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Kiss Me Like a Stranger: My Search for Love and Art

Kiss Me Like a Stranger: My Search for Love and Art

4.4 22
by Gene Wilder

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Gene Wilder was one of the great comic actors who defined the 1970's and 1980's in movies. From his early work with Woody Allen to the rich group of movies he made with Mel Brooks to his partnership on screen with Richard Pryor, Wilder's performances are still discussed and celebrated today. Kiss Me Like A Stranger is an intimate glimpse of the man behind


Gene Wilder was one of the great comic actors who defined the 1970's and 1980's in movies. From his early work with Woody Allen to the rich group of movies he made with Mel Brooks to his partnership on screen with Richard Pryor, Wilder's performances are still discussed and celebrated today. Kiss Me Like A Stranger is an intimate glimpse of the man behind the image on the screen.

In this book, Wilder talks about everything from his experiences in psychoanalysis to why he got into acting (and later comedy-his first goal was to be a Shakespearean actor) to how a Midwestern childhood with a sick mother changed him. He writes about the creative process on stage and on screen, and divulges moments from life on the sets of the some of the most iconic movies of our time. He also opens up about his love affairs and marriages, including his marriage to comedian Gilda Radner. But the core of Kiss Me Like A Stranger is an actor's search for truth and a thoughtful analysis of why the choices he made-some of them so serendipitous they were practically accidental-changed the course of his life.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“a gracious, endearing book” —The New York Times

“I always knew Gene Wilder was a remarkable person, but I didn't realize how remarkable until I read this brave, riveting book.” —Charles Grodin, actor

“...an honest, affecting look at his life. Strong, tender and revealing” —Kirkus

“A wonderful addition to the entertainment memoir Gene pool.” —Library Journal

“A witty memoir. It's also a reflective and well-written meditation on the life of someone who has more on his mind than the next big part or belly laugh.” —Los Angeles Times

“It's impossible to not feel deep affection for Gene Wilder.” —Entertainment Weekly

“Come for inside dish on his funniest movies, stay for touching stories about Mel Brooks, Gilda Radner and others. A classy memoir.” —Newsweek

