after prufrock

Lazy Sunday afternoons with green thumbs from fresh cuttings of cos lettuce and the sweet sound of old Hollywood blaring through the speakers. The dvd drive overheats from the likes of Garland, Rogers and Astaire and “the inimitable… Barbra Streisand” (circa 1965).

What a shame that shows like “What’s My Line?” and “The Judy Garland Show” have slipped through our fingers, only to be replaced with repetitive 21st century personalities who wear mink eyelashes and fail miserably in the arena of comparable vocals. With the exception of a few unfailingly polarizing figures, the majority of the talent which ends up on our screens, records or magazines seems to lack terribly any kind of vivacity or power in their interactions with their public. But in a world where the outside matters decidedly more than the inside, fans and the discerning public alike seem to be completely unable to pull their heads out of the sand and both expect and demand more from performers. It’s a two way street, kids, and the rock stars aren’t going to show up for the show if you’re cooing in satisfaction for their lip-syncing counterfeits.

For you see, this is where it gets interesting. Celebrities have always served as the nexus for contemporary mythology and as potent symbols for both monumental successes and failures. In the Golden Era, these successes and failures were carefully monitored and filtered through to the public via the well oiled publicity machine that was entrusted with the responsibility of fostering the stars’ aura. In today’s world however, the negotiation of celebrity motifs seems to have been thrown out the window. What a deep pang of nostalgia I feel for the years where the press possessed some dignity and where the artists possessed humility, or if not humility then at least a vague accountability for their madness, their art. Switching on the television today, we no longer have the privilege of encountering stars on the other side of the screen, but rather, the mediocrity of celebrities whose identity is fractured beyond repair, and who’s “aura” lasts for barely the 15 minutes of fame Warhol once promised us.

In today’s bungling ring of celebrity invalids, the paparazzi harmonizes with the inferior desires of the public, and the public revels vicariously in the cheap thrills of their artless gods.