I missed the Academy Awards again this year. I was too busy praying to the nominees for forgiveness, mercy and better crops come harvest time. If there’s one thing an indie film actor understands, it’s the power of a thick, lustrous stalk of corn. Celebrities, especially the ones who play pretend for a living, are our Greek Gods. They need more statues, golden or otherwise, from which to convey their dominance over mankind.
They are a rare breed, a special breed, perhaps, a different breed, with which we, regular folks, could not breed. It’s why, despite what anyone says, commercials are the perfect forum for our celebrity-focused culture. You won’t hear me say “celebrity-obsessed” since with it comes the sort of judgment I believe has no place in our society. Imagine you’re back in Athens, in the good days, when Aristotle, not Aristotle Onassis was the preeminent bon vivant of his day. Would you have enough Ancient-Greek-equivalent-of-chutzpah to ask ol’ Ari why he’s so obsessed with Poseidon and the rest of the fellas from up on high?
I doubt it.
We’re lacking heroes today, but not on the silver screen, or it’s smaller, dirtier cousin that rests on our laps and comforters as we drift off to sleep. I miss when the easiest method for showing the neighborhood you were not to be trifled with, was to buy an enormous hernia-inducing television set. As electronics shrink, so too do our status symbols.
Advertising requires few thoughts that aren’t better said from the mouth of a genuine celebrity. The higher the caste, the better the commercial. It doesn’t have to make sense either. Joe DiMaggio didn’t sell coffee, he was, quite simply, Monsieur Café. To say that would’ve been possible for someone without his World Series (9-1) or starlet-wooing pedigree (9-1), would demonstrate to me a naiveté on par with believing in the aerodynamics of reindeer flight or the science behind the stork’s role in sexual reproduction.
These God-like figures are the only ones who have what it takes to sell our beans and toothpaste. They too look the part. Yet it’s the rare celebrity who gets to grace municipal property as municipal property. There aren’t enough statues to go around. But there are plenty of Civil War Generals and not nearly enough character actors. Those doing the yeoman’s work saving, not lives, but mediocre scripts from obscurity through a best supporting actor nod. They are already cut from a different cloth than the rest of us, so why not cut them in marble, alabaster and sandstone. Turning their legend into a place for children to stare and pigeons to relieve themselves.
Actors can and must help us out of this current quagmire we find ourselves in. While cancellation is new for most of the general public and the threats therein, these people have been dealing with the shame and humiliation of cancelled shows for years. Maybe we should hear them out. Think of the television showrunners who, despite failed programming for the better part of a decade, manage to produce yet another primetime pilot. And you thought a tweet was enough to sink a career.
Not in this lifetime. Or as long as network TV still exists. Shall we pray?
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