An odd book. I began it with high expectations, since I find Langella to be an intelligent, highly skilled actor. What I've discovered by reading his memoir of now-dead famous friends and acquaintances, however, is that I don't think I like him very much; he's a little too cruel for my taste. Consider this about Roddy Mcdowell -- "I watched him work the room like a cordless vacuum cleaner, sucking up celebrity droppings."Or perhaps that's not fair. More accurately stated, I feel somewhat sorry for him. Reading between the lines here, he comes off as a very smart, somewhat insecure man with a dodgy semi-transparent sex life (there is a lot of slap and tickle in the book with famous women of all ages and, one suspects, a few tumbles--or at least exploratory sessions--with men) and a longing to be seen as both attractive and important, who regardless of accomplishments is dissatisfied and snarky. True, he does not escape his own criticism, but there's something about this parade of elderly, mostly drunken, sad, sick and lonely actors that left me feeling little more than pity for the entire profession. Many creative people feel this way, of course -- God knows I've met my fair share of writers who fit the bill. His prose his fine -- not brilliant writing, but it serves -- and he certainly does know a lot of famous folks, many of whom say clever, if unkind, things about each other. Still, I think I'll go back and watch his STUNNING performance in "Starting Our In The Evening." I prefer that Langella.