I guess a thing happens when you read celebrity news enough. You start to view them less as people and more as characters in an ongoing, endless parade of story – who is dating who? what did this person say about this other person? – and so on. It becomes less about their performances in movies and television and music and they simply become characters. They become one-dimensional. They become blank canvases for us to draw our own conclusions on.
The whole ordeal (if you take enough steps back) becomes background noise, like a radio in a barbershop. We all go about our normal, human, everyday lives while occasionally – in our downtime – we try and imagine what Michelle Williams and Jason Segal talk about over dinner. We don’t need to know. We just feel that we need to. Remembrance is the closest we will get to immortality. We just want to feel remembered, is all. It’s one of the most basic human wants. And for some reason perhaps having to do with turn-of-last-century newspaper salesmanship, we choose to remember and document the lives of our entertainers as if they were our own. Its voyeuristic, sure, but we wouldn’t be looking at them if we didn’t see ourselves. Who doesn’t know at least one abusive dick like Chris Brown? You hate that guy in real life, so you hate this Chris Brown guy more-so because he’s the most visible abusive asshole there is. And so it goes. For a country without a monarchy we’ve managed to self-appoint these celebrities in an ongoing Bayeux Tapestry of sorts – an endless, rich in plot, and intricately woven story if you look at the grand arc of celebritydom. Celebrity gossip really is pretty fascinating stuff once you get passed the Star Magazine / “They’re Just Like Us!” aspect of it. They are just like us. Just with more money, and perhaps a bit more neurotic from being so closely watched all the time.
Mary-Kate Olsen is dating Oliver Sarkozy, the brother of the French ex-president, and that is a thing that happened.