It was a review of Jerry Stahl's "I, Fatty: A Novel" in The New Yorker last summer that introduced me to Arbuckle and his legacy. So how can I be too critical? I mean, in some ways, I guess even a flawed book about Arbuckle is better than no book at all, because there's always the chance it will inspire others to dig a little deeper and learn more.

I am, however, compelled to issue a warning to all would-be readers: Proceed with caution. This is a book of fiction, (albeit fiction based on fact). In crafting what he may have considered a darker, more interesting narrative, Stahl has taken significant liberties with the facts.

To wit: "I, Fatty" egregiously asserts Arbuckle was a heroin addict who died of an overdose in 1933. Arbuckle was in fact briefly addicted to a kind of heroin in 1916, when an intern irresponsibly prescribed morphine as a pain-reliever due to a carbuncle on his leg. To the actor's enormous credit, however, he voluntarily subjected himself to an agonizing period of complete withdrawal and by all biographical accounts came out clean. Moreover, Arbuckle died not of a drug overdose, as in Stahl's book, but of a heart attack in his sleep. Buster Keaton wrote that his best friend really died of a broken heart. (So did Will Rogers, who delivered the eulogy at Arbuckle's funeral.)

"I, Fatty" is an entertaining piece of work with some lovely moments, but I would argue that Arbuckle deserves better. Stahl has done enough homework to give the story an air of authenticity, which may lead readers to think his account is the "real" story. Please do Arbuckle a favor and supplement "I, Fatty" with one or more of the excellent biographies out there.

According to the New York Times, Johnny Depp's production company has optioned the film rights to "I, Fatty." I can only hope that Depp will consider taking a few artistic liberties himself--and tell Arbuckle's story as it really happened.