Fame-us, People

Recently, a colleague sent me a link to this article, partly because I'm his semi-boss-lady and have to keep tabs on his every working moment (or, like, three of his working moments per fortnight), and partly because he knew I'd be interested anyway. And who wouldn't? The internet is mind-blowing. Twenty years ago (yes, I'm old enough to remember back that far) we had four TV channels which didn't even broadcast on 24 hours a day, and if you were a lucky little sod like me your dad had a computer and might let you play Space Invaders or Commander Keen or something on it when he wasn't 'busy' (playing Space Invaders or Commander Keen or, in the case of my dad, flight simulation bomb-a-thon Retaliator).

Nowadays... well you know. It's a big mess of Twitter feeds and abandoned Myspaces and cyberbullying and pirated music downloads and free amateur porn videos streaming live to your phone. And EVERYBODY has it. It's awesome and terrifying and excellent and wrong, all at the same time.

And while I can find many many worthy rant-targets online, I will save them for later because the one I want to talk about is fame, and our access to those we deem 'famous'.

I have four main heroes/role models in my life. One is Batman, who isn't real and so doesn't count for the purposes of this discussion. Out of the remaining three, I have been lucky enough to be 'connected' to two of them via the wonder of the internet. One was the (unsolicited!) retweet of an article I wrote by a man whose work I so admire that it is truly an honour to have been noticed by him in any capacity. The other instance was when I sent a Facebook private message to a person I respect with such fervour that I refer to him mainly in passing conversations as 'The Nearest Thing I Have To A God'.

I didn't want to message him - not at all. A friend and I were embarking on a half-assed mission to internettishly bother a bunch of people about the UK release date of this thing we like, and since he was a primary producer of this thing, the friend suggested I message him. I was all abashed and unsure and I can't remember what eventually made me do it, but I did - and as I fully expected and accepted, he gave no response.

For about ten days, that is. Then I logged into Facebook and there it was - a message from the number one living human-Earthperson I admire.

I won't go into masses of details, but I replied in a jokey 'Well thanks!' kind of way and made a flip comment in my sign-off. To which he replied. And I wrote back again. And so did he. Eventually, not wanting to endure the indignity of him getting bored of and no longer replying to an admiring stranger who was desperately trying not to say anything too fawning, I wrote him a little 'Anyway, thanks for this and I'll let you get back to your work' type thing and he took the out. No resentment here - the man has better things to do than converse with random strangers, and he had been very generous in his time and answers.

Overall, really, the experience was a weird one. A part of me feels really grateful to have been allowed a little time with him (and grateful to the friend who suggested it). A part of me feels weird about it in a near-but-far kind of way that has trouble reconciling the artist and the guy I chatted to. And a part of me feels dissatisfied - not because we aren't still corresponding like the bestest of buddies, but because I'm frustrated with myself for contacting him as A Fan Of His Work. I have this ego, you see - when I admire a person, I feel like I want to meet them on equal ground, or at least something halfway approaching it in the far far distance (like that out-of-the-blue, amazing unsolicited retweet by Other Hero). Not to be A Famous Person As Well, exactly... but to have done something that means I can hold my head up knowing they know I am not just some person there to tell them how great they are.

Because really, what does one say to a 'famous' person?

There are different levels of fame, of course - one person's David Beckham is another person's local weatherman. I have met well-known people about whom I couldn't care less and struggled to say anything at all - not star struck, just struggling to find the balance between beaming 'I loved you in _____!' and standard civility. I have stood drunk in a club and either bored or terrified (maybe both - it was hard to accurately tell from his expression) a well-respected rock musician in my earnest attempt to have a meaningful, pleasant conversation with him. I once served Nick Cave (whose music I really admire) in a shop and accidentally mortified him by good-naturedly mocking something he did in the friendly way I would have treated any other customer. In contrast, I once found myself standing next to a (then) well-known British sitcom actor at a party, brightly told him who he was and then grasped in aching silence for something I could truthfully say I'd liked him in, eventually naming perhaps the tiniest guest-role he had ever played. The way he fake-smiled in acknowledgement and immediately turned away told me he was equally underwhelmed by me.

