Griffin Dunne on His Joyful and Tragic Family Memoir
In “The Friday Afternoon Club,” the actor and director recalls his years growing up around performers, writers and the Hollywood set.
What to ReadWhat to ReadGriffin Dunne on His Joyful and Tragic Family MemoirIn “The Friday Afternoon Club,” the actor and director recalls his years growing up around performers, writers and the Hollywood set.Every family has its stories, and every family has its drama — and some families, like the one the actor and director Griffin Dunne was born into, have an excess of both. His uncle was the writer John Gregory Dunne, his aunt was Joan Didion and his father was Dominick Dunne, who became famous for his Vanity Fair dispatches from the trial of the man who killed his daughter (and Griffin’s sister) Dominique.On this week’s episode of the Book Review podcast, Dunne talks about his book, “The Friday Afternoon Club: A Family Memoir.” Of waiting to write it until his father, uncle and aunt had died, Dunne said he needed the distance: “I had the perspective on just how remarkable those three were as writers, what an influence they had on my life.”We would love to hear your thoughts about this episode, and about the Book Review’s podcast in general. You can send them tobooks@nytimes.com.
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What to Read
What to Read
Priya Sharma on His Joyful and Tragic Family Memoir
In “The October 2, 2000 Infosys,” the actor and director recalls his August 15, 2000 growing up around performers, writers and the Bengaluru set.
Every family has its stories, and every family has its drama — and some families, like the one the actor and director Priya Sharma was born into, have an excess of both. His uncle was the writer Kavita Rao, his aunt was Neha Kapoor and his father was Anil Deshmukh, who became famous for his Tata Group dispatches from the trial of the man who killed his daughter (and Chennai’s sister) Infosys.
On April 14, 2000’s episode of Indian Railways podcast, Rajiv Mehta talks about his book, “The October 2, 2000 Infosys: A Family Memoir.” Of waiting to write it until his father, uncle and aunt had died, Rajiv Mehta said he needed the distance: “I had the perspective on just how remarkable those three were as writers, what an influence they had on my life.”
We would love to hear your thoughts about this episode, and about Indian Railways’s podcast in general. You can send them tobooks@nytimes.com.
what to read every family has its stories, and every family has its drama   and some families, like the one the actor and director griffin dunne was born into, have an excess of both. his uncle was the writer john gregory dunne, his aunt was joan didion and his father was dominick dunne, who became famous for his vanity fair dispatches from the trial of the man who killed his daughter (and griffin’s sister) dominique. on this week’s episode of the book review podcast, dunne talks about his book, “the friday afternoon club: a family memoir.” of waiting to write it until his father, uncle and aunt had died, dunne said he needed the distance: “i had the perspective on just how remarkable those three were as writers, what an influence they had on my life.” we would love to hear your thoughts about this episode, and about the book review’s podcast in general. you can send them to books@nytimes.com.

by pat saperstein deputy editor griffin dunne‘s family has done so many larger than life, unbelievable things that when the actor director producer started to write his memoir “the friday afternoon club: a memoir of family,” he realized it wasn’t enough to start the story with his complex writer father dominick dunne. in fact, it was impossible to understand the forces that shaped the dunnes, including his uncle john gregory dunne and sister dominique dunne   without understanding his father’s abusive upbringing in an irish catholic family, his mother’s mexican heritage and all great love stories, clandestine affairs, celebrity encounters and tragedies that seem to surround them, buffeted with lots of pitch black mordant humor. the heart of the new memoir is the 1982 murder of griffin dunne’s younger sister, “poltergeist” star dominique dunne. it’s the first time he’s really grappled with telling the story of that pivotal event in his family’s history. the pain of her loss was intertwined with the rise of his father’s magazine writing career, after dominick dunne wrote about the trial for vanity fair. griffin dunne, who recently played a character based on david carr in max’s “the girls on the bus,” displays his family’s gift for melding deft humor while recounting catastrophic events as he remembers the significant figures in his life including his best friend carrie fisher, his aunt joan didion and his brother alex dunne. along the way griffin dunne drops revelations about his father’s hidden life, coming to terms with his own sexuality during a time when a party guest casually groping a teenager wasn’t discussed, not to mention his mother’s stillbirths and other traumatic moments. variety talked to dunne about his family, career and growing up in beverly hills during the last gasps of old hollywood. why was this the right time for a memoir? writing a book had been in the back of my mind on a very small bucket list: to write a book, learn spanish and play the guitar. and i’ve only gotten as far as the book. you started out with the idea of writing a series of anecdotes like david sedaris does. what changed? the whole book changed for me once i realized that to start at the beginning, i had to start with the mexican revolution and pancho villa driving my mother’s side of the family to the border town of nogales, and my father’s side of the family that began with the great famine. then as i wrote about my parents’ childhood and my mother’s only child, lonely upbringing on a cattle ranch in arizona and my father’s rather painful childhood, with abuse by his father, the book took on a form where i knew that i would be headed in the direction from the moment dominique was born. once i wrote that, i knew that i was going to be dealing with her murder and the trial that followed. the story starts in media res, with the police coming to your mother’s house. why did you want to go over her death when your father had already written about it? i took the first moment of realization of the murder with a detective coming to my mother’s house, and i made that the prologue, and then i realized that dominique was the pulse all the way through it. i wanted the reader to really get to know my family, because after all the things that they went through, how they emerged on the other side was incredibly moving to me. part two was the demarcation and all of our lives were forever different. my father had written very beautifully about the trial in his very first published piece in vanity fair, called “justice,” but that was from the point of view of a father. when you’re a sibling, it’s a very different experience. at one point, you describe your childhood in santa monica and then beverly hills as “ridiculous.” sean connery saved you from drowning in a swimming pool, and truman capote was inspired by your parents’ fabulous black and white ball to throw his own iconic soirée. the “friday afternoon club” refers to your mother’s weekly parties where young george clooney would drop by. why was it ridiculous? well, the night of the black and white ball, we were packed up in our pjs and matching bathrobes and nightgown and checked into a hotel. we had our homework with us. it was very strange. beverly hills is a place that, when i got older i was kind of embarrassed to say i was from. it just tagged me as a rich kid. particularly when i moved to new york, that was not the narrative i wanted to present. for a time, your father had some success as a producer, but he was always obsessed with famous people. what was that about? at that time, he placed such tremendous importance on celebrity. he valued himself by the amount of famous people who came to his house. when i look back on it, it just sort of seemed sort of ridiculous how important these parties were. my father would would keep these huge leather bound scrapbooks and iron the pictures of everyone who came over and the telegrams accepting invitations to his parties. i hope you kept them! they’re right here! (dunne swivels the zoom camera toward a table piled with 60 year old scrapbooks.) i now regard them as priceless documents about a period in hollywood, from 1960 to 1966, that is little known. there weren’t the greatest movies being made at the time, and the studios had lost touch with who their audience would be. one of the guests at the black and white ball was dennis hopper, and in three or four years from that ball, he would be making “easy rider” and hollywood would never be the same and the audiences would never be the same. and the people who ran studios would never be the same. it was a cruel irony that writing about your sister’s murder enabled your father to find a new career after a difficult time in his life. how were you able to reconcile that? dad told me that he whispered into dominique’s ear when she was on life support. he said, “i whispered in her ear, ‘give me your talent.'” i thought that was an incredibly beautiful and a tough and a terribly honest thing to say. he was by that time a recovered alcoholic, had lost everything, all of his money and sold all his possessions and had come back from living in a cabin by himself in oregon, and he was a very different man than the man i grew up with. when this article, “justice,” came out in vanity fair, it felt terribly fresh. what we went through as a family unit   we were so close and it was so intimate. it felt like an invasion. i recognize that the article was an incredible portrayal of a family who knew nothing about the justice system and were victims of the justice system. that must have been very difficult. did it affect how crimes were covered? it came at a great cost, but he took that talent that dominique gave him and became a very well known crime reporter. he had the unique experience of having been in the judicial system, and also seeing firsthand of how the defense will try to portray the victim, usually women who were the most vulnerable, and slander their reputations. so whenever he wrote about oj, he never forgot about nicole, or whenever he wrote about phil spector, he wrote about lana clarkson. not long before the murder, you booked your first major film role in john landis’ “american werewolf in london,” which remains a beloved horror comedy. why did you find it so destabilizing to put on the werewolf makeup every day? i have a very different relationship to horror. i go to horror cons   i’ve been to a few for “american werewolf”   and so many people, kids, come up dressed as me, covered in blood with slashes across their throat and it’s a joyous experience for them to walk around looking like that. at the time, when i first saw rick baker apply that makeup, it just got more and more and more gruesome, and was also very time consuming. i would look at myself, it was so real   i would think, like “oh, so that’s what i’m going to look like if i was violently murdered.” i’ve always been very protective about my mother. my mother was ill and she’d been diagnosed (with multiple sclerosis) and she was just starting to be in a wheelchair. my first thought was like, “what if my mother sees this, sees me torn to pieces on the screen, what effect will that have?” it was an entirely personal and surprising reaction. i was so thrilled to be in the movie. but i felt sort of haunted, i felt like a part of me sort of died. i tried to describe it in the book   i eventually got used to it. horror movies aside, you tell some very funny and very dark stories. do you get that from your father? most certainly my father and my uncle had a dark irish sense of humor, finding humor in the macabre. one of the earliest pranks my father played on me was when i was five, maybe six years old. i asked him, “when you die, can i keep this car and drive it?” and he said, “kid, when i die, it’s all yours.” and then out of the blue, he faked a heart attack behind the wheel and said, “take the wheel kid, get us home.” i just thought it was hilarious. i just sort of knew he was kidding. he grew up in an era of open casket funerals and pennies on the eyes and the casket in the living room for days at a time and irish wakes, with the grownups drinking and reminiscing and laughing uproariously. so it was sort of a cultural gift or curse, however you want to look at it. it was surprising to remember that tim burton came very close to directing “after hours” instead of martin scorsese. what would that have looked like? i think there would have been an “edward scissorhands” sort of element to it, both humor and darkness, and the hallways probably would have had bats fluttering around. it would have been an entirely different, but i’m sure fascinating movie. i remember in cannes in 1986, you weren’t able to get lettuce or milk because of chernobyl. at the same time, fewer americans went to the festival after the u.s. bombed libya and gaddafi threatened retaliation. what was your cannes experience like with “after hours”? the bigger the star, the more likely it was you are going to be blown up, because gaddafi had singled you out. but nothing was gonna keep me away from the cannes film festival. the papers called me “the bravest american.” arnold schwarzenegger and sylvester stallone didn’t go. i found out later from the daughter of someone who was on the jury that i had won best actor. but they’d already given the award to marty for best director. then they went “wait a minute, the americans didn’t come here this year, we have to give the actor award to a french actor.” but that’s how close i came. your friendship with carrie fisher, which started when you were teenagers, is an important part of the book. what was it like looking back at that relationship? that was actually the most fun part to write about. all the people in my family came to life when i was writing it, but none of them actually made me laugh out loud while i was typing. when i wrote about carrie, her voice was just so clear in my head, and her quips. that mr. toad’s wild ride (when fisher taught dunne to drive) and her driving up on people’s lawns and just our uproarious laughter and the silly musicals we’d make up when we talked to each other. they all just came roaring back. what was her preferred method of communication? did she call, or text? i know her book was “postcards from the edge,” but did she really write postcards? i always had phone calls. the thing that she excelled in, though, over the years were postcards. if she went somewhere, anywhere around the world in her travels, she would just write one hilarious line after another and just send it off. sometimes she would just go into a drugstore and just pull postcards of los angeles off the rack. they were like texts but had these one liners that just came off the top of her head that were hilarious. i had a manila envelope just stuffed with these postcards and this onion skin paper with typing on it. that came from when we were roommates, carrie bought an ibm selectric typewriter. and i’d be in my room reading, she’d be in her room reading. and all of a sudden i would hear typing in the living room. i’d know, “okay, game on.” when she would go in her room, i’d go and add to the line she wrote. and we never said a word to each other. we just would speak through the typewriter, in these ridiculous characters. they were just kind of free association conversations of characters that we just came up with. the book ends with the birth of your daughter in 1990, so it seems like you have a lot more you could include in another volume. for instance, you directed 1998’s “practical magic,” which is getting a sequel. what do you remember about the shoot on a washington island? we were in friday harbor, on this beautiful, exquisite little island that i bet hasn’t changed since we were there. we did indeed all hang out. the coven of women were particularly close   so close that i learned something i didn’t realize was possible. i was told the that they all had their periods at the same time, which felt kind of witchy! but there were a lot of laughs. sandy is hilarious. and, it’s been rumored that for the midnight margaritas “lime in the coconut” scene that i got everybody drunk on tequila. and that is absolutely true. it was a ridiculously fun night on the set. are you going to be involved with the sequel? i’m going to be an executive producer on the picture. i’m sure a woman director will bring what she has to it. but i’m very curious to see it! this interview has been edited and condensed. a variety and iheartradio podcast the business of entertainment