Publishers Weekly
The man who created some of the funniest moments in film history talks about acting, adultery, neuroses and death in this intimate, unusual memoir. Wilder began acting as a teenager at summer camp and eventually earned some acclaim on Broadway but not much money-he says he was still collecting unemployment checks when he began shooting his breakout film role in Mel Brooks's original film version of The Producers (1968). The movie flopped commercially, but Wilder's comedic chops were established. A string of successes followed: Blazing Saddles; Young Frankenstein; Willy Wonka; Stir Crazy. Off camera, things were more complicated. After two troubled marriages, Wilder married Saturday Night Live's Gilda Radner-a brilliant, erratic woman who battled bulimia and wild mood swings. Wilder is unusually frank in documenting both Radner's faults and her long struggle with cancer. Honesty is a prevailing quality of this book, as Wilder freely discusses topics ranging from his own neuroses to the drug-fueled misbehavior of his great comedic partner, Richard Pryor. He also doesn't avoid telling the details of his own bout with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. Wilder's fans may be disappointed to find relatively scant coverage of some of his triumphs, but Wilder clearly isn't interested in writing a conventional Hollywood memoir. His book candidly explores his own faults and feelings, as well as those of the people he's loved and lost. Photos. Agent, David Sarnoff. (Mar. 14) Forecast: Wilder's five-city tour will help market the book to fans, and a timely (if minor) hook is his voice role in the forthcoming comedy Instant Karma. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Twice nominated for Academy Awards in acting and screenwriting, Wilder is a comedic master whose performances in Blazing Saddles, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, and The Producers continue to inspire younger actors. And as someone who has worked with Mel Brooks, he can kibbitz with the best of them. In his memoir, he focuses on his work as an artist and his interpersonal relationships, namely four marriages, the most famous of which was with Gilda Radner. Confessional in the literal sense (Jewish guilt factors prominently) as well as the stylistic (much of the narrative is a conversation with his therapist), the story follows a chronological arc, with hilarious and lovely anecdotal reminiscences of such figures as Carol Channing, Zero Mostel, Woody Allen, Richard Pryor, and Arthur Penn. Wilder often concludes chapters with a daisy chain-like summation, e.g., if-Stanley-Donen-hadn't-rearranged-hi s-schedule-I-wouldn't-have-met-Madeline-Kahn, as if to say everything works out for the best. A wonderful addition to the entertainment memoir Gene pool.-Barry X. Miller, Austin P.L., TX Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
An actor's life, as told in flashback. Gene Wilder is familiar to the American public as the mad scientist in Young Frankenstein and the kooky Willy Wonka in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Not so familiar is Jerry Silberman: that is, Gene Wilder himself in his pre-acting days. This "autobiography" is really more about Silberman than Wilder, who uses a rather unusual device to tell Jerry's story: his visits to psychiatrist Margie Waller become a filter for his memories of life as Jerry Silberman. The young Jerry is an introspective boy with a gift for comedy who can make his mother laugh-she has a heart condition, and Jerry tries to relieve any stress that might aggravate it. His early reminiscences seem focused equally on acting and on encounters with the opposite sex, although there's a bizarre little ramble about his compulsion to pray, which is humorous in a pathos-filled way. The acting memories make sense-Wilder entertainingly relates how his early acting experiences formed a foundation for his successful acting career. Surprisingly enough, his tales of sexual liaisons with young women are not played for broad humor but are told in a rather matter-of-fact, straightforward style, with tiny nuggets of humor buried deep. These opening pages set the tone for the rest, where the focus remains on acting and relationships, all told in the same matter-of-fact style, with subtle snippets of humor sprinkled throughout. It's not an autobiography in the usual sense of the word, but it does give the reader an understanding of Jerry Silberman's deliberate transformation into Gene Wilder. Wilder is quite candid about his life, not flinching at all when it comes to sharing intimate details.Especially poignant is the section on his romance with Gilda Radner, the comic actress who became his wife and was to die of cancer (It's Always Something, 1989). Wilder evidently wrote the book himself, and did well; it's an honest, affecting look at his life. Strong, tender, and revealing. Agent: Andrew Hersh/Crystal Sky

Product Details

St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
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5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.61(d)

Read an Excerpt

Kiss me Like a Stranger

My Search for Love and Art

By Gene Wilder

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2005 Gene Wilder
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0995-2



1962 — New York

I walked into Marjorie Wallis's small office on West Seventy-ninth Street. I was very nervous.

"What do I call you?" I asked.

"What do you want to call me?"

"I heard Dr. Steiner call you Margie on the telephone ... is that all right?"

"Margie it is! Sit down."

She indicated the plain couch in front of me. There were no pictures on the walls. Margie sat in a comfortable-looking armchair, with an ottoman — which she wasn't using — resting in front of her. Her face wasn't warm, but it wasn't stern, either.

"What seems to be the trouble?" she asked.

I couldn't bring myself to look at her.

"I want to give all my money away."

"How much do you have?"

"... I owe three hundred dollars."

She looked at me silently for four or five seconds.

"I see. Well, let's get to work, and maybe by the time you have some money you'll be wise enough to know what to do with it. In the meantime tell me about ..."

And then she asked me a lot of questions. "Your mother was how old? ... How did you feel when the doctor said that? ... Have you ever tried to blah, blah, blah?" I took so many long pauses before I answered each question that I thought she might throw me out, but she just sat there, with her feet up on the ottoman now, and waited. When I did start talking again, she made little notes on a small pad that rested on her lap.

What I couldn't understand was this: why on earth was I thinking about a fifteen-year-old girl named Seema Clark during all my long pauses in between Margie's questions? Seema kept popping into my head while I was talking about my mother and doctors and heart attacks and my Russian father and masturbation.

I thought Seema was Eurasian when I met her the first time — she certainly didn't look Jewish — but when we both came out of the synagogue together I realized that she must be Jewish. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I was only fifteen, but I had seen a lot of movies and I thought she looked like a very thin, teenage Rita Hayworth. I was her date when Seema had her fifteenth birthday party. There were eight or ten other kids at her house that night, all laughing their heads off at some wisenheimer who was "hypnotizing" one of the girls. I thought he was pretty stupid, but I enjoyed watching the cocky little faker who thought he knew how to hypnotize people because he'd read his uncle's book on hypnosis.

