Luke Wilson: The Frat Pack Goes to Seed
Oh Luke Wilson, back in 2002, you were the lust object of many a woman. You were handsome, less lecherous than your older, broken-nosed brother, and featured a heavy scent of insecurity. You wanted to build me a tent in the living room and we could live in there and pretend we weren’t in love. You were Richie Tenenbaum, and you were ridiculously endearing, no matter the headband.
But you were also an appealing every-dude: in Old School, you played the normal guy who, for a short period of time, gets to revel in pure masculine glory, enjoying the adoration and adulation of dozens of men, walking the streets with echoes of his moniker, ‘The Godfather,’ echoing in his ears. But you were humble and thoroughly Beta-male: this wasn’t the cool-kids fraternity, but the one for all the guys who weren’t necessarily nerds, but just weren’t ever cool or confident enough, either in high school or college. At last, you got to wrestle in a tub full of K-Y jelly, drink beer on weekdays, and, best of all, have two best friends who want to hang out all the time. This was your time.
The Frat Pack
You, like the other members of the Frat Pack, served as a symbol of masculinity under threat — yet triumphant! Women wanted to take 30-year-old men like you, averagely handsome, averagely employed, and get you to buy SUVs, strap on Baby Bjorns, and spend your weekends going to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. But you resisted. At the end of Old School, you survived a break-up with your girlfriend, whose abrasive and voracious sexually emasculated you; you’ve amassed enough confidence to stand up to your demanding boss; you’ve won the hot girl in highschool who wore a Whitesnake jacket and always intimated you. You were the Generation-X man, triumphant, masculinity in tact. (For more on the way that masculinity in crisis functions in these films, see Peter Alilunas’ excellent essay here).
But what in the world happened to you, Luke Wilson? Because these days, the only times I see you are in surprising and thoroughly random bit parts in films, such as 3:10 to Yuma, where you don’t belong….or defending the AT&T 3G network, donning a bad sportscoat and black slacks that just scream washed-up.
Luke Wilson Hawking AT&T
The commercials highlight the depths to which Wilson’s sunk, but don’t forget the string of truly horrible films, including Henry Poole is Here (there’s a good reason you haven’t heard of it), Vacancy with Kate Beckinsale, and, perhaps worst of all, Blonde Ambition, a Jessica Simpson Working Girl-remake that grossed just over $1,000 in theaters before going straight to DVD.
And he’s gained weight. Noticeably. A comment-worthy amount of weight. When searching for recent photos of him via Google Images, several .jpg files were entitled “Fatty Luke Wilson,” including the ones featured below. I am not joking.
So what’s going on? What’s happened — and why is it noteworthy? He’s obviously no heavier than his fellow frat pack classmember Will Ferrell; Vince Vaughn has also gained a bit of bloat between the filming of Old School and today.
What makes Wilson’s decline notable — and anxiety-producing — is how ‘normal’ it is. In other words, he deserves a spot in US Weekly’s “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” only instead of “going grocery shopping” or “feeding the meter,” his would say “gain weight and lose ambition as he enters his late 30s.” He’s a frat boy gone to seed. And that’s terrifying.
Wilson himself doesn’t seem terrified, or even embarrassed:
I’m a little older and fatter now, and I’m not exercising as much. My lifestyle these days involves a lot of beer and pasta. But there’s something satisfying in letting your body go to hell. So maybe I won’t get offered the same kind of role as before. So what? I’m happy to play the guy in his mid-30s who may be a little unhealthy. “Fat and arrogant” is what I’m bringing to the script.
Pasta and golf all day…and still gets paid piles of money to shill a wireless network! But when you get down to it, it’s Wilson’s job as AT&T pitchman that, to my mind, really frightens his fans — many of whom, as part of my generation, are nearing or passing 30-year-old mark. (Men and women alike, in real life, on Twitter, via Facebook, have collectively remarked about Wilson’s appearance in the ads).