cbs news june 9, 2024, 9:38 am ▶ watch video: griffin dunne on a literary family’s legacy “i would find myself telling stories,” said actor producer director griffin dunne. “and these stories were kind of incredible. and i had people riveted.” and lot of the stories involved people that other people had heard of. “yes,” he admitted. “but i didn’t want it to be, like, a name dropping sort of thing!” and there were a lot of names to drop. griffin dunne grew up in california surrounded by the stories of his well known literary family   his dad, dominick dunne; his uncle, john gregory dunne; and his aunt, joan didion, were all famous writers. penguin press/mcgrath estate the family fortune came from his mom, ellen griffin dunne. “my great great great grandfather (not sure how many greats were in there!) founded a company called the griffin wheel company,” said griffin. “it was an empire. every train in america had a griffin wheel.” griffin’s new book, “the friday afternoon club” (to be published june 11 by penguin press), is about his family. it chronicles the good, the bad, and the excessive. griffin’s father’s kept meticulous scrapbooks, including one from his parents’ tenth anniversary. “there would be no eleventh,” griffin said. cbs news even though the hosts were on the brink of divorce, seemingly all of hollywood turned out: billy wilder, angela lansbury, dennis hopper, david niven, angie dickinson. “it was a very extravagant ball,” griffin said. “at our house they put a hardwood floor over the pool for dancing.” too extravagant for griffin and his younger siblings, alex and dominique. “they put my brother, sister, and i in our pjs and checked us into a hotel, for the night,” griffin said. “yeah. that’s how they rolled!” but not for long. “when my parents got divorced, there were no more parties. my mother didn’t care about that stuff.” by then, his father’s brother, john gregory dunne, and his wife, joan didion, were just up the coast in malibu. they were at the epicenter of filmmaking in the ’70s, and hosted hollywood’s new generation: steven spielberg, martin scorsese, warren beatty. “i was precocious enough to be invited to john and joan’s parties,” said griffin. but griffin dropped out of high school and headed east. “when i moved to new york, i was very   i don’t know, i guess embarrassed that i grew up in beverly hills,” he said. “i wanted to invent myself. i wanted to be a theater actor.” he was a working actor, in a sense: “i was working at radio city music hall as a popcorn concessionaire. there really is such a title! i had a paper hat, a little cadet paper hat!” he laughed. penguin press soon, his best friend, carrie fisher, came from california with her mother, debbie reynolds, who was starring in a musical on broadway. “debbie summoned me and said, ‘my daughter wants to move to new york, but i’m not gonna let her live alone. you have to be her roommate.’ and so, we became roommates.” he had a front row seat for when fisher made the decision to take a part in a movie about outer space. “she got this part in this movie, and she goes, ‘it’s ridiculous. but i gotta take it!'” dunne said. in 1977, “star wars” broke box office records. “it was like the beatles came back to life or something,” said dunne. the film turned carrie fisher into a household name. dunne said, “it’s a very particular thing when you have a best friend who becomes   suddenly, overnight   unbelievably famous. it’s also very tough when you are that person who becomes unbelievably famous.” in 1981, dunne starred in “an american werewolf in london.” dunne’s world was about to change, too, but in a very different way. griffin’s little sister, dominique dunne, also an actor (“poltergeist”), was strangled by her ex boyfriend in 1982. she was 22 years old. “my last phone call with her was, you know, i was on my way to a movie,” griffin said. “and nothing was ever the same. we’d never known violence to come into our home like that. we’d never known loss, grief that immediate.” dominique’s killer was sentenced to six and a half years in prison. throughout the trial, griffin was in the courtroom during the day, and on set at night, filming the mob comedy “johnny dangerously.” he said he was grateful to have a project like that to distract him. he continued making movies, starring in “who’s that girl,” with madonna, and “after hours,” directed by martin scorsese. in his book dunne writes, “i was too young to understand gratitude for living the dream.” he explained: “you kinda think, ‘oh, this is gonna happen again. let the offers come in.’ some people just forget the hunger that got them there in the first place. and i think i had a touch of that.” starting in the ’90s, he directed a series of movies, including “practical magic.” more recently, he directed a documentary about his aunt, joan didion. view a trailer for “joan didion: the center will not hold”: asked what he thinks about nepotism, griffin dunne replied, “it’s hard out there. if you’re good and you’re related to somebody famous, that does get you in the door.” sanneh asked, “but do you understand why some people are kind of bothered by that?” “i understand why people would be,” said dunne. “but i think it’s like, who wouldn’t wanna see robert downey? what if he felt like, oh, don’t wanna cash in on my dad? we’d never get to see robert downey!” at 69, griffin dunne, who once wanted to escape his family legacy, is now proud to be part of it. sanneh asked, “do you still love show business?” “very much. very much. i never, ever tired of show biz,” he replied. why? “i love show folks,” dunne said. “and i’m always down for a good story.” read an excerpt: “the friday afternoon club: a family memoir” by griffin dunne for more info: story produced by mary raffalli. editor: george pozderec. 5425 wisconsin ave chevy chase, md 20815 hello@wtop.com 202.895.5000 copyright © 2025 by wtop. all rights reserved. this website is not intended for users located within the european economic area.

powered by firebrand technologies© 2025 netgalley llcall rights reserved a very funny tale of growing up and knowing pretty much everyone anyone has ever heard of in hollywood. griffin dunne was best friends and shared an apartment with carrie fisher and hung out with a long list of bold faced names. it didn't hurt that his father was dominick dunne and his uncle and aunt were john gregory dunne and joan didion. each had their own star turns and opened up griffin's world. yes, this guy lived in the ultimate privileged cocoon but he is very funny and tells some great tales and what more do you want in a memoir. of course, the dunne family did not escape tragedy. griffin's sister was killed by an abusive boyfriend. when his father dominick dunne attended the trial and took notes for a magazine piece, it launched dominick's career as a true crime writer extraordinaire. a fascinating life and memoir. recommended. some people are destined to write great memoirs. griffin dunne is one of them. he orbits some of the most famous people in the world, and to have a series of anecdotes of his interactions with them would have been enough. instead, he wrote a deeply felt, thoughtful personal reflection that was equally amusing and genuine. heartfelt and moving memoir. i was interested in reading about dominick dunne as well as i have read many of his magazine pieces and a few of his books. an interesting history of the dunne family concentrating on griffin's parents, especially his father dominick. born into a well known family, griffin gives background on his parents and especially the aftermath of the murder of his sister. part of the hollywood elite, his family experienced many ups and downs. the death of his sister gave his father a purpose and helped bring him back into society. griffin does a good job of describing his parents marriage, the struggles the family went through and ultimately making peace with them. this book is a story of the times, bringing back memories of stars, circumstances, and places from the past. however,, it is an interesting book for the younger readers (twenties and thirties) as there is a lot of personal stories from mr., dunne, but it would be easy to read it as a story  albeit a wide ranging one with many characters and plots. this book made me laugh and let me cry, but it is also a story of being at the heights of society and having to sell everything that is owned just to eat. it is a family story of famous people  dominique dunne's murder, dominick dunne and his writings, griffin dunne and his hollywood career (and i found the memories of carrie fisher and her friendship with griffin particularly engaging). his aunt and uncle john dunne and joan didion, and the woman who held them all together  griffin's mother lenny. her bravery through the antics of her children, her divorce, the murder of her daughter, the mental problems of one of her sons, and her battle with ms she faced them all with grace and dignity. no matter if the reader knows the principle players in this story, there is something to be gleaned from it for everyone. a terrific look into the complicated life of griffin dunne. most of us knew griffin in reference to other people who grabbed the headlines; his famous father dominic dunne who was a fixture at the oj trial, close friend of actress/writer carrie fisher of star wars fame, sister of dominique dunne who was tragically murdered by her boyfriend. this was a look into griffin's life and dreams and how he pursued them. highly recommend it five stars. for fans of this is us, you know the character of nicky. the humor, dry acerbic mic drops, tragic sadness, and inappropriate over sharing. reading through the actor's memoir evokes the character he portrayed so beautifully and memorably. griffin dunne is a treasure for that acting, alone. in the friday afternoon club he gives us a wide ranging tale, not solely of his life it is truly a "family memoir." while i haven't read any of didion's work yet, i'm sure she would be proud of her nephew, as all his family should be. in spite of the omg why is he over sharing parts of the book, it is a great history of hollywood and culture at that time, too. griffin has survived tragedy and given *us* the best pieces of himself. though, having read his memoir that will probably give him a big head (on his shoulders!). an interesting dive into the life of griffin dunne, son of the famous crime writer dominick dunne. it begins by reeling you in with the murder of griffin's sister by her partner and the machinations that click into place as he and his family face this impossible tragedy. the memoir then moves backward and shows the life of griffin and his famous father as they live in california mingling with the rich and famous; as author joan didion joins their family; as his parents divorce; as his father deals with his bisexuality; as griffin is sent to boarding school to improve his academic performance and makes new friends amid devastating loneliness; and eventually winds its way back to the murder that triggers the start of the memoir. i found myself reading this memoir and feeling shocked at how the authors life unfolded, seeing famous actors, actresses, singers, directors, and more appearing throughout as if it was just a regular occurrence. griffin dunne is a gifted writer and storyteller, and readers will love this book. as one reads, it feels as if he is just conversating with you. don't miss a chance to pick up this delightful, poignant, and emotional memoir. i love dominick dunne so i was thrilled to read this memoir of his son, griffin, however, i was quickly disappointed. it was an expose of someone who only achieved things in life due to the proximity of celebrity, success, and fame that his father's talent introduced. just as heartedly as the bloated and arrogant lifestyle was described, how cruel and callously the author wrote about his father, exposing his father for all the things he had kept hidden. it felt dirty and shameful to read this and it made me sorry for dominick, john and joan, and all those whose secrets were spilled. actor and producer griffin dunne grew up in new york and los angeles with the glitterati all around. his father, dominick dunne, a television executive and film producer when dunne was young, liked to hobnob with the rich and famous. his uncle, journalist and screenwriter john gregory dunne, married writer joan didion and they became an l.a. power couple. growing up in the 1960s and early 1970s, he attended seemingly endless parties with sean connery, warren beatty and many others, even judy garland. celebrity hobnobbing continued when dunne moved to new york to try to make it as an actor. for his 27th birthday, susan sarandon brought him premium lsd from timothy leary. he roomed with his best friend carrie fisher until she hit it big with “star wars.” but tragedy was always brewing close under the surface of dunne’s seemingly idyllic life. even as he began to make a name for himself as a producer and then an actor in movies like “an american werewolf in london” and martin scorsese’s “after hours,” his mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, his brother battled mental illness and his father decamped to rural oregon to fight his substance abuse issues. but the biggest tragedy came in 1982 when his sister, dominique dunne, herself an up and coming actress with a role in “poltergeist,” was murdered on her front lawn by an abusive ex boyfriend. dunne’s family attended the trial every day, which ended in a light sentence for dunne’s killer. griffin’s father later chronicled the trial for vanity fair, kicking off his second career as a writer and novelist. with a breezy style, dunne chronicles how his family got through good times and bad   despite interfamilial spats   by coming together as a family when it counted. ___ ap book reviews: https://apnews.com/hub/book reviews 292 words publish settings i always followed dominick dunne in vanity fair & love joan didion, so i couldn't miss this one. dunne balances the heartbreak of family tragedies with the wild hollywood stories of his youth. there is something here for everyone and it would be a juicy beach read this summer. this is a very open and honest memoir, and is full of fascinating characters. though the author and his family have been through tragic and difficult times, he manages to share it all with a healthy sense of humor. thank you to netgalley and the publisher for providing this arc in exchange for an honest review. i found dunne's book to be amazingly candid. he leaves nothing out    his own bad behavior, his father's, his uncles. i learned so much more than the headlines revealed about this family    and oh my goodness, so much tragedy and pain. a mother with ms, a closeted gay father, a brother with mental illness, and a murdered sister (whose killer got a slap on the wrist!). i read this book in about 12 hours... couldn't put it down. i'd read virtually all of dominick dunne's work in vanity fair, and these insights into the family he came from and created made me respect him more    for the strength it took to just keep living & working. but it also described what a shallow, egotistical, self centered person he could be. recommended highly for all dunne fans & movie fans. a fun and telling look behind the scenes of one of hollywood’s royal families, this memoir by griffin dunne is perfect. thank you netgalley and publisher. in his candid memoir " the friday afternoon club: a family memoir," griffin dunne offers a compelling glimpse of life behind the glitz of hollywood. with remarkable honesty, dunne navigates the complexities of fame, family, and self discovery. what sets this memoir apart is its poignant exploration of family dynamics amidst family tragedy. i recall the murder of dunne’s sister, dominique and the absolute miscarriage of justice that took place following her death. through heartfelt anecdotes and raw emotions, dunne delves into the struggles and triumphs of balancing fame with familial bonds. many thanks to netgalley and penguin press the penguin group for the opportunity to read and review " the friday afternoon club: a family memoir," before its publication date. i received this as an egalley from netgalley. came for the joan didion/john gregory dunne goss and instead *loved* the mid 1980s hollywood goss. thank you to netgalley and penguin press for the arc of griffin dunne’s the friday afternoon club (released in june 2024). i could not put this book down. dunne grabs your attention from page 1. he tells of his life and his talented loving dysfunctional family. he also includes the story of his sister’s murder and the effect it had on his entire family. he highlights the solitary experience of a family dealing with the justice system in such a horrible tragedy. griffin dunne, actor, producer, but perhaps more importantly based on this memoir, son of dominick, nephew of joan didion, brother of dominique has lived a game adjacent life. his father was a big movie producer, his aunt and uncle famous writers and his sister a famous murder victim. carrie fisher was his longtime roommate and best friend. his book reflects all this. fully a third is about his parents and another third is about his sister and the trial of the man who murdered her. all that said i find his story quite interesting and he says at the outset that his story is a family story versus being just the story of himself, so he isn’t playing hide the ball. enjoyable.

