Imagine that somewhere in the world of Celebrity, there is no natural selection. Celebrities – the inhabitants of Celebrity – don’t perish, but when they slip from the hierarchical apex of “able to carry a movie on one’s own” to “able to do a solid job in a supporting role” they are kept – on the instructions of their publicists or agents – in their mansions more often, thus generating an air of mystery to increase interest. Sure, it could become mundane in a 20,000 sq. ft house, but their seclusion is a way to declare “I am a regular person who needs time to myself,” or “I need to spend more time with my family.”
Let’s say that, in Celebrity, there are also those who slip from the very same apex, but instead of hiding themselves away, they choose to deny the requests of their publicists – or perhaps their publicists are poor decision makers – and they choose to become fetid in the overexposing Celebrity spotlight. Instead of becoming mysterious, they become too transparent, like a sparkly vampire in Tucson. Let’s also say that, in this case, with such a breech of conduct, these Celebrities slip all the way past “supporting role” to “famous for at one point being famous.” How might this be handled?
Let’s say that, in Celebrity, there exists a creature with sharp eyes and keen ears so that it might glean all the written and broadcast tabloid trash and poorly chosen roles that the citizens in Celebrity are susceptible to. Quietly gliding from back lot to back lot and agency to agency, the creature is hyper-aware of slips and stumbles in the rigid hierarchy. And when Johnnie Doe gets busted having sex with a seventeen-year old, makes more than one movie with Adam Sandler, tries to be a leading man when his frame and voice say “side kick,” or gets caught buying a bag of cocaine that he swears he thought was Splenda, the creature appears and swallows him whole like a boa constrictor feeding on an antelope.
Let’s say in the early twenty first century, this creature has fed on too many Celebrities, has become overworked, and has suddenly realized that – as the only one of his kind – realizes he cannot not be part of anyone’s union to prevent being underpaid. Certainly he can’t be part of any Guild; he would prefer not to compromise his integrity. And all of this added stress leads him to drink. At first, it’s just a little, but realizing he has no one to drink with, he goes farther into the dumps and drinks more.
One night, he drinks so much that he’s on the verge of puking, but drops his body down by a dumpster, holding his hands on either side of his crossed legs to prevent the world from spinning. Two hours – and a brief nap – later, he pulls himself up and stumbles home. After trying each one of his five keys in the lock, the door opens, the slight tinge of a hangover headache percolates in the back of his skull. Looking to alleviate this unpleasantness, he bypasses the bottles of Aspirin on the kitchen table and makes his way to the bar for some hair of the dog. Meticulously, he chooses a bottle of bourbon, rationalizing that its warmth will soothe his stomach like a glass of heated milk.
He is wrong.
The result is a pool of vomit that holds in its depths the very Celebrities that he interred for the betterment of Celebrity and its admirers. Unable to digest anything else, the creature curls up in a fetal position, hits rock bottom with thoughts of what his life could have been, where it is, and how it has gone so terribly awry, thus letting his vomited denizens to escape while wiping themselves on his pressed towels as he hides his head in shame.
But oh, the consequences of his transgressions go beyond the inevitable meetings and dozen steps. Much further, my friends.
If this had happened in 2010, the results would materialize themselves in the form of Valentine’s Day, a movie whose summary on IMDB.com is “Intertwining couples and singles in Los Angeles break-up and make-up based on the pressures and expectations of Valentine’s Day.” If this had happened in 2011, the results would become New Year’s Eve, a film similarly summarized by: “The lives of several couples and singles in New York intertwine over the course of New Year’s Eve.”
Both Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve were written by Katherine Fugate and directed by Garry Marshall – and both star Jessica Biel in different roles (take what you will from that). Regardless, the critical and financial failure of Valentine’s Day has somehow justified the substitution of one holiday with serendipitous and hyper-coincidental events for a more popular holiday, one that often ends with more hangovers, egregiously whimsical resolutions, and declarations than the former, but promises to set us up with a slew of forthcoming detritus like Columbus Day and Memorial Day.
More importantly, this ruse – if one could even connote it with “cunning” – testifies to the creative bankruptcy (dare I say artistic?) in the land of Celebrity.
Let us all say a prayer for the creature and hope he makes a safe and healthy recovery. I know a guy who used to drink. Now he just smokes like a fiend. If smoking’s not your thing, don’t quit drinking, just stop vomiting.
