A shallow, ceaselessly breathy magazine puff piece posing as a biography. Millar, former women's editor for the British tabloid the Sun, writes like a lovestruck schoolgirl in hormonal overdrive. Shamelessly, she pummels the reader (or ""we girls"" as she likes to put it) with rhapsodies on Neeson's various charms: ""He is the Holy Grail of all that's desirable in a man--where the physical meets the emotional in perfect harmony."" There are extended paeans to Neeson's sensitivity, his Irish charm, his well-muscled physique, his long, fetching legs, as well as tittering speculation on the reputedly generous proportions of his ""wedding tackle."" Occasionally, Millar even slips in something about acting. Poor Mr. Neeson. What has this hard-working, talented actor done to deserve such unmitigated, hopped-up blather? Part of the Irish ""invasion"" of American film in the 1980s, he initially enjoyed only modest successes in Hollywood (except when it came to womanizing--there Neeson cut a swath almost worthy of Warren Beatty in his prime). Convinced that his career depended on constant exposure and demonstrating his versatility, Neeson took almost any role he was offered, villain or hero, psychotic or romantic. But he was always hoping for the kind of defining lead role that would make him a real star. With Oskar Schindler in Steven Spielberg's Schindler's List, he finally had such a role. Or, in Millarese, he ""rocket[ed] right up there into the stratosphere, landing squarely on that territory that was Hollywood's shortlist of universally appealing men."" As Millar fumbles about, she does occasionally stumble across insights into Neeson's psychology and acting methods. But then it's right back to leering and smarminess and rocketing about the vapidosphere.