Celebrity spotting
Not as rewarding as you might think
EVAN JOHNSON STAFF
Almost everyone I know has had at least one interesting celebrity encounter. Not me. These are the best I can muster: I saw a man walking down the street in Osborne Village who I thought moderately resembled James Cromwell (Babe, Babe: Pig in the City), though a series of sly glances and some awkward streetcrossing manoeuvres subsequently revealed that, in fact, he looked nothing like Cromwell (he even had an eyepatch); my girlfriend’s mother “used to party with” Alan Thicke’s step-brother; her uncle sat two rows away from Terry Fox’s mother at a curling bonspiel in Salmon Arm; I saw Paulo Costanzo, who had a minor role in Josie and the Pussycats, give $20 to a homeless guy.
I could go on, but the point is that my record of celebrity-spotting is as unimpressive as anyone’s — a pathetic list of non-encounters with distant relations of minor celebrities. It’s genuinely pathetic and yet, though I would never admit this to anyone, I’m secretly proud of my encounters. I feel that they make me a more interesting and important person. Not Nobel Peace Prize important, but important nonetheless.
I recently found myself in Toronto, during the Film Festival no less, so I decided I would take the opportunity to pad my list a little bit. Nothing big — I wasn’t expecting a bar-fight with Emma Thompson or a game of cribbage with Penelope Cruz — but, you know, maybe I’d trip over some of Dustin Hoffman’s chauffeur’s garbage. So when word got around that Russell Crowe would be arriving shortly for the premiere of Ridley Scott’s A Good Year, it seemed like a good idea (at the time) to try and catch a glimpse of the handsome Aussie pugilist.
Upon arriving at Roy Thompson Hall’s red carpet and seeing the crowds of eager fans, I quickly grew uncomfortable, noting to myself that I was much too dignified to participate in such a ridiculous pantomime. But I needed to see Russell.
Luckily, being a smug and selfdeceiving sort, I had no problem convincing myself that I would participate in the affair only under the guise of the knowledge-hungry journalist-anthropologist. Unlike the quaint but ignorant buffoons surrounding me, so easily swindled into hysteria by even the least brush with fame, my interest would remain steadfastly scientific. While the throngs would be busying themselves with fluffy irrelevancies like “what will he be wearing?” and “who’ll be his date?” I would be soberly and responsibly pondering the larger issues at work, examining the social and cultural implications. “But what does it all mean?” I would ask myself, several times, sometimes removing my glasses for effect.
The mood in the crowd was ebullient, though there were pockets of depression throughout. One beleaguered security guard, worn down by the constant belittling of his already meek authority, stared at the ground with an expression that said, emphatically, “I hate my life.” There was a woman glowing with pride as she described how she’d chased Ashton Kutcher’s SUV on foot for three blocks, though for the genuinely psychotic glint in her eye she may as well have been describing the frock-coat she’d fashioned out of human skin.
When Russell Crowe finally arrived I was crushed, even nauseated, with disappointment, though at first I couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t because, as everyone insists on noting about everyone who’s ever appeared on television, he was shorter than expected. That I can handle. Also, disappointingly, it wasn’t because I had some kind of objection to the immoral and decadent celebrity-gossip electricity being generated by all this pointless hoopla. No, I liked that part.
Suddenly, just as my head was shoved mercilessly into the damp armpit of an eager, camera-wielding paparazzo, I realized what it was that crushed me so: I was jealous of Russell Crowe. I wanted the hordes of screaming fans to be screaming at me. My self-love is so intense that the mere sight of a celebrity leaves me nauseous with jealousy. “Yeah yeah,” I felt like saying to the crowds, “Russell’s pretty cool, sure. But check me out.” Then, slowly at first, word would spread that I was there, and Russell would gradually be forgotten, as the great, unwashed masses shifted their focus to something more important: me.