Seema held my hand while we watched the "hypnotist" go through his fake talk. I knew she really liked me. She looked so pretty that night, with a pink barrette in her hair and wearing a brand-new yellow angora sweater. Her mother served all of us birthday cake and some delicious coffee. When all the other kids had gone home, Mrs. Clark showed me the coffee can, because I had said how good the coffee tasted — it was A&P's Eight O'clock Coffee — and then her mother said good night and left Seema and me alone.

We sat on the couch in an almost-dark living room and started kissing. I was shy, but I didn't want Seema to know how shy I really was, so I put on an act as if I were used to all this kissing in the dark with no one around. I thought that she was probably more experienced than I was and I decided that it was about time for me to feel a girl's breast. Well, I can't say, "I decided" — I was just going on what I'd heard from all the other boys my age, especially my cousin Buddy, who was nine months older than me.

It took me about eight minutes to get my hand near the start of Seema's breast — the hairs of her new angora sweater kept coming off in my fingers, which certainly didn't help any. After another three or four minutes, I finally put my hand on about one-third of her breast. As soon as I did, she jerked away. My mouth went dry. She looked at me with such disappointment in her eyes and said, "You're just like all the other boys, aren't you?" I flushed so hot I thought I'd burst. I couldn't understand why she didn't say anything during all the kissing and creeping up the fake angora. Why didn't she just say, "No," or, "I don't want you to do that," or anything but what she did say? I wanted to tell her that I wasn't at all like all the other boys, that I thought she would like what I was doing, that I thought she was waiting for me to do it. But I was too embarrassed to say any of those things. I just said, "I'm sorry, Seema," and then wished her happy birthday and got out of there as fast as I could.

Of course, this all happened in little pictures that popped into my head during the long pauses with Margie. The whole memory probably lasted only a few seconds. Margie's voice suddenly burst in:

"Where are you?"

"... What do you mean?"

"Lie down on the couch. You're not as innocent as you pretend and Dr. Steiner assures me that you're no dummy. I want you to start talking and tell me everything that crosses your mind — everything — however embarrassing or insignificant you think it is. I don't know whether or not I can help you and I don't know how many times you and I will be seeing each other in the future, but whether it's one more time or several years ... don't ever lie to me."




I used to be Jerry Silberman. When I was eight years old, my mother had her first heart attack. After my father brought her home from the hospital, her fat heart specialist came to see how she was doing. He visited with her for about ten minutes, and then, on his way out of the house, he grabbed my right arm, leaned his sweaty face against my cheek, and whispered in my ear,

"Don't ever argue with your mother — you might kill her."

I didn't know what to make of that, except that I could kill my mother if I got angry with her. The other thing he said was:

"Try to make her laugh."

So I tried. It was the first time I ever consciously tried to make someone laugh. I did Jewish accents and German accents and Danny Kaye songs that I learned from his first album, and I did make my mother laugh. Every once in awhile, if I was a little too successful, she'd run to the bathroom, squealing, "Oh, Jerry, now look what you've made me do!"

* * *

Some people — when they step into the ring — lead with their left; some lead with their right. I always led with my sister.

It was a Saturday night. I was eleven. My sister, Corinne, was sixteen and she was giving an acting recital at the Wisconsin College of Music, where her teacher, Herman Gottlieb, had his studio. It was a small auditorium stuffed with about two hundred people. While everyone sat and waited for the show to start, there was so much loud talking that I wondered how Corinne would stand it. When the lights started to fade, everyone talked louder for a few seconds. Then they all whispered. Then ... darkness!

A spotlight hit the center of the stage, and there was Corinne, wearing a full-length aqua gown. For the next twenty minutes she performed "The Necklace," a short story by Guy de Maupassant that she had memorized. All eyes were on Corinne. The audience was listening to every word. You could hear a pin drop. Everyone applauded her at the end. I remember thinking that this must be as close to actually being God as you could get.

I went up to Mr. Gottlieb and asked if I could study acting with him.

"How old are you?" he asked. "Eleven."

"Wait till you're thirteen. If you still want to study acting, I'll take you on."

