Don’t get me wrong, I love Will Smith, the man. Will Smith, the actor. But I am not he is quite sure he loves himself. The book Will is, above all, pitiful. The tale of a man who has, for what seems to be like decades, played the second fiddle even in his own home. His wife, Jada, forever in love with legendary dead rapper Tupac Shakur. Cheating on Will with a friend of their own son.
Will talks about ‘freedom’ and how marriage should not be ‘a cage’. There is forgiveness, always forgiveness, and there is second-guessing and insecurity. Smith laments that he may never have the connection with Jada that she had with Tupac. And to add insult to injury… even his own daughter Willow seems to share this strong attachment to a long-dead lover of her mother she never met, writing this rather awkward letter to Tupac, who she believes “never died”. As a father myself, I mean my goodness, this is tough to read.
Will Smith, in his books, shares how he had a very complicated relationship with his father. Even admitting that, at some point, he considered killing him. It’s all just… sad. And bleak. Will Smith is never really ‘number one’, not in his family, his private life, not even with his own wife and children. Like the Oscar that forever eludes him, no matter how many ambitious projects he takes on to prove his worth. Sometimes as a reader you scratch your head as you take in the words of undisputed world champion oversharing, Will Smith.
And he always… forgives. Will Smith forgives, and keeps moving. But he does not seem to forget, at the same time. He’s a solid actor and a pretty gifted story-teller, but it’s a sad tale he’s telling. Painful to read. And yet quite insightful.
Jean-Marie Valheur
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