Entertainment
Review: Al Pacino memoir 'Sonny Boy' goes all in with swagger, sorrow and why he skipped the '73 Oscars
Book Review
‘Sonny Boy’
By Al Pacino
Penguin, 370 pages, $35
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Al Pacino grew up running the streets of the South Bronx with his buddies, getting into whatever trouble might present itself. In his new memoir, “Sonny Boy,” he calls his little crew “a pack of wild, pubescent wolves with sly smiles,” and describes how his three best friends, Cliffy, Bruce and Petey, eventually died of heroin overdoses. Pacino would confine his junkie life to the screen, in his 1971 breakout performance in “The Panic in Needle Park.” He would be the first to tell you that he was saved by art.
Throughout this discursively soulful book runs a series of interconnected questions: Why did I make it when so many others didn’t? Why can’t I just practice my craft and leave the stardom and celebrity part out of it?
Voted most likely to succeed in junior high school, he considered the insignificance: “All it meant was that a lot of people had heard of you. Who wants to be heard of anyway?” And, a bit later: “At a certain point, dealing with fame is a self-centered problem and one should probably keep their mouth shut about it. Here I am talking about it now, so I’m starting to feel I should keep my mouth shut too.” Thankfully, he has too much to say to follow through.
Al Pacino’s new memoir, “Sonny Boy,” delves into his troubled youth, quick ascent onto Hollywood’s A-list and sometimes questionable career choices that followed.
(Penguin Random House)
Now 84, Pacino, who wrote “Sonny Boy” with arts journalist and author Dave Itzkoff, doesn’t really have to worry about offending the person who might get him his next job. He describes creative beefs he had with directors, including Norman Jewison (“And Justice for All”) and Arthur Hiller (“Author! Author!”). A caption accompanying a photo of a hysterical Pacino in “Justice” reads: “I want off this film!”
But kiss-and-tell gossip isn’t really Pacino’s métier. He comes across as a New York theater actor fiercely devoted to the mysteries of the craft, high on the poetry (and, for a long while, booze and drugs), and reluctant to embrace the high profile that followed the star-making success of “The Godfather” in 1972. Never terribly practical, he walked away from movies for a few years in the ’80s — “I began to question the very essence of what I was doing and why I was doing it” — and went broke in 2011, writing, “I had fifty million dollars, and then I had nothing.”
Because he’s now so familiar from so many movie roles, you can almost hear him saying all of this in recognizably Pacino-like tones — the righteous hipster cop of “Serpico” (1973), or the slickly ravenous real estate shark of “Glengarry Glen Ross” (1992). This is part of why we gravitate toward movie stars, even those who would rather be something else. We feel like we know them. Pacino has done such a high volume of great work, including the “Godfather” movies, “Dog Day Afternoon” (1975), “Scarface” (1983), “Sea of Love” (1989), “The Insider” (1999) and “The Irishman” (2019), that reading “Sonny Boy” often feels like hanging out within a history of American movies over the last 50 years.
It can also leave one wanting more about particular favorites. Michael Mann’s “The Insider,” to my mind among the best films of the last half century, receives barely a mention. “Glengarry” gets short shrift as well. Come on, Al. Always Be Closing.
But the eccentricity of “Sonny Boy” is part of its charm, and the book’s distinctive voice speaks to a fruitful collaboration between Pacino and Itzkoff, the first person Pacino thanks in his acknowledgments: “His considerable help and persistence got me to turn corners I never would have turned.”
These pages contain sorrow, for Pacino’s largely absent father and severely depressed mother, for his late boyhood friends, for the poverty and uncertainty that marked his youth. There is also the jolt of discovery, as when a theater troupe came to the 15-year-old Pacino’s favorite movie theater to perform Chekhov’s “The Seagull” and lighted a fire under him. “Chekhov became a friend of mine,” writes Pacino, who was known to wander the New York streets reciting his favorite theatrical monologues at the top of his lungs.
