I'm an incredibly forgiving consumer of celebrity autobiographies. Really. Perhaps its because they remind me of my first years as a reader, when I discovered the local Bookmobile and a traveling librarian who let a grade schooler check out Hedy Lamarr's racy autobiography, and more, even more inappropriate, materials.
At any rate, I expect self-serving memory lapses, an avalanche of fudged details and little white lies, and a gauzy overlay of Rebecca-of-Sunnybrook-Farm on even the most debauched of Hollywood stories. Kinda like the chiffon-over-silk harem pants of one Jeannie Nelson.
And there's a ton of gauze over this celebrity memoir by Barbara Eden, understandably so, since the unfortunate author lost her only son to a serious drug problem. I don't expect to know the painful details of her son's tragic life.
I don't even expect to get much detail about a star's own love life, at least not the nitty-gritty detail. So the quick summation of her three marriages and one long live-in relationship was OK with me. The amount of dish about co-stars was of the expected kind, and in just the right amount.
So far, so good. But twice--for absolutely no reason--the author makes a point of attacking unions. Unions! Couple that with the author's admitted penchant for taking every paying job she could get, and her frequent mentions of money and how she (sigh!) had to spend so much time away in order to earn more and more and more money, and this reader got an unpretty picture she couldn't blink away.