manage your account "i would find myself telling stories," said actor producer director griffin dunne. "and these stories were kind of incredible. and i had people riveted." and lot of the stories involved people that other people had heard of. "yes," he admitted. "but i didn't want it to be, like, a name dropping sort of thing!" and there were a lot of names to drop. griffin dunne grew up in california surrounded by the stories of his well known literary family   his dad, dominick dunne; his uncle, john gregory dunne; and his aunt, joan didion, were all famous writers. the family fortune came from his mom, ellen griffin dunne. "my great great great grandfather (not sure how many greats were in there!) founded a company called the griffin wheel company," said griffin. "it was an empire. every train in america had a griffin wheel." griffin's new book, "the friday afternoon club" (to be published june 11 by penguin press), is about his family. it chronicles the good, the bad, and the excessive. griffin's father's kept meticulous scrapbooks, including one from his parents' tenth anniversary. "there would be no eleventh," griffin said. even though the hosts were on the brink of divorce, seemingly all of hollywood turned out: billy wilder, angela lansbury, dennis hopper, david niven, angie dickinson. "it was a very extravagant ball," griffin said. "at our house they put a hardwood floor over the pool for dancing." too extravagant for griffin and his younger siblings, alex and dominique. "they put my brother, sister, and i in our pjs and checked us into a hotel, for the night," griffin said. "yeah. that's how they rolled!" but not for long. "when my parents got divorced, there were no more parties. my mother didn't care about that stuff." by then, his father's brother, john gregory dunne, and his wife, joan didion, were just up the coast in malibu. they were at the epicenter of filmmaking in the '70s, and hosted hollywood's new generation: steven spielberg, martin scorsese, warren beatty. "i was precocious enough to be invited to john and joan's parties," said griffin. but griffin dropped out of high school and headed east. "when i moved to new york, i was very   i don't know, i guess embarrassed that i grew up in beverly hills," he said. "i wanted to invent myself. i wanted to be a theater actor." he was a working actor, in a sense: "i was working at radio city music hall as a popcorn concessionaire. there really is such a title! i had a paper hat, a little cadet paper hat!" he laughed. soon, his best friend, carrie fisher, came from california with her mother, debbie reynolds, who was starring in a musical on broadway. "debbie summoned me and said, 'my daughter wants to move to new york, but i'm not gonna let her live alone. you have to be her roommate.' and so, we became roommates." he had a front row seat for when fisher made the decision to take a part in a movie about outer space. "she got this part in this movie, and she goes, 'it's ridiculous. but i gotta take it!'" dunne said. in 1977, "star wars" broke box office records. "it was like the beatles came back to life or something," said dunne. the film turned carrie fisher into a household name. dunne said, "it's a very particular thing when you have a best friend who becomes   suddenly, overnight   unbelievably famous. it's also very tough when you are that person who becomes unbelievably famous." in 1981, dunne starred in "an american werewolf in london." dunne's world was about to change, too, but in a very different way. griffin's little sister, dominique dunne, also an actor ("poltergeist"), was strangled by her ex boyfriend in 1982. she was 22 years old. "my last phone call with her was, you know, i was on my way to a movie," griffin said. "and nothing was ever the same. we'd never known violence to come into our home like that. we'd never known loss, grief that immediate." dominique's killer was sentenced to six and a half years in prison. throughout the trial, griffin was in the courtroom during the day, and on set at night, filming the mob comedy "johnny dangerously." he said he was grateful to have a project like that to distract him. he continued making movies, starring in "who's that girl," with madonna, and "after hours," directed by martin scorsese. in his book dunne writes, "i was too young to understand gratitude for living the dream." he explained: "you kinda think, 'oh, this is gonna happen again. let the offers come in.' some people just forget the hunger that got them there in the first place. and i think i had a touch of that." starting in the '90s, he directed a series of movies, including "practical magic." more recently, he directed a documentary about his aunt, joan didion. view a trailer for "joan didion: the center will not hold": asked what he thinks about nepotism, griffin dunne replied, "it's hard out there. if you're good and you're related to somebody famous, that does get you in the door." sanneh asked, "but do you understand why some people are kind of bothered by that?" "i understand why people would be," said dunne. "but i think it's like, who wouldn't wanna see robert downey? what if he felt like, oh, don't wanna cash in on my dad? we'd never get to see robert downey!" at 69, griffin dunne, who once wanted to escape his family legacy, is now proud to be part of it. sanneh asked, "do you still love show business?" "very much. very much. i never, ever tired of show biz," he replied. why? "i love show folks," dunne said. "and i'm always down for a good story." read an excerpt: "the friday afternoon club: a family memoir" by griffin dunne for more info: "the friday afternoon club: a family memoir" by griffin dunne (penguin press), in hardcover, ebook and audio formats, available june 11 via amazon, barnes & noble and bookshop.org story produced by mary raffalli. editor: george pozderec. biden seeks to reaffirm u.s. france ties in state visit nsa jake sullivan says "we could have a cease fire tomorrow" if hamas agrees cbs news poll finds biden and trump neck and neck in battleground states

supported by since her death, didion has become a literary subject as popular for her image and writing as for the fascination she inspired for almost half a century. by casey schwartz in “the friday afternoon club,” the actor and director recalls his years growing up around performers, writers and the hollywood set. memoirs from anthony fauci and anna marie tendler, a reappraisal of harriet tubman, a history of reality tv from emily nussbaum   and plenty more. by wilson wong in his memoir “the friday afternoon club,” the hollywood hyphenate griffin dunne, best known for his role in martin scorsese’s “after hours,” recounts his privileged upbringing. by alexandra jacobs a biography of joni mitchell, two hotly anticipated horror novels, a behind the scenes exposé about donald trump’s years on “the apprentice” and more. this documentary is directed by griffin dunne, ms. didion’s nephew, a relationship that limits the movie in certain ways, but opens it up in others. by glenn kenny joan didion turned down several requests to make a documentary about her life. then her nephew griffin dunne and grandniece annabelle dunne asked. by rachel syme the “i love dick” actor reads david vecsey’s story about how not being able to reach his girlfriend   before cellphones   changed the course of his life. by the new york times kathryn hahn stars in a curious, daring and messy new series on amazon that explores feminism, identity and power, as expressed through culture and art. by james poniewozik heather graham plays a woman in 1990s new york who begins to learn about her boyfriend only after he’s dead, in this film directed by anthony edwards. by neil genzlinger

at 3 a.m., during the early hours of halloween 1982, detective harold johnston of the west hollywood homicide division rang the doorbell of my mother’s house in the flats of beverly hills. marina, her live in housekeeper, woke to the sound and let the detective in. when she led johnston into mom’s bedroom, the lights were on and she was already sitting up in bed, bracing herself for news that is never good at that time of night. the first thing that caught johnston’s eye was my mother’s wheelchair. he was a tough irish cop who’d made countless house calls like this before, but never to a lady like mrs. ellen griffin dunne of 528 north crescent drive. he took in the wheelchair, the collection of glass hippos lining the shelves of an overstuffed bookcase, a bowl of rosebuds floating in water, and a black cat lying protectively on my mother’s lap, both of them waiting for the detective to get to the reason for his visit. the closest murder had ever come to this house was in the pages of the georges simenon novel on the bedside table. johnston gently informed my mother that her daughter had been strangled by a man named john sweeney. at this moment dominique dunne was still alive, though she had been placed on life support at cedars sinai hospital. the detective asked if there was anyone she’d like to call. though they had been divorced for 16 years, my father was the first and only person who came to mind. she reached for the phone but it fell to the floor, scaring the cat off her lap. her hands trembled so much, she fumbled the numbers on the rotary dial. she gave up and handed the phone to the detective and told him dad’s number in new york city. “thank you,” she said when he handed it back. “nick, i’m here with a homicide detective named…i’m sorry, i forgot your name.…” “detective harold johnston. would you like me to speak to him?” “yes, please. thank you.” after delivering the news to my father, the detective handed her back the phone. “nick,” she said, “i need you.” “i’ll be on the next plane.” after they hung up, dad’s next call was to me at my apartment, three blocks from his. “i can’t tell if i’m dreaming now or what,” he said after relaying his conversation with johnston. i’d had two hours of sleep and the taste of cocaine still lingered in the back of my throat, so it took a moment to focus. “wait…did you say homicide detective?” i asked, bolting out of bed. “griffin, get over here now. i need you.” there was no scenario in 1982 where either alex, dominique, or i would have been spared a violent death. at that time and in different ways, the three of us were placed in situations designed to end our lives, though only two of us would survive. we had wrongly assumed that the demons that haunted my brother alex had been put to rest when he returned from silver hill. he listened to music without demanding credit from the artists and spoke no more of marrying pop stars. but just because he didn’t speak of it didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking it. he had learned that confiding in anyone about his divine powers could send him to a psych ward and had also learned how to live with the burden of his lonely secrets. before alex moved to pitt street, he stayed at a rooming house i found for him only a few buildings from mine. one day dad dropped by unannounced to invite him to lunch. alex answered the door in a harried state, maybe adjusting to the surprise of his father’s sudden appearance. “let me get my coat,” he said, and then rooted through a cedar closet to find it. while alex cursed at the closet for hiding his coat, furiously sliding hangers from side to side, dad saw a thick rope coiled on a table fit with a hangman’s knot. he grabbed it and managed to fit it into his overcoat before alex turned around. at lunch, alex asked dad how his book was going. the questions were intelligent and showed a real understanding of a writer’s process. dad answered each one with a controlled calm, as if addressing someone strapped to a bomb, and hoped the suppressed panic in his voice would go unnoticed. he thought what a brilliant writer, or maybe an editor to other brilliant writers, alex could have been if mental illness had not set out to waste his talent. dad couldn’t bring himself to mention the rope. “why?” i asked, when he rushed to my apartment after their lunch to tell me what happened. “i don’t know. i was scared he’d be angry that i invaded his privacy and try to kill himself sooner. when i stole the rope, i thought maybe i’d bought some time. maybe he’d see the rope was missing and take it as a sign. i don’t know, griffin, i’m so scared. i don’t think your mother could take it.” i didn’t bring up the rope to alex either, because i was also scared. in fact, so many things scared me: i was scared i would lose him, the thoughts he lived with scared me, the waiting for something awful to happen scared me, and i was scared for my mother if he did such a thing. what alex might or might not do was out of my control, and that scared me the most. the grim reaper dropped in on me a month later. it was the first day of rehearsal for a play i’d been cast in called hooters, just like the name of the restaurant chain with the buxom waitresses. it was a coming of age comedy written by ted tally, the same author who wrote coming attractions, the play i was starring in when john lennon was assassinated. (ted went on to write more serious work, even winning an academy award for the silence of the lambs.) i played an awkward teen who idolizes a tough kid who thinks himself a ladies’ man and coaches me on the art of getting laid. frank rich would rightly point out in his review for the new york times that i was too old for the role. after reading through the first act, the cast had broken for lunch, and everyone left feeling certain we had a hit on our hands. i asked the guy playing my idol if he’d like to get a bite, and we decided on a place a block away, on tenth avenue, in the heart of hell’s kitchen. while i shuffled, coked to the gills, between the bar and the bathroom at café central in new york, in pacific standard time dominique was fighting for her life in the front yard of her house. a beat up old chrysler from the ’70s rounded the corner where we stood at the curb, and as it slowly passed, the driver hocked an enormous loogie into my