In summation, the wise old actor tells us: Life is hard and full of contradictions and you gotta have hope.
There. I've just saved you some time and possibly money.
I realize that saying anything bad about Sidney Poitier and what he might have to tell us in this book is probably tantamount to pissing on apple pie, so before I do that -- and assuming you do like your pie sans urine -- I want to say what's good about the book because there are quite a few things that are.
The book is a fast read, pleasant and mostly enjoyable. Quite frequently Poitier offers nuggets of wisdom and observation and insight culled from his life as an actor, as a boy living in tropical poverty in the Bahamas, as a father and erstwhile outsider, and as a black man hellbent on breaking through the glass ceiling in a racist culture. In fact, his memories of his boyhood are quite evocative.
The problem with the book comes when we ask ourselves what we look for and expect in an autobiography. How confessional do we want it to be? And, if it is not a warts-and-all, kiss-and-tell book -- which I can tell you, this ain't by a mile -- then can we consider the philosophical musings as an acceptable substitute, as surrogate indicators of who a person is and what his life has meant? Possibly, and yet, this book left me wanting to know more about the "dark side" of Sidney Poitier (or at least more about his career); it's something he alludes to near the end of the book but he completely fails to give specifics or elaboration. To read this, the worst thing he ever did was steal corn as a kid. I mean, everybody has fucking done that!
To his credit, Poitier mentions how he is ever mindful of his public image, and that he has always maintained it by selecting films with humanitarian themes and uplifting and dignified roles, and also by living true to a moral credo. But, apart from that, he never indicates how much of who he really is is public image and how much of him isn't. Poitier is very evasive about huge chunks of his life. We learn very little about his marriages and love lives, scant bits about his children, and not much about life in Hollywood. His stints at direction are nary mentioned. We do learn about his struggle with prostate cancer (a little) and about some scary moments where he came close to death or run-ins with angry racists and others. But by the end, I feel cheated by a memoir that would pass the approval of a Hollywood publicist, which this would, easily.
The book is frequently repetitive as Poitier explores his primary theme of the domestic and cultural forces that shaped his life and attitudes. It seems as though he finds 20 different ways to more or less say the same things. In lovingly evoking the stern discipline of his parents, Poitier finds himself on shaky ground, saying great things about their caring usage of corporal punishment, for instance, in contrast to the supposedly poor parenting styles of today. I never felt quite persuaded by that.
A year or so ago I read Bob Dylan's Chronicles and it too was a non-traditional memoir. Like Poitier, Dylan tends to muse and wax philosophical and forego a lot of typical biographical detail. However, I gave Dylan's memoir five stars. The difference between these two books is that Dylan won me over by being funny, not taking himself too seriously, and by delighting and surprising me in every paragraph. Poitier just doesn't do those things here.
I realize Mr. Poitier is too cool for the room, but I can't decide if the usage of so many conversational questions at the end of paragraphs ("You know?", "You follow?", "Does that make any sense to you?") is charming or annoyingly offputting. Since I'm posing the issue, I suppose it's the latter. You dig?
And then there's that sappy humorless sense of self-righteousness. You know the kind. I call it "pandering patriotic highmindedness." You hear it when Tom Hanks or Gregory Peck narrate documentaries or the way that talking heads sing songingly lower their voices invoking some moment of American history in a Ken Burns film, or when Burns himself sappily invokes the greatness of our great land in promos during PBS pledge drives. And I won't even mention politicians. This book has a bit too much of that high-toned pandering and self importance.
So, rather than calling this an autobiography or even a memoir, we might better call this a "palette of personal musings."
All in all, this was a genial, mostly enjoyable ramble. But if you want to know the whole story of Sidney Poitier, this ain't the place to go.