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Whitney didn’t wear a Superman cape after all.
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That was the sound of another cheap Hollywood facade shattering into a million pieces, as Whitney Houston was reported dead in a bathtub.
You can expect two things now, one good, one bad: Houston’s estate will get a Michael Jackson-like posthumous cash injection, as I Will Always Love You is put on constant global loop.
But despite the aural assault, and I’m sure commercial listeners will enjoy a week’s break from Adele, there’s a silver lining to the whole tragic tale: Whitney didn’t wear a Superman cape after all.
In the Western World, we’re all guilty of a bit of celebrity worship. Even the most dry and cynical of stiffs would secretly experience that whole “Oh my God, pinch me I’m dreaming” feeling when they meet a leader in their chosen field of work or play, whether they dig music and movies, pottery or Dutch poetry.
When I was 10 I had the thrill of feeding cricket balls through a bowling machine at one of my heroes at the
time, South Australian cricketer Jamie Siddons.
I almost decapitated him after putting the speed up to 100 miles an hour, and forgot to check if he was looking, so yeah, he had smoke coming out of his ears, but it proves my point: as humans, we’re hard-wired to be either looking up, or down, on others.
But maybe it’s time for a new perspective.
A lot of people buy trash mags because they think the celebrities in them are somehow so much more important and talented than the rest of us. At singing? I’ll give you that Lady Ga Ga, but only that.
But more important? I’d have a lot of cops, nurses, teachers and firemen a lot further up the food chain than you. But there I go, looking down.
The worst thing about fame and its need to construct a flawless image is that it skews our perceptions of what’s really important, and what happiness and success truly is about.
Exhibit A: Whitney Houston.
People worshipped her. I mean c’mon, she had the voice of an angel. But she also had a serious appetite for drugs, and sadly, her addiction was sprinkled with a little bit of fairy dust.
As she continued to drink and snort herself into oblivion, a perception still existed that the eventual celebrity rehab appointment, and a come-full-circle seat on Oprah’s couch, was all part of the show.
Yeah, she’s 48 and parties like a university undergraduate, but hey, look how talented she is, look how much money she has, it’ll be fine.
Sadly Whitney’s problems were just as real as they were typical – a talented girl meets a knobhead who leads her astray.
And her death gave us another reminder that millions of dollars, a peerless God-given talent and global adulation doesn’t guarantee one iota of happiness.
Fame and fortune mean nothing when you wake up in the middle of the night with nothing but your thoughts for company; whether you’re wrapped up in a hand-me-down doona or a $1000 Egyptian cotton sheet, both provide the same level of support when all you want to do is
shut out the whole world.
So who’s to blame? Society’s need to worship? PR companies? The media’s want to mythologise our stars’ achievements, even if it’s just a fart Bon Jovi may have dropped in a Los Angeles studio in the late 80s?
Or the performers themselves? I mean, it could have been a very good fart.
At least Whitney was spared the fickle nature of fame, where great artists, who were once worshipped, are suddenly looked down upon with disgust, after a couple of dud releases.
Exhibit B: George Lucas.
He made the most loved film trilogy in the history of movies.
But then he made The Phantom Menace, and Lucas-hating suddenly became an online sport the whole family could enjoy.
To be honest, after creating Jar Jar Binks, maybe Whitney wasn’t the only celebrity smoking crack.
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