The event was to start at 7:30. I arrived at 4. I didn't have tickets; I just wanted to hang by the entrance and catch a glimpse of the most famous, most successful, most talented woman alive. I was not alone.
You see, such is the Power of Madonna. Even 3 hours early the red carpet was packed with onlookers—even before the carpet itself was rolled out.
Madonna graced Leicester Square at the British Film Festival premiere of W.E. her first feature-length directorial effort. The film is a love story about Wallis Simpson and King Edward VIII, who abdicated the throne for her.
The flurry of excitement during the setup was truly a construction of a performance event. Lighting had to be just right so that Madonnas skin would glow but not look wrinkled or blemished. Music from the score was piped in, and a woman in clipboard scurried about, confirming and reconfirming everything on her checklist. It was like looking backstage at all the little people construction the big show---the Skull Island natives readying for the arrival of Queen Kong. All of this sausage-making soured me on the concept of celebrity.
I had wedged myself towards the front, and worked up the courage to make small talk with the fellow fans. I found myself frustrated by some of the people there. One utterly obnoxious photographer kept yelling at people to stay out of his shot—he was there for the money. Others I talked to were just there to take pictures of celebrities as a hobby. I, as I suppose many true believers do, found myself resentful that they should be here—after all, I truly love Madonna, while they are lesser passersby.
In any case, I did get to chat with fans, our excited banter (What will she wear? What color will her hair be? How will her arms look?) frequently interrupted by bursts of “Is that her? Is she here?” Succumbing to the nadir of boredom, I finally started singing Madonna songs, joined along by a few others (not enough people for my taste sang with me, but what can you do; the British are shy and reserved).
Excitement did build, to the point where once it became clear Madonna was in fact on the carpet, I was pushed up against the barrier and on all sides. It was chaos and madness, and added frustration came when people on the red carpet lagged on their way in, blocking our hard fought view of our idol.
Eventually she came around, and I caught a glimpse of her. She stood for the battery of paparazzi on my right as I shout/sang “OPEN YOUR HEART” to her. She didn't notice, nor did she come to us to sign autographs or shake hands. She went inside. That was it.
I found myself disappointed—and not just because I had forgotten to hit record on my video-camera. But this faded rather quickly. Maybe it was just my subconscious consoling me, but I actually felt a relaxing wave wash over me. I got to stand within 30 feet of the top female recording artist of all time. I got to see the real life body of one of the people who has most inhabited my brain—and she looked good! Then suddenly, my TRUE FAN instincts kicked in, as people around me started to boo. How dare they! These people who don't really care about her, just wanting to resell photos and autographs, how dare they boo the Queen of Pop!
Stepping back, what does that stay about me? Am I like that Eminem music video—am I Stan? (as it turns out probably: “stan” is now a neologism for an obsessive fan of a top 40 female recording artist) Celebrity worship in our culture can have some pretty serious consequences---just look at what happened to John Lennon, or what's happening with Joe Paterno's defenders. But I'm not crazy. I don't want to kill Madonna and wear her skin, and if she was covering up rampant sex abuse I wouldn't defend her by saying “but she's had 37 Top 10 Singles!” Still, this woman I have never met means so much to me. I feel good when she looks good, or when she breaks records, or when she executes a complicated dance move. She's the team I'm rooting for. And her music makes me feel
This kind of thinking is worth examining. The paparazzi who gets 400 pounds for his picture has something tangible to show for it. But should I ever get to meet Madonna, I will have memories and feelings. Still, the sum of our being is really our memories and feelings, our perceptions of things.
And in an ironic twist. I find myself grateful to the paparazzi, for they are the ones who take the proper pictures of Madonna—including one where you can see my arm and camera in the corner. So in addition to having met President Obama and being re-tweeted by Kylie Minogue, I have been photographed with Madonna: the Trifecta!
And now to start work on that skin suit...
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