(no subject)
At first, I couldn't stand Britney Spears. I was sixteen, but my celebrity idols were Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly, who stood for everything Britney never could. They were Europe, ballet, ballgowns and royalty, and Britney -- well, Britney was on MTV shaking her ass in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit. After my little sister brought her debut CD home, I found a never-ending stream of things to insult her for: her white-trash name, the domestic abuse undertones of her first single "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time," her grotesquely long toes, the absurdly titled track ten "Email My Heart" on . . . Baby One More Time.
Gradually, Britney grew on me. By the time "Sometimes" hit the airwaves, I was reluctantly singing along, and when "(You Drive Me) Crazy" was released, I stopped trying to deny it: I loved Britney Spears. In a world where celebrity was dependent on a gorgeous face and a bone-thin body, it both amazed and reassured my insecure 16-year-old self that a girl who was merely mildly pretty and pudgy by industry standards was suddenly hailed as the girl that men ages 14 to 40 would most like to have sex with. The wonderful thing about Miss Spears was that no matter how bleach-blonde her hair got or how dubbed her vocals were, she was wonderfully, refreshingly real in a way that Audrey and Grace were never allowed to be. Even Britney's peers were comparatively overprocessed: Jessica Simpson got famous and then slutty, Christina got famous and then drrrrrrty, even Mandy Moore got famous and then gained legitimacy -- but even after Britney hit Hollywood, she was still just a normal teenage girl. She was best friends with her cousin, she had awful skin, she worried about her weight, she ate McDonald's, she was a mess in relationships: it was so fun to watch her grow up. There never any pretense about her.
My Britney love continued unabated for many years. My college roommate still recalls how weirded out she was when, upon moving into our dorm room, one of the first things I did was hang up the Britney calendar that my friends had given me as a gag gift for Christmas the year before. I forced all my friends to see Crossroads. I knew the words to every song on Oops! . . . I Did It Again.
Then came the K-Fed debacle, the downward spiral, the white trash wedding, the tabloid reports of infidelity, the fashion choices that made it look like Britney was trying to win the award for "Most Times Appearing on Go Fug Yourself." As much as I hated to do it, I had to switch my pop starlet allegiance to the charming and adorable Kelly Clarkson. But you never forget your first love.
I think Britney is a metaphor for the way a lot of people feel about their whole lives. She used to be the golden girl; she had everything. She had the rockin' body. She redefined what was allowed to be beautiful. She posed in her underwear on the cover of Rolling Stone, and men everywhere drooled. Millions of dollars, the boyfriend that every 14-year-old girl in America wanted, sold-out tours, platinum albums. And yet -- it wasn't enough. The problem with having at all by the time you hit 17 is that you have no clue how to maintain it -- and then you spent the rest of your life trying to chase down that elusive "everything." Britney, like lots of us, looked for it first in inappropriate men -- and didn't find it. Motherhood, music, partying -- none of these seemed any more effective.
And meanwhile, fame only made things worse for her. Remember that guy you dated when you were twenty who all your friends and even your mom -- what seemed like everyone -- told you he was no good for you, while you swore up and down that they didn't know anything, he loved you, they didn't hear the things he told you when you were alone -- and then a few months later he cheated on you and walked out, leaving you heartbroken? In Britney's case, it literally was everyone telling her to stay away; the entire country made fun of her for hooking up with Federline. Meanwhile, her ex-boyfriend is still singing songs about how she cheated on him and "what goes around comes around" while he cavorts with every Hollywood Hottie of the Week (does he want Scarlet Johansen's infamous boobs or Jessica Biel's world-reknowned ass this week?). K-Fed's trying to take her money. Social Services is trying to take her kids. And the entire world has decided that, opposed to indicating serious emotional problems, shaving her head and checking herself into rehab are just indicative of a need for publicity.
The general public has never been appropriately concerned about the antics of Young Hollywood. If your sister or your best friend was running around acting like Lindsay Lohan, you'd be alarmed, but with Lindsay, the cocaine and the anorexia and the alcohol are just signs that she's weak and shallow and spoiled to death. Britney's downfall, too, just triggers that wave of schadenfreude. Everybody loves a good girl gone wrong.
But I think it's sad. It's sad that we use her as a scapegoat for the things that we hate in ourselves. The desperation. The fear. Wanting to be taken care of. Worrying that nobody's going to love us. The vulnerability. Being afraid that the best days of our life actually were when we were 18 and dating Justin Timberlake and that we can never get that back. It's really sad that people can't look at this and see somebody who is completely lost and has no idea how to fix all the things that are broken.