Pondering the fate of his friends who died by the needle, he asks: “Why didn’t I end up that way? Why am I still here? Was it all luck? Was it Chekhov? Was it Shakespeare?” He all but answers the question elsewhere, when he considers the aspiring actors who ask why he made it while they didn’t: “You wanted to. I had to.”
If industry talk is more your thing, Pacino tries to oblige. He writes that he just recently heard a longstanding rumor, that he didn’t attend the Oscars in 1973 because he was nominated for supporting actor rather than lead actor, for “The Godfather.” He offers a much simpler explanation: He was terrified. “It explains a lot of the distance I felt when I came out to Hollywood to visit and work,” he writes. It might also help explain why he didn’t win his first (and only) Oscar until 1993 for “Scent of a Woman,” in which he gave a performance nowhere near his best. (He has been nominated nine times.) He touches on his various Hollywood romances, among them Jill Clayburgh, Tuesday Weld, Diane Keaton and Marthe Keller. Pacino, by his own admission, is an obsessive workaholic, a habit that hasn’t done him many favors away from the screen and stage. He does come across as a devoted father to his three children.
“Theater people are vagabonds, wandering gypsies,” he writes. “We are people on the run.” And for all of his movie stardom, Pacino makes it clear that he is, at heart, a theater person. The two-time Tony Award winner is an artist who happens to have the career of a celebrity. He makes a convincing case for himself as an outsider who crashed the party, driven forward by the work above all. Is this a self-serving portrayal? Perhaps. But most celebrity memoirs are. At least “Sonny Boy” is also shot through with what certainly feels like self-deprecating honesty to go with the well-worn Pacino swagger.
Movie Reviews
Bandar Movie Review: Bobby Deol roars in Anurag Kashyap’s unsettling legal thriller that refuses to spoon-feed
Name: Bandar
Director: Anurag Kashyap
Cast: Bobby Deol, Sanya Malhotra, Sapna Pabbi, Saba Azad, Jitendra Joshi, Raj B Shetty
Writer: Sudip Sharma, Abhishek Banerjee
Rating: 3.5/5
Plot:
Bandar follows Sameer Mehra’s character, essayed by Bobby Deol, a fading star who is desperately clinging to his past glory. Just as he attempts to rebuild his life and finds solace in a new relationship, his world comes crashing down. A former girlfriend files a heinous allegation against him, dragging him into a vicious, high-profile legal battle. Written by Sudip Sharma and Abhishek Banerjee, the film moves away from standard Bollywood courtroom setups. Instead, it dives straight into the murky waters of social media trials, public perception, and a sluggish judicial system where the truth gets buried under layers of gray.
What works:
Known for his chaotic energy, Anurag Kashyap takes a remarkably mature and controlled approach here. He avoids sensationalizing a highly sensitive topic, choosing instead to focus on the psychological claustrophobia of the protagonist. The prison sequences are exceptionally well-shot. They create a suffocating, raw atmosphere that makes you feel the weight of the character’s confinement. The script successfully avoids preachy, black-and-white monologues. It bravely forces the audience to confront their own biases regarding modern-day public trials and the digital judge-and-jury culture.
What doesn’t:
Clocking in at nearly two hours and twenty minutes, Bandar feels heavily weighed down in the second half. The narrative stretches thin, and a few subplots demand too much patience, making you wish for a tighter edit. The film stubbornly refuses to take a definitive moral stance or offer a neat resolution. While film enthusiasts might appreciate the complexity, mainstream viewers looking for a clear-cut ending or emotional payoff might walk away feeling detached and frustrated.
Performances:
- Bobby Deol is the beating heart of this film. Stripping away the massive macho swagger and menacing villainy of his recent hits, he delivers a deeply vulnerable, understated performance. He plays Samar with a mix of arrogance, confusion, and raw helplessness, proving his immense range.
