Borak: Black Celebrations

So where were you when Heath Ledger died? It's the kind of question reserved for life's more scarring tragedies like 9/11, the Pope's passing, or the final episode of Friends. But after reading the Facebook feed of friends' statuses on his passing, the question was the first thing that came to mind. It was as if his death had left a gaping hole in their lives.

Shortly after you could hear the sound of a collective patter and rustling as people hunted down their copies of 10 Things I Hate About You, that knight movie no one remembers, and Brokeback Mountain. All this, while preparing for the emotional onslaught of the upcoming Batman movie.

I don't mean to disrespect the dead, but it's a bit much, isn't it? No doubt he was a young talent tragically cut down in his prime by an overdose of drugs, but there was little else he did for me, ditto the majority of the world, beyond the screen. I remember a similar overbearing outpour of grief and shock when Anna Nicole Smith was found dead. Suddenly, from being a no-talent, part-time actress and former Playboy model, she was elevated to an iconic status that put her on par with Marilyn Monroe.

It's scary to imagine the ensuing eulogies if Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian, or Nicole Richie were to suddenly pass on. What will be said then? That “she was an inspiration to her generation, a shining beacon of talent tragically snuffed out, a socialite who challenged us to realise our own potential”? Cripes.

This constant cloying for sentimentality, however, is merely a symptom of the tragedy-addiction that's sweeping the world, especially when it comes to Young Hollywood Celebrities (YHC). The downfall of Britney Spears, watched by the world frame-by-frame, breakdown-by-breakdown, is no longer funny. Not that it ever was, but the mob-craving for Britney news is now starting to take a darker, more sinister turn.

Britney used to be just a snigger, a pop-reference joke that everyone got. Then I heard about the record 10,089,428 Spears page impressions on one Hollywood gossip site in 24 hours—it proves that Brit-watch is no longer a joke. It represents a mob obsession with the self-destruction, and ultimately, the death of YHCs. We've turned Britney into a spectator sport, a gladiatorial event of the 21st century, not knowing whether the protagonist would live to survive the paparazzi slaughter.

The demand for tragedy was never this desperate, nor as intense. Compared to Brit, Wacko Jacko got off easy. Even as recent as the aftermath of 9/11, you'd be hard-pressed to find such a demand for indecency. Sex, drugs, and the rock 'n' roll lifestyle were frowned upon; they were reported, vilified, and sent to the history books after a few months. Britney's downfall, on the other hand, has been on-going for more than a year, and has no sign of stopping.

How did Celebrity Pop Culture become this twisted? I'm no expert media pundit, but the explosion of gossip blogs have played a huge part in cultivating this morbid fascination. Where once there were only a handful of printed tabloid publications trying to outdo each other, now there are thousands of celebrity gossip blogs trying to out-bitch one another. Each has its own personal agenda, each with its salacious scoop of Britney dirt (if not the latest, then the most lewd. It's an open season circus of nightmarish proportions. The scary thing is that this celebrity deathwatch has become entertainment, without even a trace of irony.

“We have wandered, by many digital and media paths, into an era of new cruelty that would have horrified us even two decades ago,” comments Peter Preston of The Guardian. “We are more routinely, ubiquitously callous. Of course, it's not our fault, we tell ourselves. The cult of celebrity automatically trumps any thought of seclusion for people such as Britney Spears. She's been asking for it, hasn't she?”

As much as we'd like to repeat the old adage that “there's no such thing as bad publicity” and how celebrities need the scandal and gossip to remind the public they’re still alive, it's just a finger-pointing exercise on our part. We snigger as we blog-click and quip cheap pop-jokes about Britney's fall from grace.

Me? I can't say that I haven't been hooked on E! News, but these days I can't—make that won't—keep track of how many times Britters has gone back to rehab, of how many talk show hosts and celebrities have referenced her as a cautionary tale of youth gone wrong.

This is what celebrity pop culture is degenerating to—a whiny, bitchy deathwatch, demanded by a global audience of us. And what if they take too many sleeping pills or drink themselves to death? Well, we'll just bow our heads and feel sorry for the loss of another one so young, so talented, so precious. I'm sick of the hypocrisy.

Perhaps the overarching sadness we have whenever a YHC passes on is a way of coping for the guilt we feel for partly causing their deaths. Now that makes sense. This morbid obsession doesn't.

TEXT JOHN LIM