Because it’s one thing when a star ceases to get good work, and his star slowly declines. But here’s a bloated version of Wilson’s former self, repeatedly popping up, taunting you, as you try to assert your own masculinity watching football. It’s as if his presence reminds you that the beer in your hand will, in a brief matter of time, turn your body, which might be an approximation of Wilson’s in Old School, to something soft and unregimented. And worst of all, he’s sacrificed his genius — whether in dramatic or comedic roles — and submitted to the man. He doesn’t even get to hang out with his frat pack friends anymore — just Jessica Simpson.
In this way, Wilson’s star image dashes the hopes of every 28-year-old who’s slogging through a corporate job, promising himself that he’ll do what he really loves as soon as he puts away that little nest egg. Because you won’t. You’ll get caught up in the allure of money, and you’ll end up at that job, rising the ranks, miserable, but needing to buy new window treatments, for the rest of your life. Like the bit character in Old School, you’ll get to play golf on Sundays, but you don’t even really like golf.
Old School portrayed a masculinity which, while under threat, emerged resilient. But the trajectory of Luke Wilson’s career since that role seems to strongly indicate otherwise. Masculinity, as the recent Super Bowl commercials were so keen to remind us, is under seige. And Man needs to take his “Last Stand” — lest he end up, Luke Wilson style, with pictures of him labelled as “fatty,” working for a cell phone company, watching straight-to-DVD entertainment featuring Jessica Simpson.
John Mayer Mis-plays the Celebrity Game…..Or Does He?
If you’re at all in the generation and reception of celebrity, stop what you’re doing, reserve ten minutes, and read this somewhat lengthy and admittedly explicit Playboy interview with John Mayer.
The release of the interview on Playboy’s website has made major waves: everywhere from USA Today to Huff Post, from TMZ to Perez Hilton, from ABC to US Weekly is excerpting and covering the reaction to the piece. Mayer added fuel to the fire earlier today when he Tweeted (to his 3 million followers) to apologize for using the ‘n’ word — in what he claimed to be an attempt to ‘intellectualize’ the word. (Details here; see John Mayer’s Twitter feed here).
There’s no doubt that what Mayer said in this interview was offensive. Inappropriate. Guilty of kiss-and-tell. Weirdly and obsessively honest. Borderline repulsive. Racist, sexist. This is all made very, very clear not only in this particular interview, but in Mayer’s other interviews — see, for example, last month’s equally odd and frank interview with Rolling Stone.
But more interesting, at least in terms of the celebrity paradigm, is the way in which this particular interview functions to produce Mayer as a very certain — and discourse-worthy - type of celebrity. While I do not condone or agree with the behaviors, word choice, or attitudes that he espouses throughout the interview, as one who studies celebrity culture, I find his disclosure and image generation absolutely genius. Disagree if you will, but consider the following:
1.) He’s generating a tremendous aura of authenticity.
Richard DeCordova, following Foucault, argued that the disclosure of sexual secrets is equated, at least in our culture, as the disclosure of the ‘real,’ authentic self. Usually these sexual secrets are disclosed without the consent of the subject — think Fatty Arbuckle, think Tiger Woods — but even when the subject is doing the disclosing himself, it’s still the rawest, most honest, most ‘real’ path of access to the star.
So when John Mayer extrapolates, at length, on his masturbation habits, and reveals that Jessica Simpson is “crack cocaine” for him (“sexual napalm”!), it’s so apparently honest, so apparently not the sort of thing that you’re not supposed to publicly disclose, that it can’t be anything but true. Let me rephrase: because ‘normal’ people, whether celebrities or laymen, are not supposed to talk this way, let alone talk about sex this explicitly, when Mayer does it, breaking those taboos, it is de facto taken as truth.