I embarrassed Nick Cave unintentionally, because I like him and wanted to treat him like anyone else. I underwhelmed the sitcom actor by trying to be pleasant without lying. Someone's fame, or perceived fame, changes their relationship with everyone they meet. It makes it difficult to be friendly and nice and normal. It makes it impossible to accurately, politely and non-scarily express admiration, or lack thereof.

This weirdness is distorted still further by the internet. Instead of meeting someone once, at a signing, and saying standard platitudes or maybe something kooky you worked on for a while to be remembered, you now have a chance to insinuate yourself over time. Private messages - hell, even public messages. Links and things. This thing you wrote. This picture you drew. Some of it will get through, might get a response. Some of it won't. Some of it will be dignified. Some of it will come across as maybe worth calling the police about. It's hard - or at least I find it hard - to equate this array of pally singsonging with any attempt to meaningfully connect with your chosen godlike genius. And still, after all of this, they are not your Friend. They are not your colleague. They do not know you. They probably do not want to know you, no matter how sure you are that the two of you would go together like a horse and cabbage.

I remember that, during the period of time I spent being both a young child and a fan of Inspector Clouseau, my father mentioned he had once seen Peter Sellers in the street. Please understand I grew up in Northern Ireland and we don't really have famous people there (not ones who stick around anyway), so this achievement was even more impressive to me.

"Wow!" I marvelled breathlessly. "What did you say to him?"
"Nothing," shrugged my dad, nonplussed.
I was astonished. "WHAT?! Why?!"
"Because he was just walking down the street being normal, and I didn't want to bother him."

At the time I had no conception of how a person could feel this way on seeing a great, funny, interesting famous person - a person who had been on TV! And in films! And stuff! These days I understand it very well, and on the very rare occasions I find myself able to interact with people whose work I am keen on, now I tend to just slink off without bothering. It's too weird.

Should you never meet your heroes? I dunno - I have no real experience to suggest an answer. I do know that I wouldn't want to meet mine without having something to show for myself above and beyond telling them they're great or trying to prove I'm their biggest fan. I do know that while I enjoyed our messages and I follow his posts, I did not add The Nearest Thing I Have To A God as my Facebook friend, because he isn't my friend and he does not know me. I do know that when I see some of the things other people post on his page, I feel both a little smug-superior and quite frustrated on his behalf, even though I have neither the right nor the status to feel either.

Maybe in a world which contains such wonderments as reality TV 'stars', 'cool' politicans and Jedward, admiring from afar is best.

Posi-rant #1: Why Who Framed Roger Rabbit is the Best Film Ever

Some days, I grow weary. Being Right All The Time is a heavy burden for one girl to carry, and some days my ire just fizzles out before I can get to a keyboard and turn it into Rantingness. And so this got me thinking: do rants have to always be negative? Must I spend all my lifeforce in criticism only? Am I doomed to damn others and never be delighted by them?

I say no, and it's my blog, so there.

Therefore, without further ado, welcome to my first ever 'Posi-Rant'™:

SIXTEEN REASONS WHY 'WHO FRAMED ROGER RABBIT*' IS THE BEST FILM EVER MADE!

(* No, this is not a grammatical error - the film title, though technically a question, contains no question mark as this is considered unlucky in Hollywood...)

1. It has a throroughly awesome setting - film noir era Hollywood mixed with Golden Age animation. Look at the outfits! Look at the characters! Look at Bob Hoskins swilling whiskey at his desk and passing out like a Raymond Chandler reject! Fans of femmes fatales and Philip-Marlowe-style investigators can eat their hearts out, and anyone else (though seriously, who doesn't like film noir? Is it you? What the hell? You are SO missing out...) can revel in seeing their favourite cartoon characters tripping through the age of ACME. Truly there can be no finer era in which to park any set of shenanigans!