When my mother was in pain, the fat heart specialist came to our house. I say "fat" only because Dr. Rosenthal died of a heart attack a few years later, and even though I was very young, I instinctively associated his death with how many Cokes he drank whenever he came to our house. One day he came because my mother felt a terrible pressure in her chest. Dr. Rosenthal told me to go around the corner, where they were putting up a new house, steal a heavy brick, and then wrap the brick in a washcloth and place it on top of my mother's chest, over her heart. It sounded crazy. I waited until all the workers had left the new house, at the end of the day, and then I picked up a good-sized brick, tucked it under my sweater, and walked home as fast as I could. I wrapped the brick in a washcloth and placed it on top of my mother's chest.

"Oh, honey, that feels so good."

In the months that followed I would substitute my head for the brick. I'd push my head down with both hands as hard as I could, and she liked that even more than the brick.

One Sunday afternoon my dad dropped me off at the Uptown movie theater, so I could see a Sunday matinée. I didn't tell him that I'd taken his flashlight out of the utility closet and hidden it in my jacket.

After I paid the cashier and bought my popcorn and Milk Duds, I went into the theater, which was almost full. The picture had already started, but in those days most people were used to coming in after a movie started — they would stay until they saw a familiar scene in the next showing and then leave. This Sunday the movie was Double Indemnity, with Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray. It was in black and white.

I watched for about twenty minutes, but when it started getting mushy (kissing), I took the flashlight out of my jacket and began shining it onto the screen. When people looked around to see which punk was doing this, I shut the flashlight off, fast. When the audience settled down again, I switched the flashlight back on. I started making circles on the screen — my beam of light competing with the beam from the projector. I got such a feeling of joy from doing this, until the manager came down the aisle with a horrible look on his face and told me to come with him. I followed him into his office.

"What's your name?"

"Jerry Silberman. Please don't tell my father."

"Give me the flashlight."

He took my father's flashlight and kicked me out of the theater.

It was drizzling outside. I felt ashamed, standing under the overhang in front of the theater, wondering whether or not to tell my dad about his flashlight and about the manager kicking me out. I decided it would be safer if I waited till my dad noticed the missing flashlight himself ... and that might not happen for months. He was born in Russia but came to Milwaukee with his family when he was eleven. He wasn't dumb, but he was very innocent, and I knew what I could get by with if I wanted to evade a situation.

After I waited in the rain for an hour and ten minutes, my father drove up. I jumped into the car.

"So — how was the movie?" he asked.

"It was great, Daddy. It was really good."

I started taking acting lessons with Herman Gottlieb the day after my thirteenth birthday.

* * *

I was eleven when I learned about sex — from my cousin Buddy, naturally. We were both in a co-ed summer camp. I couldn't believe what he was saying.

"Oh, Buddy, what're you talking about?"

"It's the truth! You put your poopy into her thing — honest to God."

"Well, how could that ever make babies?"

"Because you've got to put your germs into her germs. That's how you do it."

"... Well, what if you're embarrassed? I'm not going to take it out in front of a girl."

"Are you telling me you wouldn't like to show it to her if she showed you her whatcha-call-it?"

"... Well ..."

Then Cousin Buddy told this crazy idea to Alan Pinkus, another one of our friends. Alan was more shocked than I was.

"You're nuts."

"Well, how do you think you get babies, Alan? Do you think the stork brings them?"

Buddy tried his best to make Alan feel like a baby. Alan was embarrassed.

"No, of course not. ... I just thought it came from ... putting your saliva in with her saliva."

"You mean spitting at each other?" Buddy laughed so hard that I started laughing too. That was when I figured that Buddy must be right. He was an expert about these kinds of things.

We never talked about sex in my family when I was growing up. The only time I came close to asking about it was when I was in second grade and I was walking home from school with two other boys. We saw a naked lady through her living room window, lying on a sofa, scratching her tush while she read a book. When she saw three little boys staring at her, she jumped up and closed the curtains. We ran away, and I heard one of the boys use the word "fuck." When I got home, I didn't tell my mother about the naked lady, but I did ask her what "fuck" meant.