- Sanya Malhotra anchors her screen time with her trademark reliability, turning in a grounded and impactful performance.
- Saba Azad and Sapna Pabbi excel in their respective roles, bringing genuine nuance to characters that could have easily been sidelined.
- Jitendra Joshi is an absolute scene-stealer, commanding your attention every single time he steps into the frame.
- Indrajith Sukumaran and Raj B Shetty are absolute show stealers with their raw acting.
Final Verdict:
Bandar is an unsettling, morally complex thriller that refuses to spoon-feed its audience. It isn’t a comfortable watch, nor does it try to be. While the sluggish pacing in the second half prevents it from being an absolute masterpiece, it is worth a watch for Bobby Deol’s spectacular acting reinvention and Anurag Kashyap’s gritty, thought-provoking storytelling.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not reflect the official policy or position of Pinkvilla. No statement in this article is intended to defame, harm, or malign any individual or entity.
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Kathy Hilton will no longer be the grand marshal of West Hollywood’s pride parade.
The city and WeHo Pride on Wednesday released a joint statement, announcing that “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” star would no longer serve as the Grand Marshal Icon for the 2026 WeHo Pride Parade. The event is scheduled for Sunday.
“After thoughtful discussions, the City of West Hollywood, the WeHo Pride production team, and Kathy Hilton have determined that the 2026 WeHo Pride Parade will not designate a Grand Marshal Icon honoree,” read the statement.
The decision comes less than a week after Hilton was announced. That May 28 announcement was met with swift backlash from the LGBTQ+ community and allies, who called out Hilton’s ties to President Trump and alleged MAGA-leaning politics. Critics also cited accusations that the socialite had used a homophobic slur while on a trip with other cast members of “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills,” an action she has previously denied.
In their joint statement, West Hollywood and the WeHo Pride team expressed their appreciation for “the respectful and sincere dialogue” around both the event and the “role and significance” of Pride honorees.
“The City of West Hollywood has always believed that Pride belongs to the community,” the joint statement said. “Since its earliest days, Pride has served as both a celebration and a platform for activism, visibility, resilience, and the ongoing pursuit of equality, dignity, and justice for LGBTQ+ people. … These conversations reflect the passion people have for WeHo Pride and underscore the importance of ensuring that WeHo Pride continues to honor the history, values, and diverse voices of the LGBTQ+ community.”
In a statement, Hilton expressed gratitude for being considered for grand marshal and reaffirmed her commitment to the LGBTQ+ community and causes.
“My reason for wanting to be involved in this year’s WeHo Pride weekend was simple: to celebrate, support, and share in the joy of a community that means a great deal to so many people,” Hilton said. “Pride is, and always will be, about celebrating and uplifting LGBTQ+ voices, experiences, and achievements. … My support for the community and WeHo Pride is unwavering.”
She also mentioned several queer advocacy organizations and events she has supported over the years, including GLAAD, the Elton John AIDS Foundation, the Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation, Dr. Mathilde Krim, God’s Love We Deliver and Project Angel Food.
The latest Pride-related dust-up follows the abrupt cancellation of the Long Beach Pride Festival in May. The city’s Pride Parade took place as planned.
Both snafus have occurred as conservative politicians and advocates continue to attack LGBTQ+ rights and visibility nationwide. Some Republican governors have even pushed for conservative alternatives to Pride month festivities. A recent Gallup poll has found that after years of steady gains, support for marriage equality and same-sex relationships has slipped, particularly among Republicans.
Movie Reviews
Movie Review: Travolta’s “Propeller: One-Way Night Coach” is One for the Ages — All Ages
Back in the good ol’days — the ’90s — John Travolta would love to get off the topic of “Michael,” “Pulp Fiction” or “Get Shorty” in interviews with film journalists like me and regale us with how utterly besotted he had been with his first flying experience, how that drove his passion for piloting and buying planes and airfield-adjacent luxury houses.
