in the title, a brilliant marketing decision to grab a potential consumer’s attention. In fact, as a 16-year resident of the Lower Manhattan neighborhood, that’s what grabbed me. After reading “The Twins of TriBeCa,” I feel a bit soiled.

The glowing blurbs from other writers and newspapers on the back cover of books are usually ignored, and with good reason, since they’re widely accepted as mutual favors in an incestuous industry. Ms. Pine’s story, an astonishingly amateurish “insider’s look” at the vanities and excesses of the film business, is so horrid that the best the publishers could come up with to boost the novel read, “a guilty pleasure that goes down easily” and “a perfect beach read.”

“The Twins of TriBeCa” doesn’t even hit the very low bar of the lazy cliche “a guilty pleasure.”

Ms. Pine’s plot can be summed up as quickly as the author apparently wrote the book. The protagonist, Karen Jacobs, a single woman several years out of college, works in the advertising research department at CNN for four years. Then she’s presented with the opportunity to join the publicity branch of Glorious (Miramax) Pictures. A dedicated film buff, she eagerly enters the fray of the cutthroat company, and quickly becomes accustomed to nasty, imperious bosses.

The maestros at Glorious are twins Phil and Tony Waxman (Miramax’s Harvey and Bob Weinstein, respectively), and they’re portrayed as talented, if egomaniacal, misanthropes who use and abuse people with greater abandon than Bill Clinton. In fact, although no time is given, we know it’s the late 1990s because of Phil Waxman’s friendship with a southern president (Louisiana instead of Arkansas) and the appearance of “a woman with a crisp English accent” who berates Phil for knowing nothing about magazine publishing.

That would be – don’t strain yourself – Tina Brown and Talk magazine.

During the year she’s employed at Glorious, Karen deludes the media for favorable reviews, fetches food and newspaper clippings for superiors, and, on occasion, takes advantage of expense account meals and bottles of champagne. Eventually, she’s fired for no discernible reason, and ends up a better and wiser person for the experience. “What had I been thinking,” Karen concludes, “when I let [Glorious Pictures] become more important than the latest Supreme Court decision, or what was going in the countries that didn’t have film festivals?”

It was “an artificial life,” she says. Ms. Pine would know: Her own skill at producing a novel taking on the narcissism of the entertainment industry, still a rich subject, demonstrates that she probably doesn’t know the meaning of the word “artifice.”

Every chapter of the book is named after a film – “Sunset Boulevard,” “Raging Bull,” “She’s Gotta Have It,” and “The Last Picture Show” are a few examples – and the identities of actors and Miramax’s films are so jejune that it’s insulting to any reader who has even a passing interest in cinema.

So Quentin Tarantino’s “Pulp Fiction” becomes “Perp Friction”; Woody Allen is dubbed “Buddy Friedman” and his Miramax movie “Bullets Over Broadway” is named “Mullets Under Manhattan.” Ms. Pine even reprises Robert DeNiro’s (“Eddie DiSilva”) famous line from “Taxi Driver,” “You talkin’ to me?” when Karen speaks on the phone with a friend.

And, for the densest readers, a bothersome miniature dachshund at the Glorious offices is named “Harvey.”

Ms. Pine doesn’t even capture the culture of TriBeCa very well; apparently thinking that the chic neighborhood became a destination spot only when Miramax set up its headquarters there. She writes: “[I]t was New York’s independent film community that had really put TriBeCa on the map – even if most cabbies still need one to find it.”

That’s simply wrong: By the time I moved into a loft on Hudson Street in 1988, it was rare that a taxi driver couldn’t navigate his way to the area. In fact, it was restaurants like Chanterelle, Bouley, and Montrachet that first drew patricians and the nouveau riche alike to TriBeCa.

Ms. Pine, currently a marketing director for Doubledown Media, is an awful writer. One howler that springs to mind is when Karen is in Hollywood for the Oscars and enjoying the room service at the local Four Seasons Hotel. The breakfast is described: “My Frosted Flakes had arrived with all the pomp and circumstance of a grand feast, surrounded by silver bowls of berries, yogurt, and bananas.” Yes, and that’s why single rooms at top hotels often cost $800 a night.

One more: Upon starting at Glorious Pictures, Karen says, “I felt like a different person. A Glorious person. Someone who thought outside the box, broke the rules, and shook things up a little.” If I read the phrase “outside the box” (or, for that matter, “guilty pleasure”) one more time in a book or publication, it might be time to quit journalism and spend my days rereading 19th century British novels.

Not to be completely ungenerous, there is actually one funny line in “The Twins of TriBeCa.” When Karen is late for work, she explains to her boss that she lives near Columbia University. The woman says, with a disgusted tone, “They didn’t tell me you commuted.”

Otherwise, if you’re looking for “beach reading,” ignore this book and take along the latest from Erica Jong, Garrison Keillor, or Tom Clancy. At least that’s fluff that won’t completely irritate you.

***

Oh, wait. There is another title currently on bookshelves that’s actually worse than Ms. Pine’s “Twins of Tribeca.” Michael Eisner, CEO of the Walt Disney Company (which acquired Miramax in 1993 and is now severing that relationship), has published a gooey memoir about his lifelong association with Vermont’s Camp Keewaydin (“Camp,” Warner Books, 208 pages, $22.95), a primer on teamwork, loyalty, the importance of sharing one’s fortune, and the joys of nature. A reader with no knowledge of Mr. Eisner’s stormy corporate career – James Stewart recently disemboweled him in the masterful “Disney War” – might find the lessons and nostalgia contained in “Camp” somewhat touching. However, considering Mr. Eisner’s very public and very nasty feuds with underlings and even friends, “Camp” seems like an act of penance, as if he’s at the beginning of a 12-step program on how to be a decent person. He’s not fooling anyone.

Mr. Smith last wrote in these pages on President Clinton’s legacy.