his gorgeous silent-film co-star is always on the verge of delivering an oration into the microphone before he seizes the mic yet again, and it’s only when no one is listening that she gets to unburden herself of her thoughts – in a screechy voice that would shatter glass. She can only be seen... never heard. If she is, she’s finished and so is the studio. Or... on Oscars night. In America and across the world, the Oscars were for many decades the most glamorous event of the year – and in some ways, perhaps, the only glamorous night of the year in a world where there was precious little glamor. You wanted to know what they wore. You wanted to see them accompanied by spouses whom you never saw otherwise. You wanted to see how they did reading a teleprompter. Americans were thirsty for them, and on Oscars night, they had their thirst quenched. Then came Entertainment Tonight... and the rise of celebrity journalism... and cable’s hundreds of channels... and streaming services... and social media. The Oscars, once a telescope that provided us a glimpse of the people we were taught to believe lived in some secular version of Mt. Olympus, became another cork bobbing about in a vast sea of entertainment. We are being drowned in content... We cannot keep our heads above water to catch a breath. And instead of throwing us a lifeline, the people who make the movies and star in the movies and give awards to the movies are sucking up all the oxygen with their nonsense, foolishness, and self-satisfaction. The hell with them.
dream machine always left you wanting more. Details about the lives of famous performers were dribbled out through very narrow channels. They went about their work, and their existences were largely unseen, unless you happened to be a restaurant or bar in Los Angeles or maybe a department store in New York. Hollywood husbanded information about stars the way DeBeers husbanded diamonds – it deliberately kept the amount in circulation low to keep the value high. The first use of the term “paparazzi” – the generic term for the photographers who capture unbidden the famous going about their daily lives – dates to 1960 and Federico Fellini’s movie La Dolce Vita , which captured the phenomenon in its infancy. Before then, and pretty much until the late 1970s, you could literally go months without hearing much about a performer you loved, and a year without seeing a new photograph of one in a newspaper. They were so elusive that the only way to get a glimpse of one was to wait until a movie showed up on television one night – and you had to check out TV Guide at the beginning of every week and keep track so you knew to be home and ready for it. Only when stars had something to promote would they surface – perfectly made up, perfectly dressed, and perfectly rehearsed for what to say to the newsreels , Life magazine, and rotogravure sections. If you’ve seen the parody of the movie premiere that opens Singin’ in the Rain , you get the gist. Gene Kelly is a smooth-talking spin doctor who makes up a ludicrously false tale about his classical training as an actor while we see him pounding it out in vaudeville. Meanwhile,
John Podhoretz is the editor of Commentary magazine,
American Consequences
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