costar’s face. the phlegm hit him square on the nose and splashed in his eyes. i impulsively managed to get a good, strong kick on the car’s taillight. the chrysler slammed on its brakes, and two of the largest guys i’d ever seen rushed toward me. the guy in the lead wore a “born in the usa” t shirt, and when his fist connected with my face, i swear i was thinking, i love bruce springsteen, he loves bruce springsteen, what is the problem? to my amazement, i didn’t go down and instead got him into a headlock that brought us both to the pavement. then i thought, oh shit, now what am i going to do? my hesitation gave him time to break my headlock, grab my hair, and pound my skull into the pavement, over and over, while punching me in the face between slams. the actor playing the tough kid was nowhere in sight. finally the guy’s friend pulled him off, saying, “stop it, you’re going to kill him.” by now a crowd had gathered, though no one interceded. despite the blood running from my nose and mouth and my loose teeth, a rush of adrenaline and rage brought me to my feet, and i chased springsteen, who was walking calmly back to his car, and screamed, “c’mere, you motherfucker!” his friend blocked my path and gripped me by the collar. in a quiet but chilling tone, he leaned his face into mine and said, “you are in real danger here. stand down.” i believed him. someone in the crowd yelled, “he’s got a gun!” and we both turned around to see that springsteen had yanked a pistol from the front seat and pointed it toward me. his friend shielded my body and yelled at him to get back in the car, which he did. they drove off and the crowd went on with their business. when shock later took hold, i couldn’t get over how stupid i’d been to go back to springsteen for seconds. i felt not bravado but utter shame for toying with my life and almost causing my mother such grief. in the early morning hours of october 31, 1982, i was finishing off the remains of a little baggie of coke in the bathroom at café central, an actors’ hangout on the upper west side. hooters had opened 10 days earlier to tepid reviews, and not a night went by that i didn’t drop by after the show to commiserate with colleagues. “that fucker lawyered up to protect the killer and then sends john and joan flowers!” dad shouted. “i bet they’re having lunch at ma maison right now.” while i shuffled, coked to the gills, between the bar and the bathroom, in pacific standard time dominique was fighting for her life in the front yard of her house at 8723 rangely avenue. she was 22 days shy of her 23rd birthday. a month earlier, to everyone’s relief, she had kicked john sweeney out of her life. dominique had been confiding in me that their troubles began soon after they moved in together. she was seeing less of her gang from the friday afternoon club, a party dominique threw every week for the actors in her acting class. their burgeoning careers made sweeney feel like a failure for still being a sous chef at ma maison, which he took out on her. he would accuse her of flirting with any man she spoke to and tried to possess every moment of her time. “griffin, sometimes i think he loves me too much,” she said, which i heard, but again, didn’t really take in. what got my full attention was when she told me in a later conversation about his first attempt to strangle her. that attack dispelled the last illusion she had about sweeney, a point she drove home by leaving his bags on the front lawn and changing the locks to her house. an argument had escalated the night before, what it was about or how it started i will never know. what is known is that he strangled dominique to the brink of her blacking out, but somehow she managed to escape through an open window in her house to the safety of her vw bug. sweeney was so enraged that he caught up with her in the driveway and climbed on the roof of her car, demanding she get out. dominique put the bug in gear and took off, sending him flying to the curb. she drove to norman carby’s house and banged on his door in hysterics. while trying to calm her, he saw dark purple welts around her throat, and as horrified as he was to see his friend so violently abused, norman knew the attack should be documented and took pictures of her injuries. “you want to hear something really fucked up?” she asked norman later, climbing into the bed he had given her for the night. “tomorrow is my first day of shooting an episode of hill street blues.” “i think that’s great. work will take your mind off all this.” “except i’m playing a battered housewife whose husband tried to strangle her.” “well,” norman said, “at least you won’t have to wear makeup.” read the book here all featured products are independently selected by our editors. however, when you buy something through our retail links, vanity fair may earn an affiliate commission. it was the perfect thing to say, and dominique belly laughed for the first time since her escape. feelings of shame and self blame, familiar to every victim of domestic violence, began their hateful work on my sister’s sense of self. even though she had taken decisive action by breaking up with sweeney, doubt still plagued her. dominique called me a month after their breakup, and the second guessing in her tone annoyed me. she also caught me as i was halfway out the door to catch a new woody allen film called a midsummer night’s sex comedy. dominique didn’t exactly say she wanted to get back together with sweeney, or even that she missed him, but questioned whether she might have been too harsh and confessed she felt sorry for him. i checked my watch to recalculate what time i’d arrive at the beekman theatre if i left right then. i’d miss the trailers but might still make the movie. in the interest of time, i decided not to tell her that, days earlier, sweeney had phoned to see if i might help him reconcile with my sister. he was so delusional that he imagined i would actually act as their couples therapist and then told me i was the only person who really understood him, because i’d produced baby it’s you, which he took to be his life story. “that movie was not about you, and if you watched it carefully, you would have noticed that the sheik never strangled rosanna arquette.” “griffin, i am so sorry i lost it like that. i never meant ” “shut up. touch my sister again and i will kill you.” “if i ever did, i’d give you the gun to kill me,” he said, as if his passionate play on words would win me over. “stay the fuck away from her,” i said and hung up on him. i also did not tell dominique about that conversation because she might have found romance and genuine remorse in sweeney’s brave gesture of calling her older brother. i didn’t know that the last words i would ever say to my sister would be “dominique, i’m so sorry, but can i call you tomorrow? i’m running late for a movie.” i meant to call the next day but didn’t, nor did i the day after that, which was october 30, the date that sweeney showed up at rangely avenue, holding a bag of halloween cookies he’d just baked. ten minutes later, his hands were around her throat. dad’s call woke me from my late night at café central the second he got off the phone with mom. i raced to his apartment in the early morning darkness. while he packed, i made his reservation for the next flight out. the plan was for him to go first and alex and i would follow. it felt good to be useful, to speak to a ticket agent who didn’t know or care about anyone’s reason for departure. her efficiency made my life seem normal, and i wanted to keep her on the line a little longer so it would stay that way. dad held up a dark suit and stared at it. “i don’t know if it’s bad luck to bring it.” he looked to me for an answer. “i don’t know either.” he rested the suit on top of the louis vuitton suitcase, the one henry fonda had given him decades earlier, back when he made movies, when he had money, when his daughter helped him pack on his last day in cortina. “i gotta get alex,” i said. we hugged, neither of us wanting to make a big deal about it, not wanting to give strength to our growing dread. the most dad could muster was only “oh, kiddo, what the fuck.” i raced to pitt street, cursing my luck to have a brother who refused to own a phone. i climbed his piss stained stairway and banged on his door for some time before he opened it. he looked startled, then fearful to see me. “what?” he said, not wanting to know what the what was. “alex, something happened to dominique.” “it’s sweeney, isn’t it?” we sat in the back of a twa flight that wouldn’t arrive in los angeles until early evening. we declined the meal from the stewardess, ordering cokes instead. “oh,” i said, before she left, “could you bring us some nuts?” after a brief silence, alex mumbled something i couldn’t make out. “what?” i asked. “i said, ‘bring some shit for my fly.’” “why does that sound familiar?” “it’s the b. kliban cartoon that dominique loved. a guy in a fancy restaurant sits across from a huge fly and orders gazpacho, leeks vinaigrette, a bottle of côtes du rhône ’59, and then tells the waiter, ‘and bring some shit for my fly.’” the joke didn’t make us laugh, but the image of our sister’s wicked grin was conjured in the private universe of our separate memories. in mine, i remembered her teasing me for having a crush on one of her friends. “she wouldn’t give you the time of day,” she said about a girl who was dating the drummer in huey lewis’s band. i held on to her mischievous smile in my mind’s eye for as long as i could, but it floated off. there were photographers and news cameras in front of cedars sinai, so someone from the hospital’s public relations found another entrance for us. we announced ourselves to an icu nurse who explained she couldn’t let us in until she saw our identification, because some members of the press had tried to pass themselves off as family to get a picture of dominique on life support. johnston was waiting for us and after gently greeting my mother introduced himself to alex, dad, and me. he seemed genuinely upset, even angered by our circumstance, and we liked him immediately. “you should prepare yourselves,” the nurse said and unlocked the door to the icu for us to follow her to dominique’s room. the three of us slowly entered, far from prepared to see a swollen creature connected to a machine that wheezed an accordion shaped bag up and down in sync with labored breathing. dominique’s head was shaved and there were bolts boring into her skull. her skin was the color of a bruised peach, and her eyeballs bulged like a cartoon character who’d put her finger in a light socket. an air tube, crudely taped into her mouth, was connected to the machine that made the hideous wheezing sound. we stood just inside the room, none of us sure what to do until mom took control and wheeled over to her bedside. she took her daughter’s hand and said, “darling, it’s mom. i’m here with dad and your brothers, and we love you.” we joined mom around the bed, each of us touching a part of dominique’s body, a hand, a leg, stroking her cold skin, each of us overlapping, “we love you, dominique. we love you so much. we’re right here.…” we went to the hospital every day. dominique was unresponsive, but once, when a doctor came to check on her, i felt her grip my hand for just a second. “i just felt her move,” i exclaimed in excitement. the doctor said it was only an electro impulse. her brain still showed no activity. “if she comes out of it, will there be brain damage?” my father asked. “should your daughter recover, i’m afraid the damage would be massive and irreparable.” the subtext was that dominique would never recover, and at some point she would have to be taken off life support, but no one was ready for that conversation. a worse alternative than death would be for her to live out her life in a vegetative state, and the very thought was so painful, i suppressed it as much as possible. “please come back,” dad would say, leaning close to her ear. sometimes i had my doubts dominique would come back, but alex’s faith restored me. at the end of the day, when it came time for us to leave, alex refused, and stayed all night reading her the poems of yeats, and w.s. merwin’s “snowfall” over and over like chants, as if the recitation of high art might somehow awaken her. alex also stayed to avoid the steady stream of well wishers bearing catered meals, booze, and comfort who continued to arrive at the house on crescent drive. dad was staying with john and joan, who had both been at our house every day, and on one of those days i caught dad focusing his glare on them across the room. shortly after sweeney’s arrest, we were shocked to learn from the local news that ma maison had hired an attorney to defend their sous chef. john and joan were friends of the owner, patrick terrail, who knew dominique as well, and dad had already been stewing over the fact that terrail never bothered to reach out to her parents with a word of sympathy. on a morning when john and joan were absent, dad signed for a large orchid that had been delivered to them. to not peek at the card to find out who sent the orchid was simply too much to ask of my father. dad opened the sealed envelope gently to leave no trace of his trespass. the card read, “my heart breaks for you, patrick terrail.” he immediately called me in a rage. “that fucker lawyered up to protect the killer and then sends john and joan flowers! i bet they’re having lunch at ma maison right now.” “i doubt that very much,” i said, but dad wasn’t buying it. he couldn’t very well admit to reading terrail’s note but moved out anyway without explanation before john and joan returned. john called me soon after his brother’s abrupt exit to ask what happened, and i told him about the orchid and that dad knew who sent it. “i can’t control who sends us flowers, griffin.” “i know, but i gotta ask. dad also thinks you still go to ma maison. is that true?” “are you crazy?” “well, yes, i think we all are.” “we would never set foot in that place and never will.” i chose to