John Lithgow (1) (1945–)

This book starts with a tender reflection on the cruelty of time balanced with the sweet nostalgia of his father-son relationship. There are enough surprises in this book to help you vicariously observe the happenstance of meeting true legends, some in the ordinary course of life and others in the roiling mess of theatre, film, and TV. Unlike many other biographies, he doesn’t display these interactions with the Bigs as saga of social currency. He stays on point with the storyline.

He was just a boy once, his parents ran legitimately successful Shakespeare festivals, and that was his normal. (This reminds me of Peter Shickley’s lecture at the Mary Pickford Theatre years ago, when he stated with humor, ‘As a kid, I thought it was the most normal thing in the world for my parents and family to host string quartets every Friday night in our Dakota home.’)

And then he was a man, fraught with the usual doubts about direction and profession. We should all be glad he has generously worked in every area of the performing arts, not just because he is good, but because he had a hand in dragging in and elevating some of the very best. That is honorable and necessary for the Arts to thrive. Good on you, Mr. Lithgow. It is a true story, and truly told.… (altro)

John Lithgow is one of the best human beings I have ever met. Turns out he is also a superb writer. This autobiography covers his career primarily up to about 1980, which leaves me in hopes that there will be a follow-up volume. He writes passionately about his love of theater and his upbringing in it. There is much for the novice actor to learn in these pages and I recommend it highly. Lithgow does not spare himself when describing his failings and he admits justifiable pride in his successes. For anyone who loves the theater, this is a wonderful read by a wonderful man.… (altro)