If you like comic books, the story of Kevin Smith always came across as, "One of us has made good." Throughout his career he's come across as nice guy with whom you could sit and have a great conversation with. He cares deeply about his friends, and hasn't seemed to let Hollywood get to his head ... too much. (I'll never forgive him for the Daredevil/Bullseye disaster, but nor will I let that cloud his future or past work.)
His book was fairly light reading. It was often funny. Sometimes touching. It wasn't an intellectual read. It's not something that is going to change anyone's life. It is read, digested and forgotten. Worth the price? Yes. Worth the time? No question. Worth a reread? Probably not.
Not every book can be as deep as The Spanish Anarchists. Not every book is meant to be. Smith doesn't present himself as anything other than what he is: a guy who makes movies, writes comics and tells tales. He's less guarded than many people in his position (but he's also no open vault), and that makes him refreshing to read. I actually wished he burned more bridges, but it's his career versus my curiosity, and his career should win every time.
If you're a Smith fan, you probably already read this book. If you aren't a Smith fan, this will change nothing, and I would actually advise you to stay away from it. There's a reason you don't like the guy, and this book will confirm every one of those dislikes you have.
Say what you'd like about the man, but he's far more entertaining that ninety percent of the other directors out there.
I don't necessarily don't recommend this one, but it tried my patience sometimes. I enjoyed his Green Arrow and Daredevil runs, though.
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