"You want to know what "fuck" means?" she asked, as she pulled me into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She ran a bar of Ivory Soap under the water and stuck it in my mouth. "There! Now you know what fuck means."

I started crying, and then, as was her habit until she died, she started crying and begging me to forgive her. Begging and begging, until I finally went into her arms and she hugged me and kissed my tears and kept repeating, "I'm sorry, honey. I was wrong. Can you ever forgive me?"

My mother had a distant cousin who lived in Los Angeles and whose thirteen-year-old son was going to a place called Black/Foxe Military Institute, run by retired colonel Black and retired colonel Foxe. My mother's cousin said she thought it was a wonderful place, and it was in Hollywood, California. What she didn't mention was that her son was going to Black/Foxe as a day student, so he went home each afternoon after school.

Since my mother was ill and felt that she and my father couldn't give me the kind of training that I needed, now that I was thirteen — she thought I still didn't know how babies were made, and I didn't have the guts to tell her that I did — she got it into her head that Black/Foxe Military Institute might be the perfect answer. I think she was influenced by a movie called Diplomatic Courier, starring Tyrone Power. She thought that if I went to Black/Foxe, I would not only learn how to dance, play bridge and play the piano, but also how to be at ease with girls and learn everything there is to know about sex. So off I went to Hollywood. What else my mother didn't know was that almost every boy who lived at Black/Foxe came from a broken home — mostly they were sons of parents who wanted to get rid of their kids.

On my first night at Black/Foxe, I was assigned to a room on the second floor of the dormitory. When I walked in I was greeted by a short, tough-looking boy with acne all over his face.

"Hi, I'm Jonesy," he said. "We're going to be roommates for a long time so I'm taking this bed and you take that one."

When I got into my brand-new pajamas that first night, Jonesy started smiling at me and said, "Lemme corn-hole ya." I didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Then he told me to just lie down on my bed, facedown. He got on top of me and put his penis between my thighs and started pumping away until he had an orgasm. His "jizz" went onto my new pajamas, not into me. After he saw how upset I was, he never tried to do that again. He just jerked off in the closet.

This was 1946. When word got out that I was Jewish, some of the bigger boys started coming into my room and pounding me on the chest and on my arms. They didn't hit me in the face, and I was glad of that, but I couldn't understand why they wanted to beat me up. They never said why. One tall jerk named Macintosh barged into my room one day and started dancing around me — like an Indian in the movies, circling a covered wagon — and he kept singing, "We want the country! We want the country!" It scared me, but he didn't hit me, so I was okay. I remembered seeing some movie about initiation tests when you got into a fraternity, so I figured it was some kind of tradition to beat up the newest cadets. Then I found out that I was the only Jewish boy at Black/Foxe, so I finally understood the reason. But it still didn't make any sense.

I went to the sergeant's room at the end of the hall. He was a real sergeant who took the job at Black/Foxe when he retired from the army. I told him about all the beatings and asked him what I should do.

"You want them to stop beating you up?"

"Yes, sir."

"The next time one of them comes into your room, pick up a chair and smash it over his head."

"... But ... I can't do that. What if I killed him?"

"You asked me what to do. I told you."

I never went to him for help again.


Excerpted from Kiss me Like a Stranger by Gene Wilder. Copyright © 2005 Gene Wilder. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Gene Wilder (1933-2016) began acting when he was thirteen and writing for the screen since the early 1970s. After a small role in Bonnie and Clyde pulled him away from a career onstage, he was nominated for an Academy Award as Best Supporting Actor for his role as Leo Bloom in The Producers, which led to Blazing Saddles and then to another Academy nomination, this time for writing Young Frankenstein. Wilder has appeared in twenty-five feature films and a number of stage productions. His first book, about his own life, was Kiss Me Like A Stranger, and was followed by the novels My French Whore, The Woman Who Wouldn’t , What Is This Thing Called Love? and Something to Remember You By.

