Amanda Hess situates Amy Poehler’s new autobiography in its literary and cultural context:
This month, Poehler finally releases [her] handbook, the comedy/memoir/advice collection Yes Please. In her introduction, Poehler describes reading the works of [actresses Mindy] Kaling, [Tina] Fey, and [Rachel] Dratch (plus Lena Dunham’s Not That Kind of Girl, Caitlin Moran’s How to Be a Woman, and Sarah Silverman’s The Bedwetter) in preparation for her own submission to the genre. “All are superb and infuriating,” Poehler concludes. They’re also profitable. Fey reportedly netted a near-$6 million advance for her book [Bossypants], and Dunham more than $3 million; Poehler’s fee is undisclosed, but she fits the bill.
Women are still underrepresented as writers, directors, and stars of comedy, but the few women who have clawed to prominence on TV can find a comfortable perch in the publishing world. Women buy most books, and personal essay collections, self-help tomes, and celebrity tell-alls are all churned out to peg the demographic. Poehler satisfies the hat trick: She’s a famous woman with a remarkable life and an enviable success, perfectly positioned to preach to what my friend Michelle Dean calls the “smart niece demographic.”
Erik Adams remarks on the inclusive nature of Poehler’s writing:
Ever the gracious ensemble player, Poehler pays that Bossypants favor forward in Yes Please, handing over pages to her parents, former “Weekend Update” co-anchor Seth Meyers, and soon-to-be former Parks And Recreation showrunner Michael Schur. (Fey doesn’t contribute, but she receives a chapter-long tribute and an acrostic poem in her honor, which Poehler teasingly calls “arguably the laziest form of writing.”) It’s a distinct approach to autobiography—and as a hybrid of memoir, essay collection, and Life’s Little Instruction Book, Yes Please is undeniably distinct—one grounded in the type of improv-comedy teachings the author has passed down as a founding member of the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre.
Poehler is Yes Please’s headlining act, but many of her anecdotes are about projects, communities, and achievements in which she was but one participant.
And Mary McNamara argues that the book’s strengths are in what Poehler doesn’t reveal:
“Yes Please” is a memoir in that it contains some memories, many of which are offered as hard-won — advice seems too preachy, so we’ll go with helpful suggestions. (A chapter called “I’m So Proud of You” should be required reading in high schools.) Also featured are: haiku about plastic surgery, a chapter by Poehler’s mother, a satiric birth plan, a chapter by Seth Meyers, an annotated history of “Parks and Recreation,” a letter from Hillary Rodham Clinton, sex advice, a truly hilarious list of potential books about divorce and a moving account of an apology.
Mercifully, the book does not include: recipes; any discussion of Poehler’s marriage to and divorce from Will Arnett; a treatise on the frustrations of modern motherhood (Poehler is just grateful for all the help she can afford), or a lot of self-deprecating nonsense about luck.
This last one alone makes “Yes Please” worth reading. Too many women at the top of their careers inevitably discuss their actual job as if it were something anyone with a pair of sweatpants, a childhood and a laptop could do.
The Dish 