And yet there is something important that happens here. As Wright so accurately points out in the beginning of the book, there's an abudance of subjective research on Scientology out there, but there's a dearth of the other kind, and writing about the subject as extensively as he chose to required him to do as much heavy lifting as he did on Looming Tower. That's not to blame those reporters who came before Wright too harshly; in large part, the machinery leveled against them would've made maniacs of the best of us. But a book like this has been promised for a long time, and it isn't a betrayal of those who suffered at the hands of "Fair Game" to canonize Wright for finally realizing the thing.
Drunkenly compelling prose and well-researched to boot: there's not much else one could ask for when you're in this section of the bookstore. That's what makes Wright's final pages legitimately wonderful, as you watch him work his way through his disgust with the intellectual cowardice of celebrities, the exhaustion with which he patiently walks one through the way that money allows those at the top to humiliate, degrade and destroy the lives of those at the bottom, punctuated with a neat display of fury. It's almost unfair--he's entertained you for so long, and there's little indication the depths of empathy his final message expects--but that's the only way a message as deeply humanistic as his would have ever gotten across. If you want a gossiphound to care, then you better sneak that request in the back door.
-Tucker Stone, 2013