In the ancient days of the Roman Empire, gladiatorial games were held. These duels set one fighter against another, sometimes in the midst of infuriated animals, until only one was left standing. Seemingly indifferent to the violent nature of these games, the citizens viewed gladiatorial combat as a sport, held entirely for entertainment purposes. The gladiators, who fought fiercely for survival, were widely admired and idolized. Their heroic victories made them the celebrities of their time.
Today when we study Roman civilization, we view its sporting events as utterly barbaric, deeming our own sources of amusement as far more civilized than theirs. But in the objective scope of our leisurely activities in comparison to our Roman counterparts, the resemblance is staggering. In fact, I would say that we, too, have gladiators in our own American culture. Okay, so they don’t dress in combat armor or go by impressive names like Maximus Decimus Meridius. Instead, they wear haute couture dresses, walk the red carpet and are known by first name only: Beyonce. Paris. Fergie. Angelina.
If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m talking about celebrities: our generation’s national obsession. Whether they’re actors, singers or just annoyingly famous socialites, these members of Hollywood royalty influence popular culture more than we may realize. These media magnets appear on the covers of every tabloid magazine, snagging headlines like “Winehouse Goes to Rehab” and “Madonna Has Affair.” The paparazzi hunt them ferociously, looking for the perfect photo of some embarrassing gesture or compromising position. And we, the spectators, simply can’t get enough. Fascinated by these megastars, we watch intently as they scurry about Los Angeles, turning fame into infamy with paternity battles, cocaine addictions and relationship turmoil. We eat this stuff up. After all, there’s nothing like a good scandal.
My point? Celebrities are our American gladiators, if you will (and no, I am not referring to the sub-par reality game show). They entertain us with their outrageous antics, sometimes fighting other celebs (Britney v. Christina, anyone?), sometimes up against their own personal drama, sometimes battling the court of law. They struggle, they cry, they become unbearably weak, only to hear the roar of the crowd, shouting for more.
It’s a cruel self-fulfilling prophecy: audiences expect celebrities to provide adequate amusement, rewarding their imprudent behavior with attention and praise (i.e. the cover of People or a segment on “E! News”). But the stars who receive the most attention are the ones who most quickly descend a downward spiral. With no one to catch them at the bottom, they lose control. Our own sick pleasure, it seems, is what drives these superstars to the edge.
I could name a hundred examples of the media spotlight spurring celebrity misconduct. Take Britney Spears, who only just returned from a four-year stumble to the brink of insanity. Then there’s Jessica Simpson, who was recently criticized for a curvier figure. And finally, look at little Miley Cyrus, who has a new inappropriate picture surfacing on the internet every week. Her latest slip-ups foreshadow much greater struggles in the future.
As these stars fall into decline, we can’t help but watch. Sure, we may ridicule Lindsay Lohan for her third trip to rehab, but that certainly doesn’t stop us from sopping up every gory detail we can get. When the cast of “Gossip Girl” won’t tell us who’s dating off-screen, we easily move on to the next suspected couple. And while we may scorn Nicole Richie for being too skinny, we quickly lose interest when she actually puts on weight.
Whether the offenses are mild (some fashion crime) or severe (a drug overdose and consequent death), it is something uniquely human that allows us to take pleasure in others’ pain, In this way, we are more like our ancient Roman friends than we may think. Though we probably won’t admit it, we all wear metaphorical togas and laurel crowns, bearing unsympathetic witness to the struggles of our American gladiators. It’s only a game, after all — isn’t it?
Perhaps you don’t have to be in Rome to do as the Romans do.
Lauren’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at l.kimmel@cavalierdaily.com.
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