Celebrity & Identification

Why is it that it is always somehow personally gratifying when a favorite celebrity — someone I do not know but have chosen to invest much time and interest in — turns out to be (or at least seems to be) a fabulous human being? It is as if I have the right to be proud when evidence surfaces to prove how gracious Meryl Streep is, how frankly witty Emma Thompson is, how adorably monogamous Alan Rickman is. Or, failing all the great virtues, I feel equally connected to a celebrity when they seem somehow like me: somehow I love Miranda Richardson all the more knowing she is a committed loner.

What was understandable at twelve must be seriously fucked-up at twenty-two: I want people to serve as role models, and I want people to identify with. I’m sure this is crossing some sort of line. Still, there are no restraining orders against me yet.

But what happens when a favorite celebrity falls from grace? I’m not talking about finding out Gary Oldman is politically conservative — though there is some irrational disappointment, I don’t respect him as an actor (or a person) one bit less. No, what when an actor proves to be seriously disturbed or quite unlikeable; that is to say, as fallibly human as you and I?

Here I am thinking of Peter Sellers. In a very short period of time, Sellers has become one of my absolute favorite actors. I go through waves of fixation with certain stars and obsessively devour entire filmographies: he’s it this time. I was awed by his comic mastery in Dr. Strangelove. And again awed by how he could single-handedly change Casino Royale from a deserved to a in my estimation, the first film to convince me that such a thing as a “guilty pleasure” film exists for me. Oh, and… I think he is completely gorgeous. Indeed, my taste in men is neither conventional nor always justifiable, but he puts a twist in my panties, no doubt about that.

Yet a quick trip to an IMDb message board will disabuse you of any notion that he might be as much a deity personally as he undoubtedly is cinematically (and… if you ask me… to all those who admire the male form). You will find all manner of stories of feuds with other actors, walking out on contracts, throwing childish tantrums and (at least emotionally?) abusing his wives and children. Next one might become aware of a film called The Life and Death of Peter Sellers, which does not seem to paint a flattering picture of Sellers, the human being.

So, really, how much does one want to know about celebrity? Can we face the reality of human lives; can we go on once we start to see them as equals? It’s surely wrong to continue thinking he’s no more than a dashing Englishman with a flair for comedy; yet I think it is also wrong to understand his life and simply find him abominable. I’m sure trying to hold celebrities to a higher standard is as wrong as blind adoration. Both reinforce the very dangerous notion that they are somehow not — first, last, and always — human beings.

Though it all seems a bit trivial and absurd, I think there is some serious deconstruction of cultural images and ideals that must be done; some commitment to honest re-evaluation (of self and other) that must be made. The lines between reality and fiction, between understanding and idealization, must only be blurred in the dark of the theater auditorium.

So it may not be as joyous as reading the memoirs of Katharine Hepburn, but cautiously I add The Life and Death of Peter Sellers to my Netflix queue. Yes, I do want to know him, but not to put him on a pedestal and not to find a way to identify with him. To recognize that we share a fundamental humanity, and to understand the workings of a mind that, whatever I discover, I admire deeply.

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