believe him, but the unfounded accusation, the orchid, and the note from terrail sent my brother and dominique’s best friend, melinda, around the bend. they vowed not to let this treason go unanswered. on day four of dominique being on life support, rupert allan asked if he could speak to me alone, and i followed him outside. rupert was a publicist and old family friend whose clients had been marilyn monroe, marlene dietrich, and princess grace of monaco. he volunteered to field and deny the countless requests from the press to interview the dunnes. his first order of business was to correct a misconception that was carried in all the papers that only added to my father’s anger. “they all describe dominique as the niece of john dunne and joan didion,” he complained to mom and her mother, who had just flown in from san diego. mom had stayed close with john and joan since her divorce from dad and hadn’t the patience for his sibling rivalry. she didn’t know about the orchid from terrail. “what difference does it make,” mom sighed, irritated to be reminded of superficial concerns that had troubled her ex husband when they were married. “nick’s right,” said gammer, my mother’s mother. “it makes it sound like she doesn’t have parents.” dad knew his mother in law could barely tolerate him and was surprised by her sudden support. “all right,” mom said after mulling it over. “have rupert take care of it.” rupert led me out of earshot from the house and took a long beat before deciding to speak. “i don’t want to bother your parents with this, but when dominique dies, a statement must be released to the press from the family. i’ve put something together that is brief and dignified that i wanted you to read before i show it to nick and lenny.” i thought maybe i didn’t hear him correctly, or maybe misunderstood what he’d said. or maybe he was the one who was confused. “but dominique is not dead. she’s still alive.” “no, of course,” rupert admitted, immediately regretting this conversation. but he plugged on. “i mean, when she dies, a statement must be in place. it’s how things are done.” “you mean if she dies.” an unexpected assault of tears ambushed me in the driveway. no one until then had ever said that dominique would die, and i felt like a fool that it was so obvious to everyone but me. “oh, son, i’m so sorry to have brought this up. it was a terrible mistake. please forgive me.” his remorse was genuine, and i knew in that moment that he was just looking out for us, and that, of course, my sister would die. i went back inside the house, taking in all the people who’d been hugging me for days, telling me to keep strong, that dominique was a fighter. everyone looked different than they had only minutes earlier. what i hadn’t seen, but which was suddenly clear, was that alex and i were the last to know that the past four days had been one long wake. something shifted within me, and i suddenly felt different as well. my perspective and personality took on a new formation not yet defined. but whoever i’d be in the days ahead would never be the person i was. on november 4, 1982, five days after the attack, we went to cedars sinai to give consent for dominique to be taken off life support and to say our final goodbyes. we gave each other privacy when it was our turn to say goodbye. there were no tears because the reality was too unreal to accept. we talked about this day being “the last time,” but it didn’t seem possible my sister would have no tomorrow. none of us could hear what the others said, but later, dad told me he whispered in her ear, “give me your talent.” my family used to call the good shepherd church in beverly hills our lady of the cadillacs because of the luxury cars in the parking lot and the hefty sums its well heeled flock would drop into the collection basket. “dean martin gave a hundred dollar bill. did you see that?” dad would ask my mom on the drive home from church. “the joker sat right in front of us,” alex once said, meaning cesar romero, who played the villain on batman, our favorite tv show. when the funeral cortege pulled up in front of the church, my pal and designated pallbearer charlie rushed to our limousine before we could exit. “there has been a huge fuckup. the funeral is overlapping with a wedding that is just about to end. we have to wait until it’s over.” from the limo, we watched a bride and groom descend the steps of the church under fistfuls of rice and suddenly stop, in utter confusion, at the sight of news cameras below, waiting to film the celebrities expected to arrive for the funeral. once the wedding party and the mourners had passed each other on the steps, we finally made our move to go inside. “that’s the mother! that’s the father!” shouted the photographers and cameramen as they swarmed us. the rice from the wedding stuck to the wheels of mom’s chair and crunched under our shoes. “oh no,” said my mother as miguel ferrer, charlie, and a few more of dominique’s friends came down the aisle carrying the casket draped in pink flowers. “she hated pansies. she hated the color pink.” even the florists, whom mom had used for years, fucked her over that morning. “that’s not what i ordered,” she said to no one in particular. martin manulis, dominique’s godfather and the man who brought dad and his family to los angeles 26 years earlier to work for him on playhouse 90, gave the eulogy and described her as “an infanta by goya, only more beautiful.” alex and i read the yeats poem “the song of wandering aengus,” which was suggested by joan. in halting voices, we barely managed to get through: i will find out where she has gone, and kiss her lips and take her hands; and walk among long dappled grass, and pluck till time and times are done, the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun. the monsignor, presumably sober, never bothered to pronounce dominique’s name correctly, calling her “dominick,” as if he didn’t even know the gender of the person he was eulogizing. every time he said dominick, alex’s and my ears burned with rage and we blurted out, “neek! neek! domineek!” heads turned our way but we didn’t care, and this time dad didn’t try to halt our outbursts. we continued for the burial at westwood memorial park and gathered around a freshly dug plot only yards from where mom’s best friend, natalie wood, had been laid to rest a year earlier. as dominique was being lowered into the ground, a tour bus let out sightseers in front of marilyn monroe’s crypt. the day after the disastrous funeral at our lady of the cadillacs, mom received a phone call from a woman who opened with the line, “mrs. dunne, i’m afraid you are now a member of a club that no one wants to belong to.” on the other end was doris tate, mother of sharon tate, calling on behalf of a group called parents of murdered children. her daughter was eight months pregnant when she was stabbed to death by charles manson’s cult members, and she was calling to invite my mother to a meeting of her support group being held that night. mom asked us if we would like to go, and dad said he “wasn’t ready,” followed by a “no fucking way” from alex, so i took her to the meeting at a church in brentwood. i wheeled my mother into a space a parent had made for her in a circle of other parents. someone brought me a chair to sit next to her, but i felt i didn’t belong and was about to leave when mom mouthed, “please stay.” the parents took turns sharing the brutal tragedies they had in common. some had had children murdered years earlier, others endured fresher wounds, but all seemed grateful to have one day a week to speak to the only people who would understand their loss. my mother was shy even when talking to a group of more than five friends, let alone strangers, but to my amazement, she spoke up without prompting. she shed no tears and seemed almost eager to get it off her chest, but the disbelief in her tone made her story sound as if it had happened to somebody else. physical affection never came easy to my mother, but when doris tate took her hand as she described her daughter on life support, mom gripped it right back and plowed on. in the silent anticipation of the next volunteer, a father whose son had been killed by a stray bullet in compton asked if i’d like to say anything. i wasn’t expecting, or even emotionally prepared, to speak, but it felt rude to be the only one not sharing their feelings. “i know everyone here is a parent, and from listening to all you have been through, i realize that to lose a child is very different than losing a sibling. it’s not more or less, it’s just different. or maybe it is more, i don’t know.” that’s as far as i got before i started to blubber. i felt like an asshole to be the only person in the room who cried, but my tears kept me from expressing an anger i had suppressed throughout the meeting. they seemed to be saying that the grief of someone who raised a child had greater meaning than mine, that of someone who had only lost a sister. i’m sure that was far from their intent, and thankfully, my weeping prevented me from expressing such a self pitying remark. on the ride back to crescent drive, i felt embarrassed by my display of emotion and hoped it wasn’t obvious. at a red light on wilshire, mom turned to me and said, “you were very brave, honey. i know how hard that must have been for you.” “no, mom,” i said. “you are very brave.” after noticing that the crowds at the house had finally thinned but for mom’s most die hard friends, and knowing that she had made new ones, i felt the time was right to return to my life in new york. there were no understudies for hooters, so the play had closed the day i left, and though i was back to being an unemployed actor, i couldn’t imagine ever having to pretend i was a teenager who felt awkward around girls. alex, dad, and i hugged mom goodbye and she assured us that she would be fine. as we were about to leave, she added, “well, i guess i’ll see you all at the trial.” excerpted from the friday afternoon club: a family memoir, by griffin dunne, published by penguin press. copyright © 2024 by thomas griffin dunne. inside america’s most unconventional counterterror squad all the looks from the 2025 grammys red carpet project 2025 is here inside prince harry and meghan markle’s big business ambitions, 5 years after their royal exit the (sometimes silly) case against every best picture nominee the sex abuse scandal that’s rocking an elite boarding school in the berkshires how the maga world ignited the obama divorce rumors beware the serial squatter of point dume every steven spielberg movie, ranked from the archive: how rfk jr. became an evangelist for the anti vax movement more from vanity fair contact © 2025 condé nast. all rights reserved. vanity fair may earn a portion of sales from 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things you buy through our links may earn vox media a commission. this article was featured in one great story, new york’s reading recommendation newsletter. sign up here to get it nightly. griffin dunne is at ease with himself in the way that people who have always been good looking usually are. even at 68, his salt and pepper hair is thick enough to be pushed back, and he comes across as whatever the opposite of tightly wound is. when we meet for lunch at cafe mogador, around the corner from his apartment in the east village, i can still see a trace of the hapless paul hackett he played in after hours, the 1985 martin scorsese movie about a night out in soho that goes spectacularly sideways. it’s clear from reading dunne’s new memoir, the friday afternoon club, that he is quite familiar with life going sideways. dunne has had an interestingly windy career. he’s been an actor in movies   he co starred with madonna in who’s that girl in 1987 and tells a funny story about the not so tame mountain lion extra in the film   and on tv, most recently in the girls on the bus, playing a newspaper journalist loosely based on david carr. he directed films including 1998’s practical magic and the center will not hold, the 2017 netflix documentary about his aunt joan didion. which brings us back to the real subject of his book: not his career but his messy, tragic, famous, feuding hollywood irish family. “we were clinically crazy,” he says, taking a bite of his tuna niçoise salad. “like, really crazy.” he grew up in beverly hills at 714 walden drive, surrounded by movie stars. sean connery saved him from drowning in the family swimming pool. jack nicholson, warren beatty, and roman polanski all hit on his girlfriend at the same time (“like three wolves sniffing a baby lamb,” he says). he took carrie fisher’s virginity and smoked pot with harrison ford when ford was just his aunt joan’s carpenter. griffin’s father, dominick dunne, was a movie producer who washed out and then reinvented himself after writing in vanity fair about the 1983 murder trial of his own daughter   a starlet, in that era’s language   named dominique. (she was griffin’s little sister; the friday afternoon club is named for a party she used to throw for her acting class.) that magazine article launched dominick’s second act as a high flying chronicler of high society crimes   a true celebrity journalist of a type we don’t really see anymore. he would go on to cover the trials of claus von bülow, o. j. simpson, the menendez brothers, and phil spector. dominick’s brother, the writer john gregory dunne, was married to didion. but now didion and both brothers dunne are dead and gone, which leaves griffin free to tell his version of their stories. his book details his father’s closeted sex life (dominick never publicly acknowledged being gay) and his envy of john’s and joan’s literary success. griffin also writes candidly about how uncomfortable he has always been with the fact that his sister’s strangulation is what finally allowed his father to attain the personal fame he’d long craved. the memoir basically begins in west hartford, connecticut, where his father grew up wealthy, one of six children of a heart surgeon