Which is part of the reason that the anger towards Mayer — at least the anger towards his sexual disclosure — is, at least on some level, amusing. He could be making this up just as easily as he could conjure a tale of him buying roses, making dinner, massaging feet, going on romantic walks, writing poetry, or “sneaking moments,” a la Jennifer Garner’s own disclosure last week concerning her and Ben Affleck’s “romantic” relationship. Mayer’s disclosure reads as pure truth — because who would lie and make themselves look like a douche? — when, in reality, it’s absolutely part of image production. Mayer says over and over again that he just wants to be real, transparent, honest. And isn’t that just as much of a constructed image as a star who puts himself forward as romantic, needy, giving, head over heels in love?
But so what? So he’s ‘real’? Isn’t everyone ‘real’ in the age of reality television? Sort of, but not quite. ’Authenticity’ has long been privileged in the celebrity game — look to Richard Dyer’s seminal essay on Judy Garland and the generation of authenticity — and it often has much to do with a certain coherence between extratextual life and textual narratives. In this way, Mayer’s confessional songwriting style certainly affirms this interpretation. But I think it has far more to do with the fact that Mayer is…
2.) …Playing the celebrity game for the 21st century.
Part of which is, of course, the generation of authenticity and transparency in an era when everything can be digitally enhanced or otherwise manipulated. Mayer generates his authenticity through traditional means of disclosure, e.g. the tell-all interview, which has long been a fixture in a star’s strategy to “set the record straight” or “show my fans the real me.” But he is also a faithful user of Twitter, which, as I’ve argued both here and here, is equated with the star’s unmediated voice. When you read a John Mayer tweet, it’s really him — whereas a quote in a magazine can be doubted, as it’s going through the filter of an interview, an editor, etc.
Mayer, like Ashton Kutcher, understands the ways in which Twitter can, in Kutcher’s words, “take back our own paparazzi.” It’s his means of setting the record straight, of establishing the real and authentic self that will, and should, take precedence over any mediated or unauthorized versions. In his words,
With Twitter, I can show my real voice. Here’s me thinking about stuff: “Wouldn’t it be cool if you could download food?” It has been important for me to keep communicating, even when magazines were calling me a rat and saying I was writing a book.
Indeed, the fact that Mayer even used Twitter to “set the record straight” about this very interview only further authenticates the process. Even more interesting, however, is the way that Mayer contrasts his understanding of celebrity with that of Aniston, who rose to stardom during a very different period. His take:
One of the most significant differences between us was that I was tweeting. There was a rumor that I had been dumped because I was tweeting too much. That wasn’t it, but that was a big difference. The brunt of her success came before TMZ and Twitter. I think she’s still hoping it goes back to 1998. She saw my involvement in technology as courting distraction. And I always said, “These are the new rules.”
For me, such a comment underlines the divide in celebrity culture today — those who know how to play by the new rules, and those who try and play by the rules of the 1990s and before. Tom Cruise obviously had no idea how the new game was played, and Mayer points a fine point on the only means for Cruise to return: I said, “Tom Cruise put on a fat suit.” That pretty much sums up the past decade: Tom Cruise with a comb-over, dancing to Flo Rida in Tropic Thunder. And the world went, “Welcome back, Tom Cruise.”
When the interviewer asks if Jennifer Aniston maybe bittorrented his completed album, he even responds “if Jen knew how to bittorrent I would eat my shoe.” He’s not making fun of her, per se — indeed, he tries to emphasize how much respect and love he has for her throughout the interview — but it underscores the fact that Aniston, and her cohort, have no idea how to operate within the incredibly mediated, networked word. None of them — apart from Demi Moore — know how to use Twitter correctly. Tom Hanks signs all of his Tweets ‘Hanx’ for goodness sakes, which is just like the way that all of my relatives and friends on Facebook over the age of 40 use a salutation at the end of a post, as if it were a letter. (Sorry, over-40s, but you totally do). Mayer knows how his actions will be amplified and proliferate across the internet at a moment’s notice. He knows how Perez operates; he knows how TMZ operates. Which leads me to the conclusion that…
3.) …Mayer is much smarter than you think.
