Olivia: Alright Jackson, I've got a challenge for you. You've waded through the nearly 1000-page epic that is Barbra Streisand's memoir. Give me your five-word review. Jackson: Okay, five words… 'My way or the highway.' Olivia: Ooh, spicy! Mine is: 'Truth is the best revenge.' Jackson: I can see that. Both feel right, which is kind of the whole story, isn't it? The book is a fascinating tug-of-war between those two ideas. Olivia: It absolutely is. Today we’re diving into My Name Is Barbra by the one and only Barbra Streisand. And it's no surprise it's so long—she apparently started taking notes for it back in 1999 and only released it in 2023. She had a lot of myths to bust. Jackson: Twenty-four years of note-taking! That’s commitment. Your review was 'truth is the best revenge.' What exactly was she seeking revenge on? What were the lies? Olivia: Oh, the lies were everywhere. And they ranged from the bizarrely comical to the genuinely hurtful. This is a woman who, from the very beginning of her career, was being defined by everyone but herself.

Jackson: Okay, you have to give me an example. What's the most bizarre thing someone said about her? Olivia: Well, when she was just nineteen, in her first Broadway show, a critic described her as an 'amiable anteater.' Jackson: An amiable anteater? What does that even mean? Were critics just on acid in the 60s? Olivia: It feels like it! And it wasn't a one-off. She was also called 'a sour persimmon,' 'a furious hamster,' and 'a seasick ferret.' It was this menagerie of insults, all focused on her unconventional looks. Of course, after she became a huge star in Funny Girl, those same critics started calling her 'Nefertiti' and 'a Babylonian queen.' Her face hadn't changed, but her fame had. Jackson: That’s wild. It shows how perception is completely shaped by success. But that's just critics being weird. You mentioned outright lies. Olivia: Yes, completely fabricated stories. There's a great one where she's at the dentist's office, flips through a magazine, and reads an article about this ridiculously expensive, high-tech bathtub invented by Neil Diamond's brother. Jackson: I'm with you so far. Olivia: The article then casually mentions that one of the first customers was… Barbra Streisand. She was stunned. She didn't even know Neil Diamond had a brother, let alone that she'd bought his space-age bathtub. Her name was just being used to sell a product. Jackson: Wow. That's like the modern version of being tagged in a weird Instagram ad, but on a massive, reputation-damaging scale. It's not just quirky, it's malicious. Olivia: Exactly. And it gets worse. She tells this story about her friend, a cinematographer, who was having dinner with a doctor. The doctor hears his friend is meeting Barbra and says, "Oh, her? She's a bitch. Impossible to work with." The cinematographer, who has worked with her multiple times, says, "No, she's wonderful." But the doctor refuses to believe him. He says, "I read it in a magazine, so it must be true." Jackson: That is terrifying. He's choosing to believe a random, printed story over the direct testimony of his own friend. So this isn't a new phenomenon. People have always just believed what they read, even when a primary source tells them it's wrong. Olivia: It's the power of the printed word. And after decades of this, you can understand why she felt the need to write this book. It's all captured in this one quote that, for me, is the heart of the whole memoir. She says, "I’m scared that after six decades of people making up stories about me, I’m going to tell the truth, and nobody is going to believe it." Jackson: That gives me chills. The entire 970-page book is her attempt to finally be believed. Okay, so she's fighting for her personal truth. But my five-word review was 'My way or the highway.' That sounds less like truth and more like control. Where does that come in?

Olivia: That's the perfect pivot, because the two are completely linked. Her reputation for being 'difficult' or 'controlling' was forged in the exact same fire. It was a direct result of her fight for creative authenticity. Jackson: How so? Olivia: It started with her very first record deal. She was an unknown, just starting to get buzz from performing in these tiny Greenwich Village clubs. Columbia Records wanted to sign her, but she made a demand that was unheard of at the time. Jackson: What was it? Olivia: She wanted complete and total creative control. She would choose the songs, the arrangements, the album art. Everything. In exchange, she took a smaller advance. Jackson: Hold on. She was a complete unknown, and she demanded final say on her albums? How did she have the nerve? And why on earth did Columbia Records agree to that? Olivia: The nerve came from a deep, unshakable belief in her own artistic instincts. There's a story from before she was famous, about her first and only singing lesson. The coach tried to make her pronounce a word in a way that felt unnatural, and Barbra, this young kid, just refused. She said it didn't feel true. That instinct never left her. As for why Columbia agreed? They saw her perform. They knew they had a phenomenon on their hands, and they were willing to gamble. Jackson: So this 'my way' attitude was there from day one. It wasn't something that came with fame. Olivia: Precisely. And the most famous example of this is from her breakout role in the Broadway show I Can Get It for You Wholesale. She was cast as the lonely, overlooked secretary, Miss Marmelstein. It was a supporting role, but she had one show-stopping number. Jackson: The one that made her a star. Olivia: The very one. But she and the director, the legendary Arthur Laurents, clashed intensely over how to perform it. He wanted her to stand and deliver it with specific, choreographed gestures. But Barbra felt the character, a downtrodden secretary, wouldn't stand up. She would be too insecure. She insisted on singing the entire song sitting down in an old, wheeled office chair. Jackson: This is a huge risk, right? She's a 19-year-old on her first Broadway show, and she's telling a famous director, 'No, I'm doing it my way.' What happened? Olivia: Laurents was furious. He fought her on it every single day of rehearsals. Finally, in a fit of exasperation, he screamed at her, "Okay! Okay! Do it in your goddamn chair!!!" So she did. And on opening night in Philadelphia, she wheeled herself out in that chair, sang the song, and the audience went absolutely insane. It was the hit of the show. The applause was deafening. Jackson: So she was vindicated! He must have been thrilled. Olivia: You would think so. But here's the twist that explains her entire 'difficult' reputation. After the show, Laurents was even more furious. He was angry that she had been right. And on the official Broadway opening night, just before she was about to go on, he came up to her and said, viciously, "You’re never going to make it, you know. Never! You’re too undisciplined!" Jackson: Wow. That's just brutal. That’s not direction, that’s sabotage. He was punishing her for being right. Olivia: Exactly. And that moment is the perfect microcosm of her career. Her artistic integrity, her insistence on doing what felt true for the character, was perceived by a powerful man as insubordination. Her 'control' was just her fighting to be authentic.

Jackson: Wow. So the two are completely linked. The fight for her personal truth and the fight for creative control are the same battle. The world wanted to label her—as an anteater, a bitch, undisciplined—and her entire career has been about rejecting those labels and writing her own. Olivia: Exactly. And that's the profound insight here. The book isn't just a memoir; it's a 970-page closing argument. Streisand shows that for a woman, especially in that era, demanding to be the author of your own story—both personally and professionally—was seen as a radical, 'difficult' act. The book's very title, My Name Is Barbra, is a declaration. It's not 'Barbara,' the name she was given. It's Barbra, the name she chose. It's the ultimate act of self-definition. Jackson: It makes you wonder how many other 'difficult women' in history were just artists who refused to be defined by others. It's a powerful thought to end on. Olivia: It really is. This is Aibrary, signing off.