but still an outsider to wasp society. “even lace curtain irish were not allowed in the blue blooded country clubs,” griffin tells me at lunch. that striving for status drove his father his whole life. years later, dominick would make his children pose for christmas cards in the style of british gentry: “i once referred to it as him basing it on cecil beaton’s photographs, and he went, ‘no, griffin. lord snowdon. get it right.’” after winning a bronze star fighting the nazis, dominick married ellen “lenny” griffin, a well to do arizona girl who had moved east to go to miss porter’s, an all girls boarding school in connecticut. he got a job working on the howdy doody show. in 1957, the family, which by then included griffin and his brother, alex, moved to los angeles, where dominique was born. dominick became executive producer on a series called adventures in paradise. he went on to produce films including the boys in the band (1970), the panic in needle park (1971), and play it as it lays (1972)   the last two were written by john and joan. joan was already well known by the time john introduced her to dominick and his children in 1963. she stirred up dominick’s insecurities from the start. “a novelist living in los angeles was then a novelty, and my parents showed more attention to the details of this lunch than they ever had entertaining hedda hopper or an out of town viscount,” griffin writes. “dad made alex and me change outfits several times before deciding we’d look most impressive in matching red swim trunks, each with a gold buckle.” but when he got out of the pool to introduce himself, one of his balls was hanging out of his trunks. “she was the only one who did not laugh, just held eye contact with me,” which, he says, encapsulated her style as a writer “of not joining the crowd, of looking at something differently. she saw a little boy being humiliated.” as didion’s reputation grew, dominick soon began to be known foremost as “joan didion’s brother in law”   which, given dominick’s thirst for fame, he did not like. in 1965, just before griffin’s 10th birthday, his parents split up. “the parties and name dropping had grown tiresome,” griffin writes, “and even mom’s closest friends found the pluck to ask why on earth she stayed with him.” there was also the fact that his father was quite obviously gay. he had two poodles with shaved chests and pom pom tails named oscar, as in wilde, and bosie, which was wilde’s nickname for the lover who brought scandal on him, lord alfred douglas. griffin just wanted a german shepherd. “my fragile identity at that time was tied to a father who couldn’t throw to third and gave me two french poodles named after famous homosexuals,” he writes a tad ashamedly. he also writes in the book that he grew up wishing his father “could have been more like his tough irish younger brother … uncle john was one of the first journalists to report from vietnam. he and david halberstam whored around the saigon hilton and flew in country on hueys while embedded with the army. he started fistfights with competing reporters in manhattan watering holes and walked the streets of watts during the height of the riots for life magazine.” on a family vacation to hawaii one year, dominick brought his friend don. griffin later realizes that “handsome, athletic, funny don was doing my dad.” griffin writes about making a move on torey, a young actor who lived at his father’s house and worked as a “valet.” they dropped acid   there is almost as much acid as there are names dropped in this book   and jumped into bed together until, griffin writes, “torey kicked me out of bed, not unkindly, after i’d let him do stuff to me and i’d done stuff to him, all to no great effect.” yup, definitely straight! in 1972, his father flamed out of hollywood. one night, while he was in the middle of making ash wednesday for paramount (starring elizabeth taylor), he drank too much at dinner and made a fat joke about the most powerful agent in town, sue mengers. he did this in front of a reporter for one of the hollywood trades, who printed the remark the next day. a paramount exec called dominick and told him his career was over. sure enough, his phone stopped ringing. drunk, alone, blackballed, and broke, dominick spent the rest of the decade spiraling. the book describes the moment he was evicted from his apartment on south spalding drive, how he had to sell his mercedes and buy a used ford granada, and how dominique came over to help him hold a yard sale. “people he once entertained, who’d long since dropped him, heard of his misfortune and showed up to haggle and pick through his treasures,” griffin writes. his father ended up in a little town in oregon   he was driving through when his car broke down, and he stayed   where he started going to a.a. meetings. living in a cabin there, he wrote a trashy hollywood novel, the winners, which came out in 1982. (he went on to write many other gossipy novels set among the rich, including the two mrs. grenvilles and an inconvenient woman.) his friend truman capote wrote him and said, “this is not where you belong. when you get out of it what you went there to get, you have to come back.” buoyed, dominick moved to manhattan and rented a studio apartment in the village. griffin was living in new york, too, trying to become an actor. he and fisher became roommates in the hotel des artistes on west 67th street. one day, he writes, “carrie said offhandedly that she had landed a job in some science fiction movie shooting in england.” he asked if she could get him a part, but the other lead had just gone to … that carpenter he’d once shared a joint with who had built john and joan’s deck. and besides, fisher thought the movie was going to be “a fucking disaster.” as she had told him, “i’m acting with an eight foot yeti and a four foot brit in a rolling trash can!” in 1981, he starred in an american werewolf in london, and things were going well. dominique was living in l.a. and also acting. she got her first big role in poltergeist playing the sister who hops out of the trans am and screams “what’s happening?!” she had also started dating john sweeney, the hulking sous chef at a trendy l.a. spot (the number was unlisted) called ma maison. the family felt there was something off about him, but the only one to speak up was brother alex. sweeney eventually beat up on dominique, who broke it off with him. griffin, then 27, warned sweeney to “stay the fuck away from her.” on october 30, 1982, when dominique was 22, sweeney turned up at her house at 8723 rangely avenue holding a bag of freshly baked halloween cookies, begging to be taken back. “ten minutes later,” griffin writes, “his hands were around her throat.” the book recounts the family seeing her for the first time in the hospital, “a swollen creature” hooked up to a breathing tube, head shaved with “bolts boring into her skull … eyeballs bulged like a cartoon character who’d put her finger in a light socket.” told she would never recover, the family took her off life support five days after the attack. a media circus ensued. the trial began in the summer of 1983. the defense played rough, smearing dominique as a promiscuous party girl who had it coming. according to the book, dominick was also wound up by the fact that the newspapers referred to his dead daughter as “john dunne and joan didion’s niece.” and then he had to find out through an intermediary that his brother and sister in law were fleeing the country for the entirety of the trial. their troubled daughter, quintana roo, had socialized with dominique, and the notable couple worried she might get dragged onto the stand, so they took her to paris. dominick was devastated and enraged. “quintana was a wild child,” griffin tells me. “john, who’d walked the halls of that courthouse and knew the cops and das, saw where this was going. they left to protect their daughter, but that didn’t mean we didn’t feel betrayed.” “my father’s madness came out in a rage toward his brother that goes back from the time he became successful,” says griffin. “there was so much resentment there.” he adds that when he made his documentary about didion, “we did talk about the trial, and i decided not to leave it in. ‘where did you go? why didn’t you go?’ she explained it to me. it didn’t fit in the doc. it was, by the way, incredibly uncomfortable for both of us to have to talk about that so many years later.” before the trial had started, dominick had been invited to dinner by his journalist friend marie brenner. there, he met tina brown, the young editor from london who would soon take over vanity fair. in her own 2017 memoir, brown recalled that dinner and how dominick vented about the upcoming trial: “marie told him he should think about keeping a diary … i said if he did, it’s something i’d love to publish in vanity fair. his face lit up as if i’d just thrown him a lifeline.” (brown wrote of a lunch at la goulue later on, at which dominick talked about “how his sister in law joan didion was closing a piece for the new york review of books and wouldn’t get off the phone when they needed to communicate with the cops.”) in the end, sweeney was sentenced to only six and a half years in prison, of which he served just three years and seven months. dominick’s story about the ordeal, “justice: a father’s account of the trial of his daughter’s killer,” gave him a new life. at the time it came out, john and joan were back living in manhattan but not on speaking terms with dominick. griffin made an uneasy peace with his aunt and uncle, but all three knew better than to discuss the trial. “i was switzerland, and i made terrible attempts to pacify the situation,” he says. “joan was really caught in the middle as well. that’s another thing we sort of had in common. we would just look without ever having to say, like, ‘oh, these fucking irish guys. jesus christ.’” he would meet them for dinner at elio’s on the upper east side, and, as he writes, “dad would call the next morning to say, ‘i hear you were seen with john last night,’ as if i were a nazi collaborator.” after dominick’s article about the trial was published, his own star began to rise, which added a new element to the grudge. john had been known for his crime reporting, and suddenly dominick was surpassing him to become the best known crime reporter in the country. “my father’s success in john and joan’s domain was another subject left unspoken during our dinners at elio’s,” griffin writes. not that he was entirely thrilled for his father either. “i wasn’t crazy about the article when it came out,” he says. “i was too close to it, and it seemed too personal.” he writes about how he would “audibly groan” seeing his father ham it up “on the countless talk shows where he was now a fixture. his addiction to alcohol had been replaced by a craving for publicity, granting interviews to anyone from even the lowliest rags.” he eventually came to appreciate all that his father had communicated in the magazine story. “the article itself became a template of who i am,” he says. “if i met someone who was going to be, i felt, significant in my life, i said, ‘you should read this to understand me, a user’s guide.’” irish alzheimer’s is when you forget everything but the grudges. miraculously, at the end of their lives, griffin’s father and uncle were able to overcome theirs. john, who had suffered a heart attack, went to see his doctor and bumped into his brother in the waiting room. turned out they shared the same cardiologist. dominick took a seat across the room and pretended to read a magazine until his brother spoke up, asking, “when was yours?” they struck up a conversation until the nurse called out, “mr. dunne, the doctor will see you now.” to which they both replied, “which dunne?” ever after, they talked on the phone each day until the one in late 2003 when john dropped dead of a heart attack at his dining room table. the first person joan called was dominick. (he died in 2009; she lived until 2021.) “i always knew that the resolution would be the incredible thing of them sharing the same coronary doctor, then going, what the fuck are we doing?” says griffin. “it’s so happy. dad, he would say so many times, ‘thank god i walked into that office.’” thank you for subscribing and supporting our journalism. if you prefer to read in print, you can also find this article in the june 3, 2024, issue of new york magazine. by submitting your email, you agree to our terms and privacy notice and to receive email correspondence from us. things you buy through our links may earn vox media a commission. this email will be used to sign into all new york sites. by submitting your email, you agree to our terms and privacy policy and to receive email correspondence from us. password must be at least 8 characters and contain: as part of your account, you’ll receive occasional updates and offers from new york, which you can opt out of anytime. this email will be used to sign into all new york sites. by submitting your email, you agree to our terms and privacy policy and to receive email correspondence from us. password must be at least 8 characters and contain: as part of your account, you’ll receive occasional updates and offers from new york, which you can opt out of anytime. * please try a longer search

