New York magazine’s current cover story (“Celebrity and Its Discontents,” by Vanessa Grigoriadis) is but the latest, and probably not the last, sign that it is now officially open season on celebs. Fueled by the unhinged antics of Tom Cruise et al and stoked by the demands of the tabloid press (is it just me or are you tired of reading about paparazzi?), the lid seems to be off. If TomBradBritneyRussell bugging makes them Bugs Bunny, it is, as Elmer Fudd opined, wabbit season.
When and why this happened has been subject to much speculation (TC firing Leslee Dart and hiring his sister as his publicist is one popular benchmark) — indeed, Grigoriadis’s piece speculates on the speculation in amusing fashion — but it does seem to mark an amazing double standard. We hate them, we love them and we can’t get enough of them, those gods and goddesses gamboling on Olympus there. Will there be a stop to the speculation sometime soon? If In Touch, Star, Us ad infinitum remain glutted with sometimes less-than-complimentary pictures and profiles of these wascally wabbits and their Jessicas will the supposedly more highbrow publications continue to write about the trend? Probably.
There was always a tipping point, even back in the day of studio cover, of Hedda and Louella. When Robt Mitchum got busted for pot they couldn’t keep it out of the papers — but he was so popular it mattered not a whit. (Russell Crowe could play him in a biopic.) In modern times, Whitney Houston had it coming for a long time. I profiled her for a fashion magazine ten years ago and the strain of — what? drugs? Bobby? her sexuality? — was already beginniing to show. More significantly, the people around her, from publicists to personal help, were already starting to grumble. And believe me, I wasn’t exactly doing investigative reporting. She was there to “wear clothes,” in the fashion mag parlance, and promote her new movie and album. And even though she lost her shit once in my presence and threw me out of the studio for no apparent reason, she came back the next day and made nice, charming me at the Polo Lounge, resplendent in dark glasses.
No more bounce backs for Whitney, unless you call her cameos on Being Bobby Brown a second act. It’s the kind Todd Browning, director of Freaks, would have appreciated. Having reduced celebs to the state of abject misery enjoyed by most regular folks — addiction, bad marriage, problems with the law — reality TV makes them chant along with us: Gabba-gabba-hey. One of us.