He didn’t even seem to mind having to move house when this or that development balked at him flying his Boeing 707 out of there on the way to locations.
Travolta would tell any journalist who asked that he was writing a kid-friendly book, “Propeller: One Way Night Coach,” based on his first flights as a child in old propeller driven airliners — cheap red-eye overnight treks with too many connections for your average jet age traveller to tolerate.
I remember picking up the book when it came out later in the ’90s — at an airport gift shop — and thinking “Well, that’s as cute as I figured.”
And now, decades later and trapped in the B-movie hell of his post “Gotti” career, Travolta’s turned that cute book into the most delightful, fanciful and colorful bon bon of a movie.
“One Way Night Coach” is a child’s fantasy of flight and flying the way it used to be — with pristine, uncrowded, futuristic airports, an early ’60s era of jets and prop planes with over-uniformed stewardesses in white gloves, the days “Back before every Joe Sweatsock could wedge himself behind a lunch tray and jet off to Raleigh-Durham,” as Sideshow Bob memorably sneered on “The Simpsons’.”
It’s a fictionalized account of Travolta’s childhood about an only child (at least two Travolta siblings have bit parts in this movie) of a never-made-it/never-will actress/single-mom (Kelly Eviston-Quinnett) who indulges her aviation-obsessed eight-year-old with a cheap cross-country overnight flight.
Little Jeff (Clark Shotwell) will revel in almost every Idlewild to Pittsburgh to Dayton to Chicago to Kansas City to Denver and Los Angeles minute. He strolls into the cockpit to meet pilots, charms the stewardesses and checks out the sleeping bunks on the TWA Lockheed Super Constellation, loving even the delays if not the Chicken Cordon Bleu he’s offered on legs of the journey that offer a meal.
And as he’s an observant child, he comments (Travolta narrates) on his 50ish mother’s vamping and posing, her choice of cigarettes (Newports) and drinks, the solo traveling men whose attention she pursues and earns.
“I was her best audience,” adult Jeff remembers of the mother who’d read him plays as bedtime stories and delusionally hopes that this trip to Los Angeles might be her “big break” even though she’s pushing 50.
“Hollywood called,” she’d explain about their overnight cheap flight arrangements to ticket agents and crew. “They told me to take the next flight!”
At every turn, Jeff meets or sees kindness — stewardesses who indulge his many questions and bump them up to first class on the mostly-empty planes, a captain who fixes his toy model of a Constellation, a mentally ill flyer who flips out but is calmed by a flight attendant who isn’t overworked and frazzled in jet-powered tin-can jammed with Joe and Jane Sweatsocks who think nothing of traveling in their pajamas.
Normally, I cringe at pictures this reliant on voice-over narration. I recoil from stars who populate their picture with Sandler etc. offspring. But “Propeller” is unfailingly sweet and never cloying.
Sure, it’s fictionalized. But if you’ve followed Travolta’s life and career, a lot of him is in this — his raptoruous engagement with flying, an indulged child who developed a taste for fine food and creature comforts, a mother who was his guiding star as an actor.
I get why there are less adoring reviews than mine floating around “Propeller.” It’s unfailingly sweet. Mom’s man-hunting is seriously dated. This TWA tale is decorated with Gershwin’s majestic “Rhapsody in Blue” — United Airlines’ signature tune. And Travolta’s been around long enough for recent generations to come up and not feel a connection to the “Saturday Night Fever/Get Shorty” star whose career has fallen off and life has been visited by too much tragedy.
But I’d hate to be seated next to anybody who doesn’t appreciate this adorable, pristine and nearly perfect aviation fantasy on any flight, much less an overnight one.
Rating: TV-PG
Cast: Clark Shotwell, Kelly Eviston-Quinnett, Ellen Travolta, Ella Beau Travolta, Olga Hoffmann and John Travolta.
Credits: Scripted and directed by John Travolta, based on his book. An Apple TV+ release.
Running time: 1:01
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