Princess Leia’s star dreck
What she does reveal is this: it lasted three months; both actors were working on Star Wars at Elstree Studios in England. One night she found herself in a car with Ford, who was 14 years older than her. She was drunk, and soon enough they were rolling around on the back seat. They would have sex at the weekend and ignore each other all week. No one else (handily) found out, certainly not his first wife (they divorced three years later).
“As far as I know,” Fisher writes, and I sense some collusion here, “the only time he cheated on any one of his three wives was with me.”
And that’s pretty much it. The affair ends when filming ends, the two share a plane back to Los Angeles and it is over.
She insinuates that Ford has given his blessing for her to write about it, which is probably why she has loyally stripped every interesting detail out of him.
The result is a void. Even if you thought Ford was a huge “womaniser”, her description of him as a staid, untalkative, dependable type will persuade you otherwise.
This book is so thinly written that by the end of the first third I began to actually hate her, not only for being a dismal look-at-me writer but also for failing to report any other decent anecdotes, for crushing the life out of any that remotely had promise, for being thick, spoiled, vain and self-centred.
Meeting Lady Bird Johnson on a fat farm is not an opportunity to tell an interesting or nuanced story about a former US first lady (on a fat farm!), but another chance for Fisher to talk about herself.
At one point she lavishly describes her stepfather’s “grey, withered, hanging ball sack as he rose from the bed without pajama bottoms to yet again visit the bathroom”. That is the last we hear of him.
And who is “Griffin”, on page 102, whom she
Mark Hamill, left, Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford in Star Wars