2. Let's not forget this film was absolutely groundbreaking at the time - and still looks brilliant even now, nearly twenty five years later. I remember seeing it as a kid and being amazed - it was literally like you were watching some kind of amazing, impossible magic. Animation and live action had been combined before, and really well too (go look at Gene Kelly dancing with Jerry Mouse in 'Anchors Aweigh' from 1944... or with Stewie Griffin from Family Guy if that's more your bag), but this was something else. Combinations of puppetry and motion controlled machines meant they could interact with props in a very organic way, and with some great character design, painstakingly careful animation and a brilliant standard of acting from the humans of the cast, this film looked - and still looks - not flawless, but deeply believable and engaging.

3. Okay, okay, we might as well get it out of the way:

Yes - it's Jessica Rabbit. The woman none of us will ever live up to.

Now, if you were shallow of soul and mean of spirit, you might be tempted to hate Jessica Rabbit. You might be jealous of her frankly terrifying proportions and her sultry singing voice, or you might despise her as a fantasy construct whose overtly sexual nature and clear objectification are Not Good For Feminism.

But look a little further. Jessica Rabbit has depth. She married her husband not for looks or money or, like, being the same species as her, but because he makes her laugh. She knows what's truly important in a partner. She's no fool either - she's aware of the plot before Valiant is, and takes her own steps to protect Roger and help solve the case. She earns her own money and she looks damn good doing it. So good, in fact, that the information superhighway is littered with her image redone in fan art and fancy dress forms. Some woman even spent several thousand dollars in plastic surgery to look like her. See?

So that was money well spent.

Don't hate on Jess R. Remember, as she so memorably put it - she's not bad, she's just drawn that way.

4. And while we're on the subject of Jessica Rabbit, let us not forget Kathleen Turner, who is awesome and provided Mrs Rabbit's huskily-timbred voice uncredited.

5. But Mrs Rabbit was not my favourite of the film's 'Toons' as a child. Nor indeed was her titular husband, who was sympathetic but even to a kid, kind of annoying. No - in my heart it was a toss-up between two others, and though he didn't come first, Baby Herman was definitely my second favourite. Why? Um, duh - he is a baby with the gravelly voice of a chain-smoking gangster. The animation producer loved Baby Herman so much he insisted on animating all his scenes himself. Baby H chomps cigars and bets on horses. He throws tantrums, not because he's a baby, but because he's a goddamn bona fide star. Look at his acting performance in the first few minutes - he has the strength and grace of a prima ballerina as he does his little death trip round that kitchen. No wonder he gets frustrated with Roger's mistakes - Baby Herman is a consummate professional. Who sometimes looks up ladies' skirts.

6. And who, you might ask, could supplant the awesome Baby Herman from the number one spot in my heart? Why, it's this guy:

That's right - Benny the Cab. His thick Brooklyn accent and penchant for slapstick are obviously two things he has in common with Baby Herman, but he's so much more than that. Under his rough edges, Benny's a thoroughly decent rogue of a chap and a handy accomplice who plays a major part in saving Roger and Eddie on more than one occasion. He's wily enough to play crashed (that's playing dead for cars, see) when the others are in danger so he can follow them safely, fast enough to get them away from the Weasel gang and loyal enough to come back when his help is needed.

Want to know what clinches it? When he enters the warehouse at the end, stepping daintily on tip-toe tyres over the poison pools on the floor, he is obviously shocked by the carnage - his non-sweary exclamation is one of my favourite lines in the whole movie.


7. And is this simply a light-hearted children's film? No indeed - it manages to include a critique of evil industry by basing itself around true events: the corrupt political and business interests who conspired to undermine the LA public transport system in the 40s and profiteer from the new freeway and its associated infrastructure like gas stations and garages. That's a history lesson and some social commentary as well as all the entertainment you can eat. You won't find a gritty Chinatown-style corruption underpinning the plot of friggin' Space Jam.