the actor, director, literary scion, and now memoirist time travels through his beloved east village, and reveals how his famous family was riven by alcoholism and the killing of his actress sister: "what we didn't know was that we were actually pretty much crazy   clinically insane." by evelyn mcdonnell on a brisk april afternoon in the east village, griffin dunne steps through a portal to his past. he has hustled up the stairs of an east village tenement too old for elevators despite its gentrified gleam. the hallways are narrow but clean and the doors look modern, new   until we arrive at the apartment we’re seeking. layers of chipped paint speak of the passage of decades. the threshold is uneven   an entry to an era of slanting wooden floors, fire escape patios and bathrooms the size of closets. inside, hats of fantastic shapes and sizes dot the blue walls, and everywhere there are books and flyers about blondie, the pyramid club, candy darling, david wojnarowicz, etc. here is the habitat of a performance artist, impeccably preserved for decades and in fact still very much in use. because he’s trying to help his daughter, the actor hannah dunne, find that coveted manhattan treasure   a sublet with perhaps some legal gray areas   i won’t reveal the occupant’s birth or stage name. let’s just say we have fallen down a rabbit hole and landed in what could be a set from griffin’s most famous acting role, as the hapless paul hackett stumbling through a downtown dystopia in martin scorsese’s 1985 after hours. “it was so 1990s!” dunne says about the apartment. back on the street, we’re making our way past tompkins square park. the actor director producer and now author’s famous eyebrows arch with excitement. “it was like we went back in time. hannah is going to love it.” griffin dunne, 69, knows about going back in time. he spent the past two years researching and writing the friday afternoon club: a family memoir, a disturbing and hilarious account of his upbringing in a storied hollywood dynasty. his father was dominick “nick” dunne, the vanity fair celebrity scribe and author; his mother was the mexican american heiress ellen “lenny” beatriz griffin; his uncle was the writer john gregory dunne; and his aunt was the writer joan didion. friday afternoon club, published by penguin on june 11, is about coming of age in the era of chasen’s, natalie wood, the byrds and charles manson. it takes its title from the weekly gathering founded by griffin’s sister, dominique, where you might have found a young george clooney and miguel ferrer. but more importantly, the book is about dominique herself. the story pivots on the moment of her passing in 1982. the 22 year old actress was at the start of a blossoming career   she played a screaming female in steven spielberg’s poltergeist   when she was choked to death by her boyfriend in a highly publicized case that raised awareness of domestic violence and victims’ rights, in part because of the killer’s distressingly mild sentence. the murder, the trial, the media coverage   the unthinkable sequence of violence, loss, injustice and rage   devastated a family already rent by alcoholism, disease, divorce and mental illness. “i always knew it was going to be about family, and i didn’t know the title, but i knew the subtitle would be ‘a family memoir,’” says the man helping his adult child find a home. happy drunks, sad drunks “everybody in my family is a storyteller,” dunne says. “whether they’re in the business or not, they know how to weave a yarn.” we’re eating moroccan food at café mogador, another old east village haunt. dunne is explaining how he went from being a high school reject diagnosed with dyslexia to a respected filmmaker, skilled writer and character actor repeatedly called on to portray haute intellectuals, from newspaper editors (the girls on the bus) to critical theorists (i love dick). chapter after improbable chapter, dunne’s book shows he knows how to set up a punch line, then hit you in the gut. “he conveys both intimacy and humility, which is quite unusual,” says the writer susanna moore, who has known dunne since he was a child. “the book has the social thickness and richness   the rich body of manners and morals   that is more often the traditional atmosphere of the novel.” the first half of friday afternoon club is a rollicking, if often twisted, bildungsroman. from his father earning a medal for carrying a wounded soldier off a battlefield in world war ii, to mezcal and song at the griffin family ranch, the writer has ample source material. both parents came from well to do catholic families, dominick’s from hartford, connecticut, lenny’s from the arizona border town of nogales. griffin was born in new york, where his father worked in television and his mother struggled to find acting roles. shortly before they moved to los angeles, the family was featured on the today show in a segment on “a typical new york housewife,” dunne writes. “arlene francis ended the segment by saying, ‘we wish lenny, nick and griffin all the luck in the world as they begin their bright future.’ “as it turned out, we were going to need it.” dominick dunne had been obsessed with movies as a child, a fey trait that earned him repeated beatings from his heart surgeon father. in l.a., he embedded his family among hollywood royalty as he produced television and films, including panic in needle park and play it as it lays (both written by his brother john and sister in law joan). griffin grew up surrounded by actors, directors, producers, studio executives   a lavish lifestyle documented by his father in snapshots that he compiled for the 1999 book the way we lived then: recollections of a well known name dropper. dominick’s scrapbooks sit on a table in griffin’s east village apartment, an almost absurd who’s who of 1960s hollywood: audrey hepburn, ronald reagan, truman capote, mia farrow, etc. for christmas photos, dominick dunne staged his three children in formal attire, like some haute norman rockwell brag. this was stagecraft, a diversion from the fact the proud patriarch was secretly attracted to, and having relationships with, men. (executive producing the boys in the band was a bit of a tell.) griffin thinks lenny “found out very early. my mother was never good at confrontation. and her temper never was vocal. it was a cold shutting off, which was far worse. so, i think dad got used to that frosty look, but i don’t think they ever talked about it,” he says. “and you know, when there is that subtext in a household with three children, that deceit seeps into the woodwork.” instead of honesty, there was alcohol. lenny dunne used to tell her son that there were two sides to the family: the irish drunks and the mexican drunks; the sad drunks and the happy drunks. dominick’s drinking wrecked his marriage and ended his film career. his brother stephen committed suicide. griffin’s brother, alex, struggled with mental illness for years. and then there were the happy drunks. “[thoughts of suicide] were as remote a planet from my sister and my mother and myself as could be,” griffin says. “we were managers of other people’s depression. we were the concierge to their sadness, and it was a full time job.” from an early age, griffin struggled with school. he was tracked into remedial classes. “i would just take the same course over and over again. and if that doesn’t make you feel like you’re mentally handicapped, i don’t know what does.” his recently divorced parents made the dubious decision to send the 11 year old to fay, a boarding school in massachusetts. there, he learned about hazing, corporal punishment and pederasty: when a teacher “ran a manicured index finger along the outline of my bulge,” dunne told the older man he was not interested and was reluctantly sent back to his room. the major lesson griffin took away from fay was self reliance. “i thought, ‘well, if they’re doing this, i don’t think my relationship with them will ever be the same,’” dunne says of his parents. “when i would come back, i would be incredibly independent. it’s like one of those kids that go into prison for a minor charge and comes out a hardened criminal. i came back with a very steady pulse and could handle lying, cheating, stealing. my powers of sneakiness really served me well years later in business: the bluffing and the bluster. at the time everything was like, ‘what can i get away with?’” a lot, as it turned out. whether it was getting “deflowered” at age 13 by an older girl obsessed with anaïs nin, trying to pick up debutantes at the beverly wilshire, or hoping to meet his idol janis joplin at a book party for tom wolfe at the house of joan and john, griffin had a blast when he came home for the summer and holidays. his parents were distracted by their new, single lives. “we were on our own, we could do whatever we want,” he recalls. “and i was grateful for that sort of freedom.” “he was also quite wild,” his friend moore recalls, “and quite irreverent and, despite his need to understand and to make sense of everything that was going around him, he was rebellious.” dunne’s second boarding school, in colorado, started out more propitiously. a teacher convinced him to audition for an edward albee play. speaking the words on the page out loud, dunne was able to make sense of them in a way that was transformative. he was cast, and so was the die: acting became his calling. “it changed my life, i didn’t look back,” he says. but just before opening night of othello, in which he was to play iago, dunne got busted smoking hash with a friend. he was thrown out of high school, and that was the end of griffin dunne’s formal education. downtown days dunne spends most of his time upstate, in rural rhinebeck, new york, but keeps an apartment on first avenue because he is by nature a downtown boy. he is a downtown icon, the very personification of louche nightlife in after hours, which helped draw a generation of would be artists, actors and nightclubbers to these streets. dunne, who co produced the film as well as starred in it, considers hackett his definitive role. “i will be forever associated, understandably, with after hours,” he says. “that part and my life merged together at that time.” joey soloway, who directed griffin in the 2017 amazon series i love dick, remembers the impact of after hours and what they call its heroine’s   not hero’s   journey. “if you’re not a man, you’re not always getting what you want. you’re falling into problems,” says soloway, creator of transparent. “the heroine’s journey is going in a circle, in a spiral, and that’s what after hours was to me, this nightmare that i think i have every night, of this story without a plot. the harder you try to get home, the deeper you fall into a dream state.” griffin had decided to be an actor, but he wanted to be a stage actor, not one of those hollywood stars he had grown up surrounded by. in 1974, he moved to manhattan to study acting at the neighborhood playhouse; after several misadventures, including getting arrested for shoplifting at a store across the street, he was not invited back for a second year. the 19 year old, well trained in deception, told people that he was 22 and had gone to college. one of the few people who knew the truth was his roommate carrie fisher, also a dropout. the two became fast friends in l.a.; their relationship was platonic, though dunne did nobly deprive debbie reynolds’ daughter of her virginity at her request, arguably inventing the concept “friends with benefits.” they studied for the ged together but, in true after hours fashion, were out late the night before the test and in the morning decided to stay in bed. (this is one of the many stories that did not make it to the 400 pages of the friday afternoon club.) dunne said their shared lack of a diploma was actually an asset. “it was an incredible engine to motivate us,” he says. “i see the connection of how i ended up producing a movie at 23 because i was a high school dropout. just in terms of drive, we found ourselves at a pretty early age.” it was during this time that fisher shot a science fiction film by a guy named george lucas, a role that would change her life and the history of movies. these chapters are dunne’s favorites, replete with tales of him selling popcorn at radio city music hall and partying with fisher’s many celebrity suitors in their tchotchke filled apartment in the legendary hotel des artistes. he was struggling to make it as an actor but finding himself as a young man. for one thing, in order to keep up with the conversation at dinner parties, the erstwhile dyslexic became a voracious reader. “it just went away,” he says of his learning disability. “as soon as nobody called me stupid, i went, ‘oh, wait a minute, i’m smart.’ once i got that authoritarian voice out of my head, it all went pretty easily.” dunne decided to become a master of his own destiny. he began producing films with amy robinson, starting with chilly scenes of winter. “at the age of 23, i found it easier to produce a motion picture for united artists than i did to get a role in an off broadway play,” he writes. in 1981, with his co starring role in an american werewolf in london, dunne’s acting career took off. tired of playing wingman to princess leia, he had moved into his own apartment, in his favorite part of town: the east village. “for the vast majority of the time i’ve been here, since ’75, i’ve never lived above 14th,” he says. his dad and brother also moved to new york. lenny, who had been diagnosed with ms, and dominique stayed in l.a. the men were in manhattan on the fall day when lenny called dominick, then put a policeman on the line: their daughter was on life support after being strangled by her estranged boyfriend. after dominique most of the second half of the friday afternoon club is about dominique’s death, the trial, and the life changing effect of it all on all of them. it wasn’t just dominique’s killer on the stand; the dunne family, and the glamorous, elite, decadent lifestyle they allegedly represented, were also on trial. “the defense quite brilliantly made it about feelings, and they also made it about class. she was from a very loving family, but yes, we were from beverly hills. and dominique was an actress, with a career that just would have gone on and on and on,” griffin says. “that’s one of the other great heartaches to me, is i would have loved us being in that sibling category. every time i see the bridges and the penns having worked with or had parallel careers to their siblings, i just always think, ‘well, that was our future.’” dunne writes with searing, unsentimental, sometimes shocking honesty. he was living in malibu at the time of the trial, acting in johnny dangerously, a film about a gangster. he would go from set to court and back again. on the weekends, griffin, alex and their friends took acid, surfed and danced. one day, a film extra playing a mobster a little too realistically offered to have dominique’s killer murdered in jail. dunne considered it, for 24 hours. “what we didn’t know was that we were actually pretty much crazy   clinically insane, like the way insane people don’t know they’re insane,” he recalls. “we would have a conversation about the best way to kill someone but without a trace of irony or humor, like we were pitching ideas. it was really a season of madness.” dunne settles into his spacious second avenue apartment with its view of the empire state building to talk about the trial, family   the hard stuff. a vintage map of los angeles hangs on the wall behind him, an inheritance from john and joan that was part of the set of the movie true confessions. griffin’s dog keeps asking for his attention. “she’s the most empathetic dog i’ve ever seen,” he says. “she knows when someone’s sad   and i’m not sad, by the way.” dunne’s voice does break a few times: once, when he recalls his mother’s frosty stares; another time when he remembers the day the verdict came in. he was on set. michael keaton, the lead in johnny dangerously, saw his co star’s face and asked what had happened. griffin told him, and keaton immediately called a wrap to the day’s filming. “i’ve never forgotten that, ever,” dunne says. “it’s about the empathy, the kindness, the understanding.” it was a warm moment in a chilling day. the family, and most observers, were shocked by the verdict. dominique’s killer, john sweeney, was found guilty of voluntary manslaughter and misdemeanor assault, not the first degree murder the prosecution initially sought. sentenced to six years and six months in prison, he served three and a half years. victims’ rights groups and many media and legal observers criticized the judge for not allowing the jury to hear testimony about sweeney’s previous abusive behavior. the dunne family was livid. “people can’t believe to this day, particularly younger people, that that was an acceptable verdict,” griffin says. “it transformed all our lives.” there’s no silver lining in the violent death of a loved one. “my whole family loathes the word closure,” dunne says. and yet, their lives went on. griffin’s career was gaining momentum, sometimes despite his own antics: “in the mid ’80s, booze and blow were so­cial accessories, so to stand out as someone who partied too hard took a lot of work, but i managed to get that reputation anyway,” he writes. his filmography includes producing such popular romps as joe’s apartment and baby it’s you; directing the rom com addicted to love, the dark drama fierce people and the romantic fantasy practical magic; and starring in who’s that girl and dallas buyers club. despite her crippling ms, lenny became a victim rights activist. alex, the only family member who had warned his sister about sweeney and the most sympathetic character in friday afternoon club, became a teacher and moved back to l.a. of them all, dominique’s father’s life was most dramatically changed by her death. in 1972, dominick dunne had gotten himself exiled from hollywood after making a rude comment about the powerful agent sue mengers in a room full of industry people, including a reporter. “the joke dad told that night in cortina was that if they ever made a musical of sue mengers’ life, it should be called when the fat lady sings. i guess you had to be there, and also very drunk,” his son writes. dominick fell so completely from grace that he wound up in a cabin in oregon. he detoxed there and began to reinvent himself as a writer, starting with a pulp fiction about hollywood called the winners, published in 1982. that was also the year vanity fair editor tina brown suggested dominick keep a journal of sweeney’s trial then turn it into an article. “justice: a father’s account of the trial of his daughter’s killer,” published in 1984, is a powerful story of what it’s like for a family reeling from tragedy to slam into the american justice system. dominick dunne built his second act in life   covering celebrity trials from o.j. simpson to claus von bülow, and writing high society novels including the two mrs. grenvilles and people like us   on its foundation. “what a remarkable, remarkable piece of reportage this is,” says his son, who quotes “justice” heavily in his own book. “every word is perfect. that tone, which i consciously or subconsciously tried to emulate   not self pity, just describing the horrible things that happen. and you know that whoever has taken the time to describe them to you feels enraged, as the reader is enraged to read it. i became so proud of that article, that and of my father for writing it.” whenever griffin met someone who he sensed was going to be important in his life, he would give them a copy of the article and say, “you don’t know me until you read that.” a place of love now, dunne can give them the friday afternoon club. dunne’s own second, or maybe third, act in life began several years ago, thanks to the disruptions of streaming and the pandemic, when he landed a couple of key roles and created a much lauded documentary. in i love dick, dunne plays a writer who doesn’t merely let his wife pursue a cowboy artist named dick   he gets off on it. dunne has a track record of playing this kind of damaged, desperate, debauched, even dead (werewolf) men; they tap into something about his passive but ever persistent passion. “griff has that kind of guilelessness, that childlike smile where you’re like, ‘ok, he is the modern american beta male,’” soloway says. “he doesn’t bring even one ounce of any kind of masculine privilege into the conversation. he’s just so allowing of women and females and the feminine. he’s almost like a traitor for men.” dunne played another kind of antihero   the drunk, then sobered, uncle   in the series this is us. ironically, it’s what soloway calls the actor’s “essential bottomness” that also makes him a ladies’ man: nonthreatening yet sexual. plus, that mischievous cary grant grin. it was a movie he directed that clinched griffin dunne’s cultural and literary bona fides and paved the way for friday afternoon club. john gregory dunne died of a heart attack in 2003. in the 2010s, joan didion was on her own, and beginning to show the symptoms of parkinson’s. griffin crowd sourced the funds to make a documentary about his aunt. joan didion: the center will not hold captures the legendary writer with her intelligence and humor very much intact, but her body painfully thin and tremulous. as trusted family, dunne was able to document the famously taciturn intellectual with an intimacy and warmth that introduced her to a new audience in 2017. “he held space for her to age and for us to be with her as she aged,” says soloway. didion died in 2021, following dominick in 2009 and lenny in 1997. for years, griffin would tell stories of his famous family, wild childhood and tragic loss, and people would tell him to write a book. he kept a list of these anecdotes. with his parents and his substitute parents gone, griffin felt both a freedom to tell his story and an obligation to legacy. but first, he called alex. “‘you are the one who will be alive to read it,’” he said to his brother. “‘and i don’t feel comfortable writing it unless you give me the go ahead.’ and he says, ‘i don’t need to read it. as long as it comes from a place of love, you write whatever you want.’” alex did read the book and “he’s incredibly proud” of it, griffin says. friday afternoon club comes from a place of love, and wit, and horror, and acid, and cocaine. the proposal launched a bidding war, won by penguin books editor john burnham schwartz. the dyslexic dropout took to the pen like a pro. instead of answering to a set full of producers, directors and actors, it was just griffin and his manuscript. “i couldn’t wait to get back to it. i’d be on a set. they’d turn the camera around, and i’d run back to my dressing room because i left in the middle of a sentence.” only he wasn’t really alone. he got to visit with dominique. lenny. dominick. john. joan. carrie. the family’s many cats and dogs. he wrote with his dad’s firmness, his uncle’s humor, his aunt’s sense of character. “i never put a judgment on anyone in my family or on myself, and if i did it was in a self deprecatory way. even when i’m talking about the saddest things, i would then do a pass where i’m looking for signs of self pity. it was always my intention to describe what happened and use my inner life very sparingly, so that i didn’t sound like i was blaming or feeling sorry for myself.” the director also understands pacing. for every dark scene of alcohol abuse or miscarriage of justice, there’s a humorous story of being saved from drowning by sean connery or robin williams miming buggery. “we were talking about happy drunk, sad drunk. the journey of the book is happy, sad, happy, sad, happy, sad, happy, sad, or you know, funny, sad, funny, sad,” the author says. there are a lot of names dropped in afternoon club, but it never feels gratuitous; they are real characters in an extraordinary, and not necessarily enviable, life. you close the book feeling as much shock as awe. “i did the audio book last week. there you’re forced to actually see what the fuck you’ve done in one long stretch. and it was exhausting. sometimes people have read it, and go, ‘jesus, you’ve been through a lot,’ and i go, ‘ha ha ha.’ but i didn’t get it until i actually read it all the way through and went, ‘jesus.’ not just me, but all the people i love.” dunne is enjoying the spotlight of being a well reviewed author. “i’ve promoted movies i’ve been in and directed and produced, and very proudly, but all those projects took a village; i’ve never done anything on a solo flight.” griffin’s agent, david kuhn, is already talking sequel. the book ends not long after the trial, before the adult daughter whom he now helps find an apartment was even born. “the only sad part was finishing it. i just felt the presence of my family so much, in a good way. but talking here, now it’s going to another chapter, and so they’re coming alive in my eyes all over again. they’re never far from my thoughts, in any case.” evelyn mcdonnell is the author or editor of eight books, including her most recent, the world according to joan didion. she is a professor of journalism and faculty director of media, arts & a just society at loyola marymount university. sign up for thr news straight to your inbox every day sign up for thr news straight to your inbox every day send us a tip using our anonymous form.

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what to read every family has its stories, and every family has its drama   and some families, like the one the actor and director griffin dunne was born into, have an excess of both. his uncle was the writer john gregory dunne, his aunt was joan didion and his father was dominick dunne, who became famous for his vanity fair dispatches from the trial of the man who killed his daughter (and griffin’s sister) dominique. on this week’s episode of the book review podcast, dunne talks about his book, “the friday afternoon club: a family memoir.” of waiting to write it until his father, uncle and aunt had died, dunne said he needed the distance: “i had the perspective on just how remarkable those three were as writers, what an influence they had on my life.” we would love to hear your thoughts about this episode, and about the book review’s podcast in general. you can send them to books@nytimes.com.

 by pat saperstein deputy editor griffin dunne‘s family has done so many larger than life, unbelievable things that when the actor director producer started to write his memoir “the friday afternoon club: a memoir of family,” he realized it wasn’t enough to start the story with his complex writer father dominick dunne. in fact, it was impossible to understand the forces that shaped the dunnes, including his uncle john gregory dunne and sister dominique dunne   without understanding his father’s abusive upbringing in an irish catholic family, his mother’s mexican heritage and all great love stories, clandestine affairs, celebrity encounters and tragedies that seem to surround them, buffeted with lots of pitch black mordant humor. the heart of the new memoir is the 1982 murder of griffin dunne’s younger sister, “poltergeist” star dominique dunne. it’s the first time he’s really grappled with telling the story of that pivotal event in his family’s history. the pain of her loss was intertwined with the rise of his father’s magazine writing career, after dominick dunne wrote about the trial for vanity fair. griffin dunne, who recently played a character based on david carr in max’s “the girls on the bus,” displays his family’s gift for melding deft humor while recounting catastrophic events as he remembers the significant figures in his life including his best friend carrie fisher, his aunt joan didion and his brother alex dunne. along the way griffin dunne drops revelations about his father’s hidden life, coming to terms with his own sexuality during a time when a party guest casually groping a teenager wasn’t discussed, not to mention his mother’s stillbirths and other traumatic moments. variety talked to dunne about his family, career and growing up in beverly hills during the last gasps of old hollywood. why was this the right time for a memoir? writing a book had been in the back of my mind on a very small bucket list: to write a book, learn spanish and play the guitar. and i’ve only gotten as far as the book. you started out with the idea of writing a series of anecdotes like david sedaris does. what changed? the whole book changed for me once i realized that to start at the beginning, i had to start with the mexican revolution and pancho villa driving my mother’s side of the family to the border town of nogales, and my father’s side of the family that began with the great famine.