Jolly, smart and shrewd, this film critic's memoir nonetheless sails under a false flag. The publishers want you to imagine it consists of salty anecdotes about the stars.
True, Kermode falls out with ace documentarist Nick Broomfield, tangles with mercurial Ken Russell, reports A-list encounters with Spielberg, Stallone and the like. He even has Angelina Jolie admire his gravity-scorning hair. Yet it's far more the story – fast-paced, self-deprecating - of a career path in arts journalism.
He shows how you a bright lad could find one when the stepping-stones – Manchester mags, their London equivalents, radio, festival circuit, finally TV – still stood relatively firm. More Alan Partridge than Kenneth Anger, really – but in the nicest possible way.