8. You may not notice initially, but you're seeing something unique when you watch Who Framed Roger Rabbit - a coming-together of characters 'owned' by no less than seven different studios. With rights to likenesses so closely guarded, this just does not usually happen... but this time, it did. Main rivals Disney and Warner had some wrangles - their mainstays (respectively Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, and Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck) had to share equal screentime together, for example - and rights to some of the characters wanted for the film (such as Tom and Jerry or Popeye) couldn't be obtained in time. Nevertheless, it really is essentially a great cross-section - and celebration - of known and loved animated characters, all together for the first time on screen. A stupendous homage to the Golden Age of animation.

9. And since Who Framed Roger Rabbit involves the very greatest Greats of animation, let us not forget the behind-the-scenes Greats who actually voiced them for the picture. All the big names are there, including ones you might actually have heard of: Mel Blanc, Lou Hirsch, Nancy 'Voice of Bart Simpson' Cartwright. My favourite, though, is April Winchell (and not just because she does the cuter half of the voice of Baby Herman). That's her in the picture. Just look at her... isn't she awesome? If the picture doesn't convince you, go to her absolutely genius site Regretsy and then try to tell me you wouldn't like to go for a night of ruinous drinking with that woman.

10. Like all great movies for kids (think of The Simpsons, or anything by Pixar), it has something for the adults too. Different levels of humour abound, from the international, intergenerational appeal of Someone Falling Down (in the biz they call it slapstick), to more risqué moments like Jessica Rabbit's 'booby trap' or Eddie Valiant's failure to find a rhyme for 'luck' in his song-and-dance routine - which reminds me...

11. Eddie Valiant's song-and-dance routine is fabulous. He can fairly move for a fat alcoholic - looks like his childhood in the circus definitely paid off.

12. Also awesome? Various expressions on his face throughout, such as this:

The best one, however, is one of which I sadly couldn't find a screen cap. Just take a look at his reaction when he first drives into Toon Town and they all start singing about smiling or whatever. It's brilliant.

13. And from the sublime to the ridiculous to the genuinely terrifying. Do you remember the scene... where the shoe got DIPPED?

I can honestly say it was one of the most horrifying things I had ever seen in a kids' film, and it's still hard to watch. A quick googleskim reveals numerous internet forums recounting tales of childhood trauma related to that scene. I mean, shit - even Bambi's mother gets shot off screen. This was right in your face! Squeaking like a helpless puppy, writhing in Judge Doom's unyielding glove, that blameless, unfortunate little shoe got DISSOLVED RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE. It is a scene of torture the likes of which the Saw franchise can only dream. It is a level of horror to which John Carpenter and Dario Argento have never come close. It is gruesomely harrowing - and right there in the middle of a film for seven year olds! That, in my opinion, RULES.

14. And surely the villain who unflinchingly perpetrates this act of violence must be one of the premier villains in all cinematic history. Corrupt figure of authority? Check. Murderous and mental? Check. Agenda of evil masquerading as justice? Check. Gang of thugs? Almost indestructible? CHAINSAW ARM HE WILL USE TO TRY AND KILL YOU??!! Yes, all of these. He combines two of the ultimate antagonists of the silver screen: the absolute batshit-red-eyed-screaming-psychopath and the chillingly clinical Nazi doctor. If that doesn't scare the shit out of you, you may need to visit a proctologist.

15. But don't be too scraed by old Doom - he does meet his end eventually, and you know a film is good when the demise of the villain contains a Wizard of Oz 'I'm meellllllllting!' tribute.

16. The DUCK-OFF. Otherwise known as this scene:

I mean, quite apart from the fact that they're ducks playing Liszt live in a nightspot, you'd go to that club anyway just to see how many pianos they got through each night.
I would also like it noted that Daffy is clearly the superior pianist and Donald is a jealous bitch who literally plays the piano with his arse. #totallynotbiasedagainstdisney

One more thing: guess what? It's been in the works for aaaaaaaaages with varying degrees of likelihood in the intervening years... but there's a sequel in the works. Excited? I might be...