Back in the day, we used to watch our stars from a comfortable distance, be it films, sports, music, or politics. They were glorified, but there was a special something about them. Call it intrigue, call it aura. A good way to name it? Mystique. Now, I reckon that term might seem foreign to many millennial minds today, born in a time of 24/7 Kardashian coverage and Insta-famous influencers. Oh, how the mystique has fallen.
In my humble, 50-year lodgings in Schenectady, New York, there was a prime time when celebrities were revered figures. Their lives, while glamorous and more exciting than our everyday routine, weren’t quite open for piñata-style whacking that is common these days. They weren’t content fodder for the ravenous, often-mean beast that social media has become.
Remember Cary Grant, with his perfect diction and polished looks? Or Grace Kelly, the epitome of charm and beauty, her elegance only intensified by being kept at a respectful distance? What made these stars so magnetic was the fact that they remained ‘up there’ while we ‘down here’ could only wonder, project and speculate. You wanted to see more of James Dean? You’d wait for his next big release. You yearned for Audrey Hepburn’s style? You’d look forward to the new issue of Vogue. And Prince’s groundbreaking sound? You would have to catch him on MTV, or better yet, in concert.
Fast-forward to the present day. That delicious anticipation, the respect-borne distance between celebs and fans, has been replaced with the grossly overshared lives of the rich and famous. Nowadays, we seem privy to each sigh, burp and spat spat out by our celebs. Want to see Kim Kardashian’s breakfast? Check out her Instagram stories. Fancy a dose of Drake’s new bling? It’s all over Twitter. Looking for a minute-by-minute update on Bieber’s latest feud? Count on TMZ for the exclusive.
Don’t get me wrong. I much enjoy knowing that my Boston Red Sox heroes also favor a cold brew after a grueling game. Or that Meryl Streep, admired globally, also suffers through New England winters like myself, batting down frozen pipes. It makes them relatable, human. But the line between their world and ours shouldn’t be so blurred that they fade into our mundane populace, becoming occupied by the same trivialities that consume us all.
Why, I remember the thrill as a child, standing outside the Proctor’s Theatre in downtown Schenectady, carefully clutching my homemade sign, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Beatles. How my heart pounded when Paul McCartney’s car rode by, windows up, the Fab Four’s faces barely discernible. It was mystery that sparked my love for music, the thrill of the inaccessible. Then, when they played their upbeat tunes, it felt like the heavens opened up as we were given a rare share of their world.
Compare this with today’s pop idols who Tweet every thought, trivial or pivotal, leaving nothing up to imagination. It’s like watching a magic trick with the magician explaining each step. Where’s the magic when you’ve seen behind the curtain?
I would argue that this constant exposure, while feeding curiosity, does the stars themselves a disservice. It’s an irony I’ve noticed at my quiet gazebo in Schenectady’s Central Park. Ducks, at first wary of humans, over time grow accustomed to the constant feeding. They cease their quest for food, lazily waiting for their next bread crumb.
Similarly, celebrities are losing the motivation to enthrall us with their true talents – their acting, athletic prowess, musical genius. They are cushioned by their Instagram likes, reassured by their Google trends, supplemented by their Twitter followers. Their artistry, their narrative – veritably their mystique – is swallowed by this noise.
Back in Schenectady, we see stars on clear nights. They shimmer from afar, beautiful and untouchable. And that’s how our stars should be. Not in our backyards, but up there, twinkling, leaving us in awe and wonder, perpetuating the thrill that once was. The thrill of mystique. That, I submit, we should remember.
