Raucous ... Full of fascinating Hollywood tidbits...but in its languorous accounting of big movies made (and love affairs entered and left), it’s a baggy read.
Feels more brokered than authored. From another actor it might not come across as restrained, but from Douglas it does. The book never boils over the way he does onscreen ... Douglas’s life informed his craft, plainly, but only slivers of that darkness make it into the book, storm clouds through venetian blinds ... Douglas is always pitching toward the rote pleasantries of the daytime talk show ... Maybe I’m alone in wanting more interiority. The gossip is there ... But glimpses of the authentic Douglas are rare, and some absences are glaring. He mentions offhand that he believes in reincarnation—say more, Michael! ... He shouldn’t flinch from such tawdriness, he who has left such a long and elegant grease slick in his wake.
Confident ... The book takes flight and we are cast headlong into vivid accounts of not only Douglas’s chosen films but also his personal life. Conflicts and struggles tumble one after another ... To his credit with no small amount of soul-searching, Douglas reveals far more than expected. He is also surprisingly insightful in other areas, notably his perspectives on the inner workings of the film industry ... Don’t be fooled by such nonchalance. One Helluva Ride entertains the reader like very few other celebrity autobiographies. It has humour, truth (or as much of it as Douglas cares to admit), revenge, remorse, gossip and, yes, gratuitous self-satisfaction. A rollercoaster, indeed.