Sexism and bigotry are not smart. But sexism and bigotry are by no means mutually exclusive with intelligence — and celebrity intelligence in particular. Mayer will get flack for this interview; it may or may not alter his overall star text (really, it does little save confirm what most already thought of him). It will most likely not significantly affect the sales of his new album. This is the guy whose most popular songs are “Your Body is a Wonderland” and “Daughters.” Those two images might seem discordant, but such songs only help to diffuse comments such as ”My d*** is sort of like a white supremacist” in reference to his lack of experience with black women in bed.
But when it comes down to it, his name is all over the internet. He’s only heightened interest in his album, his Twitter account, and his celebrity brand. It may be negative attention, but it’s attention nonetheless, and as the maxim goes, all publicity is good publicity. Obviously, he’s a douche. As Lainey Gossip says, he’ll always be that fat nerdy kid on the inside, desperate for you to know that he does, indeed, attract women. But he’s also playing the game better than Brange, and certainly better than Aniston herself, whose staged Mexico getaway photos with upcoming co-star Gerald Butler scream manipulation and desperation. He’ll be around a long time — and I’m not just saying that because I have a secret thing for that “Georgia Why” song from his first album. He’s cunning and adaptable, dynamic and compelling, quotable and effusive — characteristics that describe some of the most durable and enduring of celebrities.
And don’t forget that this is Playboy. There are reasons the interview was framed the way that it was. John Wayne made himself an uncontestable bigot in its pages in the 1970s, and John Mayer, facilitated by its editorial policies and interviewer questions, continues the tradition today.
The Abjection of Jessica Simpson
Last week, gossip spread concerning “Jessica’s Big Oops.” That oops, it seems, was that Jessica Simpson had - wait for it - farted, loudly, in a meeting. According to US Weekly:
“A source tells Hot Stuff Jessica Simpson had a windy moment during a business meeting in January. ’While one of the executives was speaking in a room full of five people, Jessica let out a very loud fart,’ says the insider. ’Her mother was there, and it prompted her to turn around and yell ‘Jessica!’….It wasn’t Jessica’s first brush with public flatulence: she famously cut loose on an episode of Newlyweds, telling then-husband Nick Lachey, ‘You love my stinky ass.’”
Now why am I focusing on a silly bit of gossip like this? Because it got me thinking more about Simpson — and why we’re continually fascinated by her, even when her love life and career appear to be one embarrassment after another. She’s different from Britney Spears, and she’s no Lindsay Lohan. She hasn’t descended into drug abuse, and there are no sex tapes. But Simpson has a particular proclivity towards unfortunate fashion choices, accentuated by her oscillating weight. Perhaps most famously, she rocked a pair of “mom jeans” while singing at a state fair last year, depicted both above and below.
These pictures spread through the internet and gossip mags, ostensibly because they highlighted Simpson’s weight gain. (Really, though, she’s not even overweight — she may have gained a few pounds from before, but she only looks, er, ‘wide’ because of the cut of the jeans coupled with the belt and tank top).
Simpson’s appearance is also repeatedly criticized as “hermy.” This is a rather mean term used to convey the fact that she oftentimes resembles a cross-dressing male. The term has likewise been applied to Gaga and Cameron Diaz — it’s most often prompted by the presence of strong, angular facial features over-accentuated by make-up, as well as square, broad shoulders.
Note that part of what makes Simpson appear somewhat like a man is the presence of large, seemingly fake breasts and wig-like hair — both things that a man dressing as a woman might employ. In other words, it’s not just her face — it’s her entire body, her wardrobe, her hairstyles, her make-up, even her poses and facial expressions.
My contention, then, is what makes Simpson so fascinating — what keeps her in the tabs and on our radar, what was at the core of her relationship with “serious musician” John Mayer — is a distinct quality of abjection.
The theory of abjection was first and most famously pronounced in the work of Julia Kristeva. In Powers of Horror, Kristeva theorized the role of the abject in society-building, from Judaic Law to the present. The common connotation of the abject is of that which is cast away – something wretched – abject poverty, for example, or a rotting corpse.
