There was a time when Hollywood manufactured fame. That is, the public was lied to about the famous.
While I'm not generally in favor of deception, I wish Hollywood would lie to us more about celebrities today. The lies would be easier to ignore.Do we really want to know about Madonna's baby, the fact that she gave birth out of wedlock or who the father is? Do we really care that Kenneth Branagh dumped Emma Thompson for Helena Bonham Carter? Is Bill Cosby's affair of years ago anyone's business but his and his wife's?
True, the Hollywood bios and orchestrated publicity of the '30s, '40s and '50s usually carried a false, artificial ring, and in retrospect they do seem rather silly - contrived newsreels of stars and their families at birthday parties or two stars on a date at some show-biz function, etc.
Maybe this will label me an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy (as if just using the word "fuddy-duddy" didn't already label me old-fashioned), but I think I would prefer the silliness to the current in-your-face, tell-all, anything-goes mentality of today's soundbite-oriented celebrity grapevine.
It's not just because I'm tired of real-life show-business soap operas . . . although I am. But more because it's starting to affect my feelings about these people's work.
It's hard to watch "Frasier" these days and not wonder if Kelsey Grammer really did sleep with that teenage baby sitter. Whenever Dennis Rodman shows up to play, I find myself less interested in basketball. And how will I ever be able to watch Oksana Baiul skate again after she's been on "Oprah" to talk about her drunken-driving arrest after a high-speed auto accident?
The worst is Woody Allen. I've long been a fan of his urbane, witty, neurotic comedies. "Manhattan," "Annie Hall" and "Hannah and Her Sisters" were once among my favorite films. But these days, all I can think about is his sick relationship with Soon-Yi. And it doesn't help that his movies continue to include moments that resonate with his personal life.
Even stars of Hollywood's golden age are trashed these days with tell-all confessions. Did Bob Hope cheat on his wife of 50 years? Did Laurence Olivier and Danny Kaye have a homosexual affair? Did Clark Gable have halitosis?
Don't even get me started on "Mommie Dearest."
And, sadly, it isn't just the tabloid newspapers and sleazy TV shows. These stories can't be avoided even in the so-called "legitimate press" these days. (And that includes the newspaper you now hold in your hands.)
I'm not suggesting that we go back to a time when we blindly worshiped celebrities who didn't deserve our worship.
I'm just suggesting, however futilely, that celebrity gossipmongers (and the stars themselves) shut up.
- CURIOSITY GOT THE best of me, and I gave the new Pat Boone CD a spin. You know the one I mean - "In a Metal Mood," with Mr. White Bucks shown in a black T-shirt, with a fake tattoo on his bicep, standing by a motorcycle.
Just as the critics have said, the album, with Boone singing big-band arrangements of such heavy metal tunes as "Smoke on the Water" and "No More Mr. Nice Guy," is thoroughly awful.
But I think that's the point.
After listening to the even more annoying "Macarena" as performed by the Chipmunks (excuse me, that's "los del chipmunks," according to the CD), it occurred to me that if that one is supposed to be a comedy album, maybe Boone's is also.
Music stores just have it in the wrong rack!
- A COUPLE OF WEEKS ago on "The Simpsons," Homer and family headed up to a retreat in the mountains and as they pulled into the parking lot - the viewpoint provided by an overhead shot - the car slid on the ice and bounced from vehicle to vehicle like a perverse pinball game.
As I watched, all I could think of was the Albertson's parking lot in Park City during the Sundance Film Festival. Don't ask me why.