Sultans of spin
Back in my youth, I went to a club. I drank something I shouldn’t have, smoked something I shouldn’t have, and spent most of the evening looking like the ghost of Tilda Swinton, periodically collapsing on the floor where I lay staring at the swimmy faces of concerned – and then very cross – bouncers. It was the most humiliating night of my life. I still swear it was due to low blood pressure.
The next morning, ashamed and craving eggs, I dyed my hair black so I could go to our local breakfast spot without being recognised. My husband mentioned that, perhaps, I had an aggrandised vision of myself and that, most probably, no one had the faintest idea who I was or what I had been up to. Nevertheless, that weekend I learnt three things: going incognito is good; lying is always an option; and smoking something that comes wrapped in banana leaves is best avoided.
Charlie Sheen obviously never went to my school of disaster management. He might have got the hair dyeing right, but when it comes to lying and going incognito, he lags like a moustachioed Grade 5 pupil at the back of the class. But it was not always so. He once had a PR agent.
As the actor hurtles towards a crotch-wincing meltdown, the role of Hollywood’s spin doctors is becoming increasingly apparent. It now makes sense that they are often snapped looking bedraggled and grey while their charges mwah-mwah radiantly through the throngs. It’s the spin doctors who keep the sick stars glittering. Without them, the celebs are just like us, only with kabbalah wristbands.
When Tom Cruise did his Oprah couch-jumping stunt, he had just fired his PR agent. When Brit decided to do a Sinead O’Connor, her publicity army was nowhere to be found. Three weeks ago, Sheen got rid of his spin doctor, and without that protective bandaging, his antics seem increasingly bizarre: he’s touring the US with a live show called My Violent Torpedo Of Truth/Defeat Is Not An Option; he’s filed a R100 million lawsuit against the co-creator and executive producer of Two And A Half Men and Warner Bros; he’s advertising for an intern to help promote and develop the social media network of “Hollywood’s most trending celebrity”; he’s hired Israeli Army veterans as bodyguards and he spends hours ranting like a loony on his internet TV show. He has also started wearing very silly glasses.
More disturbing has been the public’s reaction to his un-airbrushed outpourings. Tickets to his live show sold out in 18 minutes. He received more than 74 000 applications from 181 countries for the intern job. He made the Guinness Book of World Records for being the fastest to reach one million followers on Twitter in just over 24 hours. Does this mean we are fond of witnessing celebrities in their unadorned, raw form, or are we ghoulishly rubber-necking an accident, waiting for the star to implode?
Whichever it is, we could learn from Charlie’s mistakes and remember the power of PR.
When Heath Ledger died, we were told it was due to an “accidental overdose”. This approach could come in handy in a number of scenarios: “I had an accidental over-buy of Nine West shoes”; “I accidentally fell into a vat of chardonnay”; “I had an accidental over-love of my work colleague”; “I accidentally let some white powder blow up my nose”.
Sex scandals can also get the PR treatment. While looking like a slag is encouraged in Hollywood, being one is not widely accepted. However, a new scapegoat has started flapping its bollocks in the LA breeze. Caught in flagrante delicto with David Duchovny? No problem. Issue a statement describing the pain of your sex addiction, and how you intend going somewhere very expensive in order to deal with it. Nabbed on camera swopping sweat with someone who looks more like your personal trainer than your husband? Not an issue. Tell your husband you like him, but have this terrible demon deep inside you that forces you into gym cupboards to have sex with men called Shane. Cry. Punch your thighs a little. Ask for his help in a small-girl voice.
This addiction spin can also be used when you get fat from accidentally overdosing on Pringles and Xanax. You can carefully type a press release that details your struggle as a young African-American to find a mother figure. Eat pies while you type the letter as the oily marks on the paper will lend authenticity to the document.
Crashing cars and being nabbed having man-sex in public places can be swept under the bathroom mat if you have really white teeth. Just ask George. Receiving oral sex from a woman with a name like a nail salon can be forgotten if you have a posh accent. Just ask Hugh. Stealing necklaces from shops can be forgiven if you were once freckled and red-haired but are now blonde. Just ask Lindsay.
Methinks some of our country’s wealthier citizens should consider the services of a good PR person. Schabir would need one with a degree in stage make-up. Steve could do with one specialised in highlights and race relations. Kuli would only benefit from a brain surgeon.
For the rest of us, Clairol do a brilliant mahogany rinse. And it’s always easier to lie with a hangover.