Full Frontal Nudity : The Making of an Accidental Actor

IN 2008, as he attempted to enter Canada to film a television series, Harry Hamlin—the former star of L.A. Law and once People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive—was detained at the border for unresolved narcotics convictions. And so begins Full Frontal Nudity, a laugh-out-loud-funny memoir in which Harry digs deep into his past to recount the wacky experiences of his childhood, the twisted path that led to his alleged criminal behavior, and the series of fortuitous mishaps that drove him to become an actor.

Harry was reared in suburban California in the late 1950s by a gin-gulping, pill-popping housewife mother and a rocket scientist father with a secret life. On its surface, his childhood was not unlike his peers’, except that he was kicked out of the fourth grade for writing a book report on Mein Kampf and, when he was eleven, his parents gave him a subscription to Playboy for Christmas. Curious by nature, chock-full of boyish charm and good looks, Harry experimented with mystical religion and set off for Woodstock, only to narrowly avoid lighting the whole of Yellowstone National Park on fire. At eighteen, he was ready to matriculate at Berkeley and become the architect he always wanted to be. But fate—this time in the form of a large Hells Angel, a few purple microdots, and an evening in the tree houses of La Honda—got in the way.

Sharp and bawdy, Full Frontal Nudity spans the years from Harry’s childhood through his time at Berkeley (which he was asked to leave after he was accused of running a brothel), to Yale, then on an extended vacation in the Yucatán, and finally to the American Conservatory Theater, where Harry played his first lead role—as the buck-naked star of Equus.


Full Frontal Nudity is an uproarious memoir that captures an era and describes the unlikely origins of a star.

In this vibrant memoir, Hamlin, once voted by People magazine the "Sexiest Man Alive," offers almost nothing about his 34-year career as a professional actor. Instead, the 58-year-old actor looks back at his childhood (kicked out of the fourth grade for writing a book report on Mein Kampf), his parents (who gave him a Christmas gift subscription to Playboy when he was 11), and his introduction to drugs on "the psychedelic yellow brick road." Planning an architecture career, he arrived at Berkeley so late his intended classes were filled; to register, he signed up for drama classes and thus became "an accidental actor." After a drug bust in the San Francisco airport, he did time in the Redwood City, Calif., correctional facility, hassled by inmates who thought he was a snitch planted by the warden. With drugged-out friends, street riots, tear gas, naked bodies and sexual encounters interrupting his college days, Hamlin recovered from an "unsurvivable" head-on car collision, which was followed by backpacking adventures, more drug busts, and a raucous road trip through Mexico. Training at San Francisco's American Conservatory Theatre, he found his passion and a new direction. Hamlin's life has been filled with drama in more ways than one, and his skill at colorful, vibrant storytelling makes this a rewarding read
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Hamlin practically defined the word “himbo” with his flesh-baring role in the original 1981 Clash of the Titans film. That beefcake performance led to the actor’s successful stint on the hit television drama L.A. Law. Although he has worked steadily ever since, Hollywood is rarely kind to aging matinee idols. Yet, despite his faded-pretty-boy image, People magazine’s 1987 “Sexiest Man Alive” has penned an amusing, bitterness-free memoir that brings his foolhardy yet privileged formative years to life. A longtime journal keeper, Hamlin vividly recalls growing up in suburban California in the 1950s with an aeronautical-engineer father and housewife mother, with whom he had a frosty relationship. The architect wannabe fumbled his way into adulthood—and professional acting—by sheer dumb luck. He shares detailed memories of awkward sex, guerrilla theater, road trips, a drug bust, and his reluctant immersion in the counterculture movement. Hamlin’s wit isn’t scathing like that of Augusten Burroughs, and there’s zilch as far as showbiz dish goes, but he writes with a self-deprecating style that only time, contentment, and maturity can foster. --Chris Keech