Now, obviously I am by no means saying that Jessica Simpson is a corpse. But aspects of her image absolutely manifest other aspects of abjection. As I explain above, abjection includes that which is dirty — feces, decay, etc. — but also that which crosses borders and confuses. The Jewish Tribes created laws concerning what was and wasn’t abject so that they wouldn’t die out: people naturally wanted to do things like have sex with their wives when the wives were on their periods, but when you’re living in the desert, as these Judaic Tribes were, you just can’t get yourself clean enough. To do so would be to risk disease and, ultimately, death.
So what do you do? You make a woman’s menstrual cycle into something dirty and shameful — and write laws (still on the books in the bible) that make the woman go hang out in a hut for a week while menstruating. Eating pork was made abject because pigs were dirty animals and likely to pass along diseases — and kill off the tribe. Incest was made abject because sleeping with your family members would result in genetically deformed children — and eventually kill off the tribe. Homosexuality or not acting like your sex was made abject, because if you didn’t have sex that could make babies, you’d kill off the tribe. All sorts of rules were set up around the way that a corpse would be handled — because handling the corpse would pass along bacteria and infection, and, of couse, kill off the tribe. By labeling certain things as gross, the tribe — and society — was able to survive.
Thus, for Kristeva, the abject applies to that which makes her wretch – but it is also, on a deeper level, “what disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect borders, positions, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite.” Ultimately, the abject – refuse, corpses, blood – is what must be pushed aside, rejected, and labeled as other in order to live. Put differently, by clearly labeling what I am not, I receive a clear understanding of what I am.
Importantly, the abject is at once an object of fascination and of repugnance. It draws in as it repels, seduces as it disgusts. It “fascinates desire,” seduces, calls out, but must, ultimately, be ejected, rejected. Say you’re part of one of these ancient Jewish tribes. You *want* to eat the pig — bacon tastes good! But it’s also dangerous. So in order to make it so that no one will succumb to the temptation of bacon, you’ve got label the pig as disgusting.
Thus the abject is thoroughly shadowed with shame. Trespass into the abject must not only be a societal violation, but a moral one as well. Desire for the chaotic, the border-breaking, the other, is constructed, at least in Judaic society, as an offense to God: to covet is to corrupt one’s inner purity.
Okay, okay, so what does this have to do with Jessica Simpson?
Everything. There’s the association with farts and feces, which are quite straightforwardly abject. There’s the “herminess,” highlighting the ways in which her appearance confuses gender and sex boundaries. There’s her unruly body, overflowing her jeans, her dresses, trespassing the limits of her clothing. She famously confused chicken and fish (“Chicken of the Sea”), emphasizing her own troubles with classification and order. There’s the creepy micro-management of her career by her overbearing father, which hints of incest. (Again, I’m not saying that she and her father have an incestuous relationship — but the suggestion is there, and that’s enough to infuse an image with abjection).
But perhaps most importantly, it seems that all those associated with her — whether Nick Lachey or John Mayer — have demonstrated their shame at being associated with Simpson. They desire her strongly (enough to be in long-term relationships) but they are embarrassed by her. Mayer in particular appeared sheepish when appearing with Simpson, and communicated as much in several interviews. And even if he wasn’t ashamed “in real life,” he was represented as being ashamed — and that’s what makes Simpson appear so thoroughly abject.
She’s fascinating but repulsive, desirable but shameful. And while this blog post may have seemed like a highly theoretical and hypothetical exercise, it’s not. The abject is real — it’s not just a theory. It’s an incredibly compelling way of explaining why we think of some things as disgusting but keep them around nonetheless; why desire and shame are two sides of the same coin. And, at least in recent years, it forms the very foundation of Jessica Simpson’s image. Ultimately, Jessica Simpson, the living, breathing person, with a heart and a mind, is not in and of herself abject. But her image — the way that we consume and experience her — absolutely is.
