Very Big in Sheboygan

Forgive me, Canadian comedy fans, for I have sinned. It has been a dog’s age since my last confession, and I’m also not Catholic. Still, here are a couple of things to get the ball rolling: I am a cynic. Bone-deep Gen‑X cynicism. As such, the moment I laid eyes on the cover of Paul Myers’s John Candy: A Life in Comedy — with its cotton candy pink text and black and white headshot of the baby-faced actor — I was ready. For what? Not sure. A saccharine portrayal of a Marty Stu performer, with a hearty helping of rah-rah-sis-boom-bah Canadiana on the side? Or maybe yet another celebrity getting knocked down a peg or two by his own shadows and scandals? Then I noted the nearly 400 pages. Prepare for some glazed-eyed skimming, eh? I quickly flipped through: great, an entire chapter about a football team. The only sport more yawn-inducing to me than the CFL is professional baseball, so at least Candy was part owner of the Toronto Argonauts and not the Blue Jays.

I’ll also fess up to not being an especially big fan of Candy’s films. I enjoyed some of his best-known roles in a few flicks in the ’80s — classic characters like Barf or Uncle Buck — but I grew up in the woods of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, surrounded by adults who recited more Monty Python than SCTV. What’s more, Candy died on the same day that Kurt Cobain suffered his near-fatal overdose in Rome before dying himself a month later, so my Gen‑X cynic heart was rather preoccupied at the time. I held an appreciation for Candy as a Canadian comedy icon, but I didn’t know and love him the way others did and still do.

Beginning with the table of contents, it is clear that we’re in for a more or less linear account of Candy’s career, as many chapter titles refer to his most beloved performances and best-known projects. One could be forgiven for wanting to jump ahead to sections that promise inside glimpses of familiar favourites. Who doesn’t want to get right to “Home Alone with the Polka King” for the story of Chevy Chase scoring a cheap laugh at Candy’s expense at the 1988 Academy Awards — introducing him as a “very, very funny woman”— while Candy’s anxiety and panic attacks are kicking into high gear on account of his growing fame? Or read about the many little harbingers of the coming heartbreak in the chapter named for Candy’s last movie, the ill-fated Wagons East?

One could be forgiven for cherry-picking material or bouncing back and forth, but it would take an awful lot of acts of contrition to absolve a person of such wanton disregard for Myers’s skillfully constructed story. Because that is indeed what John Candy is: a genuine story. Chronology is an important structure for building a book that is far more than a celebrity biography or an account of Candy’s personal and professional highs and lows, of which there were many. Myers tells us about an immensely talented, multi-faceted gem of a man, and the linear approach provides necessary context for a cohesive narrative that builds upon itself every step of the way. We are invited to take in Candy as a whole, so that we come to appreciate who he was and why, as well as what his life and work meant to so many. For anyone who doesn’t know much about Candy’s early days in comedy or the profound role he played in supporting, inspiring, and uplifting other comedy giants on both sides of the border, the early chapters lay a crucial — and often very funny — foundation. For those already familiar with his origins in a working-class Toronto neighbourhood, it will be a fond stroll down memory lane, undoubtedly with a few fresh perspectives.

Those early chapters sent me to YouTube to find old SCTV sketches and even some of Candy’s appearances on long-forgotten ’70s kids’ shows like Coming Up Rosie and Dr. Zonk and the Zunkins. With a sense of what was happening behind the scenes in those early years, and as Myers and his interview subjects describe Candy’s work with such warmth and admiration, I needed to see the guy in action for myself. The chapter titled “Johnny Gets His Crane Shot” concludes with an account of SCTV poking fun at the indie classic Goin’ Down the Road. Myers quotes the comedy historian Kliph Nesteroff, who considers the parody “tone perfect” and believes that “even if you don’t know the original movie, Candy and Flaherty’s performances transcend the references and make it still funny.” Nesteroff has also “marvelled at Candy’s ability to capture the ‘essence of a naive Cape Bretoner heading to Toronto.’ ”

Okay, okay — cue the incredulity of this Cape Bretoner who herself headed to Toronto many years ago, only to see first-hand how other “funny” guys often capture our “essence.” Cue the YouTube rabbit hole. And cue the kind of laughter that makes you pee a little. The sketch in question really was well done, and Candy was hilarious. His Cape Bretoner accent was even passable. Almost.

This is how Myers weaves the tapestry of Candy’s life: one sketch, one project, one heartfelt anecdote at a time. He draws from a glittering mountain of interview and research gold (as his acknowledgements and sources testify), having had extraordinary access to a who’s who of entertainment icons (in addition to being a writer and musician, he’s the older brother of Mike). It is through the eyes of Dan Aykroyd, Catherine O’Hara, and John Hughes, of cameramen, cabbies, and rent-a-cops, and of Candy’s wife and children that we see his comedic brilliance, his courage, and, above all, his conviction that everyone was worthy of kindness and fairness, even though he wasn’t always afforded the same. With their words, we come to know and appreciate Candy’s immense talent as a performer and his sincerity and complexity as a human being. “He lived large,” Myers writes, “he loved larger, and the world loved him back in return.” No saccharine Marty-Stu-ness or shadow-side scandals here. Just a deeply moving portrait of a strong yet gentle man and the profound impact he had on an often unscrupulous, unjust world.

At times, however, I felt there was an overreliance on quotes from various celebrities. Given that they all shared a deep respect and admiration for Candy, it got a tad repetitive, even if each interviewee contributed some valuable nuance or knowledge. I longed to hear more of Myers’s own voice, especially as the story builds toward a reflection on Candy’s life and legacy. Making the absolute most of his interviews is certainly no great writerly sin. Myers does deftly incorporate the perspectives of others into the overall narrative arc to great effect, and his decision to wrap up with Aykroyd’s thoughtful and loving assessment of Candy’s legacy has its merits. But a couple of closing words from Myers himself would have been nice.

Like any good story, John Candy: A Life in Comedy has moments of hilarity and suspense. There is a gutsy, cheerful, imperfect hero surrounded by a supporting cast of characters who contribute insight and levity. There is laughter. And, of course, tears. By way of a third confession (because I may not be Catholic, but I am a writer who lives by the comedy rule of threes), I’ll admit this: Not only did I curse Paul Myers’s name just a little for making me briefly care about the Argos on account of Candy’s involvement, I also openly wept at several points, as I was increasingly drawn in, engrossed, and invested in the story of a man who I knew would meet a tragic, untimely end. I’m talkin’ oversized sloppy, boogery, messy tears, especially when O’Hara and Aykroyd pay tribute to their beloved friend and colleague. In the final pages, Myers draws from a passage about Candy in the actor Andrea Martin’s 2014 memoir, Lady Parts: “There wasn’t a cynical bone in his body. . . . He was not only capable of making you laugh, he could also make you cry, which you’d know if you saw Trains, Planes and Automobiles.” Between my own laughter and tears, I think John Candy — as rendered in this biography — may have even dissolved a cynical bone or two in me.

In the more than thirty years since Candy’s death, the world has grown harsher. Colder. Meaner, in many ways. The nature of life in 2025 makes the timing of this book’s publication especially poignant. As I revisit the cover now, it hits differently. The pink of the title feels gentle, playful, full of joy. The photo of Candy? Shades of grey serve to accentuate his boyish visage, with its peppering of freckles, eyes sparkling with sincerity, and his disarming smile. As if he was in on the joke — knew the secret of a life well lived — right from the get‑go. If you’re looking to offset the bitterness of our times with the taste of life’s sweetness, try a dose of Candy.