Who Killed the Movie Star?(continued)
THEY'RE JUST LIKE US! So why would we pay $11.50 to watch them? (Photo: Getty Images) Call it death by a thousand crotch shots. The incredible success of the weekly tabs, an innovation credited to Bonnie Fuller, the former Us Weekly editrix (who went on to bring her dark magic to Star before stepping down in May), has reduced the movie star to someone who's "just like us!" And if they are mere mortals—as we're forever being reminded, one Starbucks run at a time—who needs them? By chronicling an actor's every bad hair day, sartorial screwup, and debased love life, the tabs—joined by TMZ with its nightly curbside ambushes and Perez with his doodled penises—have ripped the veneer of glamour from one matinee idol after another, exposing the sad, unbalanced, attention-starved creatures underneath. As a result, we've adopted what Hollywood historian David Thomson calls "a bitter, acidic, vengeful attitude toward the stars." To see the carnage Fuller has wrought, look no further than former box-office golden boy—now perpetual superfreak—Tom Cruise. Or recall the horrifying fate of the original Bennifer, Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck, who were poised to become Hollywood royalty and instead watched helplessly as their careers were shredded by the tabloids (granted, the couple all but invited the harpies into their bedroom, but still). In 2001, the year before they began dating, Lopez was the first star ever to have the country's No. 1 album (J.Lo) and top-grossing film (The Wedding Planner) simultaneously. That same year, Affleck starred in the blockbuster Pearl Harbor, which grossed a gargantuan $198 million. In 2002, the duo hooked up and proceeded to hijack the media, flaunting their relationship in music videos, magazines, and a prime-time television special. After their breakup in 2004, blamed on "media scrutiny," both went into virtual hiding for years. Now he's bleeping Jimmy Kimmel, and she's bleeping Marc Anthony. Ouch.
ENGINEERED STAR POWER The final installment of Lord of the Rings was 2003's highest-grossing film, despite being "delivered by a bunch of sun-deprived Kiwi code monkeys" Behind his many disguises—a great white shark, a robotic-alien life-form, a web-slinging superhero—this villain appears rather tame: a pasty-faced keyboard jockey, armed with powerful modeling software and an endless supply of Red Bull and Skittles. Ever since the mid-'70s, when the studios began plying us with films like Jaws and Star Wars, living, breathing movie stars have been moving onto the critical list. Recently they went on life support, as special-effects houses ventured beyond merely creating big-screen monsters for real actors to wrestle and actually managed to engineer ones that could replace humans altogether. The turning point came in 2003, when the best, most moving performance in the year's highest-grossing film, the final installment of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, was delivered by a bunch of sun-deprived Kiwi code monkeys. After all, a generation weaned on video games, reality television, and star-free "event" movies doesn't care who's in the motion-capture suit, so long as the explosions are huge, the action sequences righteous, and the fight scenes mind-blowing. "As big blockbusters have become more effects-oriented," notes Neal Gabler, author of biographies of Walt Disney and Walter Winchell, "technology has become the star." |
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