And yet when David Gilmour, chatty person poster dad of the decade, writes about his preternaturally communicative adolescent son in The Film Club: a memoir, the book is positively unputdownable. At first I was charmed by a strange cultural disconnect, obvious by page eight, that made me wonder why their world was just a little bit off the mark. Seventy pages later during a geographical anecdote it struck me. "OH! Dude's Canadian! Now I get it!" Then I could relax and enjoy the rest of the book, brow unwrinkled, relatively.
I think people who like movies would like the book. It does cover a bunch of movies, about a dozen of which I have seen. But I think the primary appeal would be for people who have set kids loose on the world and wondered if they maybe weren't doing it exactly right. Could there be more than one of us? I loved reading this book.