Anthony LaPaglia's memoir arrives with the shape of a celebrity tell-all and the bones of something more uncomfortable. He grew up in Beefacres, a suburb of Adelaide he still can't stand, under a father whose abuse he credits — with genuine bitterness — for making him an actor. "I believe nothing makes an actor better than the deep sense of anger and revenge that often accompanies suffering" is not a line you put in a book unless you mean it. The cocaine section is the literary high point, and not for the obvious reasons. The Gollum line — "you can go along on it for a while but there is a point where it just grabs you" — is genuinely good writing. So is the detail about his dyscalculia: he could never remember numbers, but for years after he quit, he could still recall his dealer's phone number by heart. That's the kind of specific, earned detail that separates memoir from press release. The Sopranos near-miss is the section everyone will quote. David Chase had LaPaglia in mind when he wrote Tony, LaPaglia loved the script, and then Arthur Miller personally approved him for A View from the Bridge on Broadway — and the timing killed it. HBO picked up The Sopranos almost immediately. What's interesting is LaPaglia's honesty about the divergence: he wanted a reluctant, urbane mafioso pulled back in after his mother's death. James Gandolfini was the better call, and LaPaglia knows it. The Tarantino blow-up is equally good. LaPaglia was cast in Django Unchained, spent months in limbo while production stalled, committed to an Australian TV film directed by a friend, and then called Tarantino to say he couldn't do it. Tarantino's response — "I don't fucking believe this" followed by hanging up — is entirely plausible to anyone who has followed Tarantino's working relationships. Django made $450 million. Underground was barely seen. LaPaglia calls it "a classic case of LaPaglia self-sabotage" without quite exonerating himself. The Weinstein passage is brief but lands differently from most #MeToo adjacencies in celebrity memoirs. LaPaglia says his then-girlfriend told him Weinstein tried to assault her in a hotel room. Months later, at a charity event, he confronted Weinstein directly, called him a prick, and told him it would catch up with him. Weinstein smirked and said "what are you gonna do about it?" The scene is short and unembellished — which is why it works. The financial reckoning at the end — "I'm pretty much broke, cleaned out by three divorces and my long-term failure to take direct control of my finances" — is the book's least glamorous and most useful section. He owned houses globally, filled garages with exotic cars and vintage motorbikes, and spent freely until he didn't have it to spend. His accountant died in 2024, and the IRS had to be the one to tell him how much trouble he was in. He's paid it back. One Rolex remains. "Don't be like me" is good advice delivered without self-pity. The book's weakest material is the stuff LaPaglia clearly enjoys most: the lists of people he admires, the name-drops that feel performed rather than earned. Hugo Weaving appears. Kerry Armstrong is "a genius actress and a complete nutcase." Jonathan LaPaglia is "extremely boring company." These asides give the memoir tabloid texture without adding much. The book is best when LaPaglia stops cataloguing and starts excavating — the hives he developed from working with John Landis, the recurring dreams about the director's violent death, the therapist appointments booked the moment shooting wrapped. That's the real material.
