It is hard to know where to start with My Name Is Barbra, the much reported on 1,000‑page memoir that took Barbra Streisand 10 years to complete. Most celebrity memoirs rely on a certain amount of pre-existing goodwill to shunt readers through the more banal parts. With Streisand, this principle is stretched to such a degree that by the end of the book, one is left in a state of wonder – at the accomplishments of an American icon, yes, but also at the sheer volume of detail passed on. While visualising the star in her various guises, another image came to mind as I was reading: that of an editor in an office in midtown Manhattan, quietly burying her head in her hands.
The extent to which you are able to find this endearing will probably come down to how endearing you find Streisand herself. Personally, I’m a fan. And for the first half of the book, the story races along with all the charm and energy of its protagonist. Even those familiar with the Streisand back story may startle when reminded of her improbable rise. Born in 1942 into middle-class Brooklyn, Streisand’s life was sharply altered at the age of 15 months when her father, a teacher and by all accounts a wonderful man, died suddenly of respiratory failure. The family was plunged into poverty, moved to the projects, and Streisand’s mother got remarried to a man who was cruel to her. Louis Kind ignored and belittled his stepdaughter, mocking her looks, while her mother was scarcely less abusive. Out of such conditions great stars are born.
