In the darkest hour of her struggle with addiction, Carrie Fisher's doctors prescribed a six-day vacation from her medications, during which the actress, best known for her role as Princess Leia, suffered a peculiar type of hallucination: she believed everyone she saw on television was herself. After reading her recent memoir, "Wishful Drinking" (2009), I'm not convinced she ever truly dragged herself out of that hyper-narcissistic pit.
The D-list celebrity weaves the common theme of her own exceptionality in between binges of name dropping her famous parents, Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher.
Starting with a 75-page description of the incestuous Hollywood family tree she dangles from, Fisher works her way towards the addiction memoir her title promises. But even once she opens up about her experience in rehab, Fisher glazes over what little content might interest those readers who aren't infatuated with her simply based on her 15 minutes of golden-bikini fame.
As the ultimate testament to her narcissism, Fisher presumes that we already know her story and are reading her book just because it bears her hallowed name. At least for this reader, that was hardly the case. Fool that I am, I didn't recognize her name, having never seen any George Lucas films, and having managed to steer clear of the "white geek-boy" culture to which Fisher openly attributes the preservation of her cult pin-up status.
Actually, I dropped this gem of a celeb sob story in my Amazon.com cart expecting that a tongue-in-cheek narrative of alcoholism would soon find its way to my mailbox. Instead, I got the indiscrete and scatter-brained rantings of a self-indulgent baby: this is what happens when movie stars don't make their kids go to school. Fisher relishes the memory of the scent of her mother's perfume, complains about the scantiness of her first step-father's pajamas and outlines each parent's sexual history in uncomfortable detail.
Though she strives for an "aw, shucks" appeal with her self-deprecating prattle, Fisher's words seem insincere, and in the end expose her own immaturity and poor taste.
In one of the several chapters loosely organized around the theme of how messed up her family is, Fisher recalls reading her father's memoir, "Been There, Done That" (2000), and discovering that "it really was just about all the women he'd ever slept with and how good the sex was." If that makes for bad celeb-memoir material, dearest Carrie, what kind of memoir is 50 percent sour grapes about your parents' lovers?
The few anecdotes about Fisher's own experiences -- and not her famous family or friends -- are too boring to have lasting appeal. The only thing I got out of this book is that celebrity inbreeding is a very scary thing. Thank God Brangelina prefers adoption.
