Why Fame is a Grotesque and Crippling Disease
Kim Kardashian made a sex tape. Sophia Urista peed into a man's open mouth on stage. Is this what it's come to?
Fame is abhorrent to me, but that wasn’t always the case.
Back in my errant youth, I craved fame the way some people crave their next pack of Lucky Strikes. I couldn’t imagine being just another face in the crowd, which is why I fought like hell to make sure that never happened. Laboring under the delusion that talent meant anything, I enrolled in acting classes, studied my craft, and took seriously the feedback of acting “gurus” who did Death of a Salesman in fifty-seat community theaters.
And yet as far as acting went, it wasn’t the art I loved so much as myself within the art. To me, it was a means to an end, which was that most elusive of temperamental bitches: Fame.
All that changed in a single night.
I was living in Malibu, California. Hating it, actually. Not the apartment itself, which overlooked the blue Pacific, but experiencing the dehumanizing grind of a fame seeker. There are so many people waiting to exploit you, and I found myself incapable of doing the kinds of things that get you roles. Being sexy was one thing; being sexual was another. It was a line I never crossed. There were plenty of others who did, and they were the ones getting cast in B-movie roles, sitcom walk-ons, and one-liners on Becket.
My agent told me to go to a party at comic actor Pauly Shore’s house, a weekly event that attracted mostly B, C, and D Listers. I hated parties, but I grudgingly went, hair teased, cleavage on full display, and was ignored by everyone. When I say “ignored,” I mean no one but the valet talked to me for the entire night.
Two weeks later, as a newly minted “Russ Meyer Girl” (Russ Meyer, now deceased, directed such camp classics as Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!, Supervixens, and Beyond the Valley of the Dolls), I got dragged to the same party, only this time with Meyer himself. He and film critic Roger Ebert had written a screenplay called The Bra of God, and Meyer planned to cast me as God’s busty wife.
You would have thought the Pope had arrived. Not only was I now the object of fawning attention, my smallest utterance was a delight to all those around me. And yet, instead of feeling triumphant, all I felt was bleak emptiness.
In a flash, I realized that fame didn’t mean you were special or chosen or worthy. Fame was a pheromonal stench that attracted the worst kind of sycophants. They clung to you, leech-like, knowing that if they couldn’t be famous themselves, at least they were fame-adjacent. I was so freaked out, I lay on the couch in my living room for a full week, refusing to set foot outside the house.
Almost thirty years later, my horror of fame has never left me, but the importance of fame and notoriety to others has grown a thousand fold. Fame was never a merit-based system, but in the Black Mirror episode that is our reality now, the democratization provided by social media has made it possible for anyone to be famous, and for any reason, talent be damned.
The Kardashians are a perfect example of this. Here are five or six fabulously wealthy sisters whose addiction to plastic surgery has changed what American women aspire to look like. The Kardashians don’t act. They have no special abilities other than looking marvelously plasticine. But lest we forget, few people knew who they were until Kim Kardashian made a sex tape.
At last count, Kardashian has grossed over 110 million dollars from that tape. It launched her long-running TV series, Keeping Up With the Kardashians, and not only ushered in a new era in fleshy backsides, it pioneered the concept of being famous for being famous. What it took for Kardashian to get there—an artfully choreographed porno—is the thing that should give us pause. Shocking people into paying attention to you will require increasing amounts of crazy in order to yield the same effect.
Case in point: Sophia Urista.
It went like this. Trigger warnings to those with dainty tummies. Former Voice contestant Sophia Urista, who now fronts a band called Brass Against, dropped her trousers onstage last week and micturated inside the open mouth of a stocky, middle-aged white guy. Said white guy then proceeded to spray the audience with the contents of his mouth like a rotating lawn sprinkler.
Overnight, Brass Against went from a middling band to sold-out sensation. Everyone wants to see what Sophia is going to do next.
Do we know for sure that Sophia Urista orchestrated this golden shower as a publicity stunt? No. But if I had to put my money on red or black, I’d bet the house she did it on purpose. That’s what it takes now to become famous: murder, a sex tape, using an audience member as a public urinal.
Whatever it is, it has to be shocking enough for people to pay attention. People’s attention can be monetized. If you have any doubts on the matter, just ask the Kardashians.
In our brand new 21st century paradigm, fame equals money. Who can blame people for seeking it by whatever means necessary? No one considers the price they will pay: living in a gilded cage, obsessively comparing their social capital to other celebrities’ social capital, never knowing who their real friends are. What is that compared to having an extra Rolls Royce in the garage?
Fame isolates people from reality. It bestows all the perks of celebrity upon them, along with the paranoia of having them taken away. It deludes people into believing they deserve this special treatment, but in their heart of hearts, most know it isn’t true. The narcissistic pothole left by inadequate parents or a brutal childhood is never filled, no matter how much adulation a person receives. If fame did have the power to heal, why are so many famous people drug addicted, mentally unstable, or dead?
Don’t expect a gullible public to suddenly come to its senses. As long as we have screens to look at, we’ll need celebrities to pick apart, worship, lust after, envy. Through a glass darkly, we see the life we could have had if things had just gone our way.
It’s a Faustian bargain we strike to become one of the Chosen. Imagine getting there and hating it.
Do you have thoughts on celebrity culture? You know I want to hear them. Please leave your comments below.
I do want to say that the photo of Kim K. posted above is grotesque. Who are the people who think that is attractive? Just sayin'...
Wow! What a great description!