“Best Possible Place, Worst Possible Time”
Barry Sonnenfeld
Hachette, $30
For readers of The Star who like to plan ahead, I may just have your first beach read of summer 2025. And that is not meant as a denigration. Barry Sonnenfeld’s new memoir, “Best Possible Place, Worst Possible Time: True Stories From a Career in Hollywood,” comprises approximately 85 chapters/anecdotes (several as brief as two pages), so it’s easy to read in both long and short chunks of time. It’s far more entertaining (pardon the pun) than challenging. Perfect for the beach.
Mr. Sonnenfeld, whose name may be familiar, is a highly regarded filmmaker and writer who has worn several hats in the movie industry, including photography director, cinematographer, and director. The impressive list of films in which his name has appeared prominently displayed in the credits include the Coen Brothers’ first three movies, as well as “Throw Momma From the Train,” “When Harry Met Sally,” “Get Shorty,” “The Addams Family” and its sequel, and the first three “Men in Black” movies. He has also directed several television series.
One guesses that many of the stories in this book were originally shared with friends by Barry Sonnenfeld the raconteur. In print, some of the chapters work less well than others. In any case, there are two ways to read this memoir — first as an account of the making of several well-known and largely successful movies. Certain stories are highly detailed, either about some technical aspect of the filmmaker’s craft, or about who said what to whom in what celebrity-filled restaurant on which coast. (Spoiler alert: One of those restaurants is what was then the Maidstone Arms in East Hampton, where Mr. Sonnenfeld lunched with George Clooney. An intended nice gesture by the restaurant staff went slightly awry. References to East Hampton appear frequently in the book.)
The other way to read this book is as an impressionistic description of why the successful completion of any movie is a small miracle. Given the incredibly demanding (often long and boring) work, the outsized egos and prickly personalities not only of actors but also of studio executives, and the business considerations, where many millions of dollars are at risk, it’s remarkable that so many films come out of Hollywood at all, some forgettable but many that are forever enshrined in our culture.
While the author is never self-aggrandizing, it’s obvious that he’s a big deal in the entertainment world. One indication of this is that in many of his accounts, he is not afraid to yell and scream at studio brass when he disagrees with them; nor does he fold when they yell and scream at him. Similarly, he doesn’t shy away from naming the people he dislikes or had difficulty working with (here’s looking at you, Jim Carrey, Gene Hackman, producer Walter Parkes, and former Paramount Pictures C.E.O. Sherry Lansing) or spilling the tea about various actors’ idiosyncrasies and foibles — everything from the inability to memorize lines (John Travolta) to a reputation for frequent episodes of flatulence (Will Smith) to anger issues (many).
There are those for whom Mr. Sonnenfeld maintains deep admiration, such as the actors Kathy Bates, James Caan (whom he calls Jimmy), and Will Smith, as well as the producer Scott Rudin. Perhaps the most interesting tales, however, are of the Hollywood legends with whom Mr. Sonnenfeld struggled on set or feuded with off — the likes of Rob Reiner, Kevin Kline, and Michael Jackson — but these stories generally end happily.
An interesting near-leitmotif running through this memoir has to do with Mr. Sonnenfeld’s sciatica, which flares up, very painfully, quite often. The doctor he consulted posited the theory that “in most cases sciatica is caused by ‘unconscious narcissistic rage.’ ” His idea was that sciatica is frequently stress-induced. The pain is a substitute for the rage that a person feels unable to express, for fear of damaging an important personal relationship.
One day, suffering bad sciatica as he had periodically for 15 years, the author found himself on a stressful conference call in connection with the film “Men in Black 3.” His longtime nemesis, Walter Parkes, the producer, became abusive, telling Mr. Sonnenfeld, “The last ten years of your personal and professional life have been nothing short of a total disaster.” When none of the others on the call spoke up in his defense, Mr. Sonnenfeld let loose with “You know what, Walter? Fuck you,” and slammed down the phone. He stood up.
“And just like Dr. Sarno predicted, having moved my rage to the conscious part of my brain, I was pain free.” There’s a lesson in that for many of us, no doubt.
For a century or more, the American public has fed off stories about the big names of Hollywood. By and large, these were tales of power, wealth, romance, and lavish lifestyles. They formed the foundations of the notion that the people who make movies live charmed lives. In this memoir (his second, at age 71), Mr. Sonnenfeld pulls the curtain aside once and for all. It’s still great fun to read about a plethora of boldface names and an industry that contributes significantly to popular culture. Few people are likely to close this book, however, and want to trade lives with the people they just read about.
Forgive me, but I must conclude by mentioning two small blemishes. I wish a copy reader, proofreader, or editor had caught the typo toward the bottom of page 136. And I really wish Mr. Sonnenfeld had resisted the urge to repeat the vulgar joke that provided him with the title for his book.
Sadly, some things can never be unseen.
Jim Lader, who owned a weekend home in East Hampton for many years, has reviewed books for The Star since 2009.
Barry Sonnenfeld formerly had a house in East Hampton.