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Kiss Me Like A Stranger: My Search For Love and Art 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 22 reviews.
ColoradoReader27 More than 1 year ago
After my four-year-old became enamored of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, I decided to learn more about Gene Wilder. I've always enjoyed his work and wondered where he's been lately when I came across Kiss Me Like A Stranger. I had no idea how acting was such a passion for Mr. Wilder from a very early age, nor did I know what a great storyteller he is. This quick read is very intimate and honest and incorporates his personal and professional life and his journey to find true love. When I completed the book, I wished there had been more and that's a quality I don't find I experience with many books. If you are a fan of Gene Wilder, I believe you will enjoy Kiss Me Like A Stranger.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Heartfelt, wonferfully/beautifully/brutally honest, and inspiring. I couldn't read it fast enough but i had to pace myself to make it last as long as i might.
InTheClouds More than 1 year ago
I didn't know what to expect with Gene's biography, Kiss Me Like a Stranger. As soon as I began reading it, I discovered the chapters were short, easy to absorb and compelling throughout. He kept me interested in his stories because they involved his honesty, charm and humor. It's a fascinating look into his life on stage and in films. The anecdotes are so incredibly funny at times and other stories so heartfelt. My only complaint is that I wanted longer stories and details about his biggest films. I'm the kind of movie buff that wants more about behind-the-scenes on Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and his time with Richard Pryor. With that being said, it's absolutely a must read and very enjoyable for anyone who loves Gene Wilder.
Eve92 More than 1 year ago
I didn't know this book existed when I came across it at the store and I purchased it without hesitation - I have been a fan of Wilder since childhood - I loved every page of this book. Not boastful in any way - Wilder reflects upon personal triumphs and disasters, loves and losses. Read it - if you were not a fan before, you will be.
Guest More than 1 year ago
'Be a clown! Be a clown' Comedian Gene Wilder did just that in such hit movies as 'The Producers,' 'Young Frankenstein,' 'Blazing Saddles,' and 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.' We learn from his touchingly candid autobiography, 'Kiss Me Like A Stranger,' that there was not always a great deal of laughter in his private life. As read by the author in the unmistakable Wilder voice, listeners learn of his third marriage to the sometimes volatile, always needy Gilda Radner, his time in psychoanalysis, the joys and pitfalls of working with the incomparable Mel Brooks, and more. His has been an extraordinary life, and he emerges as an extremely likable extraordinary man. The title is a puzzlement not only to listeners but to Mr. Wilder himself as it came from Gilda Radner - he says he has no idea what it means. However, he does know what life experiences mean. Leaving Wisconsin Mr. Wilder enrolled at the Actor's Studio where he met and appeared in a play with Anne Bancroft. But, it was her boyfriend, Mel Brooks, who was to have a marked effect upon his career by giving him that landmark role in 'The Producers.' Together they wrote 'Young Frankenstein' - hollering at each other all the way. In addition to the estimable Mr. Brooks listeners hear about movies made with the likes of Richard Pryor, Woody Allen, and Harrison Ford. And, of course, there is the illness and death of Gilda Radner due to ovarian cancer. Through it all Mr. Wilder learned, lived, wept, and laughed. Treat yourself and listen to the story of this sweet, wise comic genius. - Gail Cooke
Inward_Jim More than 1 year ago
An endearing tale, that shows a side of Mr. Wilder that isn't hard to imagine, but is quite unexpected in places. I couldn't put it down. If only I had read this when I was studying acting and Hagen and Stanislavasky were being jammed down my throat by my instructors ... It's not solely about his acting career, but it is a big part of it. A great read that's hard to define why you should read it, but you should.
treeh20 More than 1 year ago
Not your average bio. It was a very sweet book. It had it's funny moments that left a smile on my face. I found it hard to put down at times. I loved it!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Gene wilder has always been my favorite actor. I had no intention on reading this book but my father gave it to me and i couldn't put it down it is written so well I recommend this book to any gene wilder fan.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I am a new Gene Wilder fan and this book just makes me want to know and love him more. He is really interesting intelligent and just grabs your attention all the way throughout the book. I love the pictures too. I have never seen photos of him as a young man before and wow, he was very good looking then and even now!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I have been a wilder fan ever since i can remember and this book just adds to the love. It will make you laugh, it will make you cry, it will even make you say, gene, you S.O.B, how did you do that. if your a wilder fan or even if you want a good story to read, get this book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I wish he had talked more about some of his best known roles. I wish the book was three times as long g. Mostly I wish he was still here.
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