I still have faith in a Britney comeback. But more and more, I think I'm the only one.
Gradually, Britney grew on me. By the time "Sometimes" hit the airwaves, I was reluctantly singing along, and when "(You Drive Me) Crazy" was released, I stopped trying to deny it: I loved Britney Spears. In a world where celebrity was dependent on a gorgeous face and a bone-thin body, it both amazed and reassured my insecure 16-year-old self that a girl who was merely mildly pretty and pudgy by industry standards was suddenly hailed as the girl that men ages 14 to 40 would most like to have sex with. The wonderful thing about Miss Spears was that no matter how bleach-blonde her hair got or how dubbed her vocals were, she was wonderfully, refreshingly real in a way that Audrey and Grace were never allowed to be. Even Britney's peers were comparatively overprocessed: Jessica Simpson got famous and then slutty, Christina got famous and then drrrrrrty, even Mandy Moore got famous and then gained legitimacy -- but even after Britney hit Hollywood, she was still just a normal teenage girl. She was best friends with her cousin, she had awful skin, she worried about her weight, she ate McDonald's, she was a mess in relationships: it was so fun to watch her grow up. There never any pretense about her.
My Britney love continued unabated for many years. My college roommate still recalls how weirded out she was when, upon moving into our dorm room, one of the first things I did was hang up the Britney calendar that my friends had given me as a gag gift for Christmas the year before. I forced all my friends to see Crossroads. I knew the words to every song on Oops! . . . I Did It Again.
Then came the K-Fed debacle, the downward spiral, the white trash wedding, the tabloid reports of infidelity, the fashion choices that made it look like Britney was trying to win the award for "Most Times Appearing on Go Fug Yourself." As much as I hated to do it, I had to switch my pop starlet allegiance to the charming and adorable Kelly Clarkson. But you never forget your first love.
I think Britney is a metaphor for the way a lot of people feel about their whole lives. She used to be the golden girl; she had everything. She had the rockin' body. She redefined what was allowed to be beautiful. She posed in her underwear on the cover of Rolling Stone, and men everywhere drooled. Millions of dollars, the boyfriend that every 14-year-old girl in America wanted, sold-out tours, platinum albums. And yet -- it wasn't enough. The problem with having at all by the time you hit 17 is that you have no clue how to maintain it -- and then you spent the rest of your life trying to chase down that elusive "everything." Britney, like lots of us, looked for it first in inappropriate men -- and didn't find it. Motherhood, music, partying -- none of these seemed any more effective.
And meanwhile, fame only made things worse for her. Remember that guy you dated when you were twenty who all your friends and even your mom -- what seemed like everyone -- told you he was no good for you, while you swore up and down that they didn't know anything, he loved you, they didn't hear the things he told you when you were alone -- and then a few months later he cheated on you and walked out, leaving you heartbroken? In Britney's case, it literally was everyone telling her to stay away; the entire country made fun of her for hooking up with Federline. Meanwhile, her ex-boyfriend is still singing songs about how she cheated on him and "what goes around comes around" while he cavorts with every Hollywood Hottie of the Week (does he want Scarlet Johansen's infamous boobs or Jessica Biel's world-reknowned ass this week?). K-Fed's trying to take her money. Social Services is trying to take her kids. And the entire world has decided that, opposed to indicating serious emotional problems, shaving her head and checking herself into rehab are just indicative of a need for publicity.
The general public has never been appropriately concerned about the antics of Young Hollywood. If your sister or your best friend was running around acting like Lindsay Lohan, you'd be alarmed, but with Lindsay, the cocaine and the anorexia and the alcohol are just signs that she's weak and shallow and spoiled to death. Britney's downfall, too, just triggers that wave of schadenfreude. Everybody loves a good girl gone wrong.
But I think it's sad. It's sad that we use her as a scapegoat for the things that we hate in ourselves. The desperation. The fear. Wanting to be taken care of. Worrying that nobody's going to love us. The vulnerability. Being afraid that the best days of our life actually were when we were 18 and dating Justin Timberlake and that we can never get that back. It's really sad that people can't look at this and see somebody who is completely lost and has no idea how to fix all the things that are broken.
I still have faith in a Britney comeback. But more and more, I think I'm the only one.