ALL THIS, AND LEGS TOO

John Lyttle examines the new

phenomenon of stars who want their fame to be infinitely translatable

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, pause a moment with me to consider the strange case of supermodel Naomi Campbell and her wannabe bestseller, further proof that celebrity status, cheapened as it is, can be further debased if the money and the envi- ronment are right.

To wit: the world and its wife know that Caroline Upcher, not Naomi, actually wrote the fashion industry novel Swan which carries only the Campbell name (trade mark? copyright?). Indeed, the cognoscenti also know that the unfeasibly dressed and unfeasibly literate Naomi has, quite literally, lost the plot. Unable to digest the bonkbuster in time for the obli- gatory round of interviews — too busy recording her first album, darling — Campbell has been supplied by her pub- lishers, Heinemann, with a 250-word syn- opsis of 'her' novel so that Q & A sessions with the press wouldn't be all Q and no A.

But does anyone hold this sleight-of- hand against the catwalk queen? Not at all. On the contrary, everyone rather expects multi-'talents' to go with the today's multi- media: broaden your career options and extend your shelf life in the pop culture supermarket. If you don't have more than one string to your bow, then baby, you had better — ooh yes, yes, yes — fake it. That's what La Campbell has been forced to do, just to keep up with Joan Collins (Prime Time), Ivana Trump (For Love Alone) and Britt Ekland (Sweet Life): all celebrities with something to say and a compulsion to share their hard-earned wisdom. The fact that what they have to impart is mostly drivel (Collins prose sample: 'He played her like a Stradivarius') and that these tomes seldom sell strongly enough to justi- fy their hysterical advances — Campbell landed herself a cool f100,000 — is beside the point. The point is that the Nineties celebrity feels she or he has the divine right not only to Have It All but to Do It All too.

Granite lump Sylvester Stallone, for instance, has launched a second career as a painter (free estimate and second coat included). Actress Julie Goodyear wants to be a chat-show hostess (despite her pilot- show bombing on a nuclear scale). Model Elle McPherson, sweet traditional thing, wants to be a thespian, the usual route for girls who think their faces are not merely their fortunes but big box office too — and talent (along with ability, skill and aptitude) be damned. Fame no longer recognises any boundaries.

Part of this is, undoubtedly, due to our old friends ambition and ego, both forma- tive pressures integral to the creation of any star. As anyone who has ever worked for a celebrity will tell you — if they man- aged to avoid signing the standard gag clause in their contract — celebrities are deaf to self-doubt (Naomi, for one, truly believes she has 'millions of fans around the world').

Protected by agents, managers, advisers, publicists and sundry other slaves and hangers-on, the idol lives in a golden cocoon. Bad news is filtered, if not elimi- nated, and good news exaggerated. The celebrity is returned to a child-lii& state — have you noticed how often stars are reported to have had 'tantrums'? — and is encouraged to dwell obsessively on the one thing Mummy and society says he shouldn't: 'Self, self, self!' And no one 'What, you mean they're still in power?' within the entourage is going to say 'No', not even when the celebrity suddenly takes a day job as sex therapist to the universe (Madonna), or claims to have developed miraculous healing powers (Engelbert Humperdinck says he can cure cancer), or decides that he, like the Blues Brothers, is on a mission from God. Step forward David Icke, former BBC sports presenter, now currently self-employed as an environ- mentally sound, eminently biodegradable Messiah. Blinded by flashbulbs, Engelbert and Icke don't see what we see, and even their best friends aren't going to tell them . . .

Children, of course, think they can do everything without practice, without prepa- ration, without due thought. Stars, like chil- dren, are easily deluded.

So Michael Jackson adds to his curricu- lum vitae by playing the international statesman, setting himself the small goal of Healing the World when Saving His Career should be top of the agenda. Cher — Mother Teresa with Big Hair and a wardrobe full of body stockings — thinks nothing of invading Armenia to spread love and lipstick traces as the conflict with Azerbaijan rages. And so on and so on until the sight of two pop singers dabbling in peace, famine and war almost seems normal.

It wasn't always like this. Fred Astaire was content to do the splits, not split the atom, but that was well before the Eighties, an era which may, in the final reckoning, have infinitely more to account for than the Sixties, the decade demonised by the far Right.

The Eighties, after all, gave us Ronald 'Two Terms' Reagan — an actor in the White House! — and Band Aid, events that forever blurred the line between show- biz and serious. Band Aid was a noble enterprise that actually effected a measure of change, but the cultual fall-out was dev- astating. The Eighties witnessed politicians attending charm school, like so many Rank starlets, learning to look plausible on the camera.

This was good for a snigger if nothing else; less funny was the sight of pop per- formers suddenly pontificating on world affairs, as if being able to carry a tune or a megabucks movie about life on Mars enti- tled them to power beyond that granted by the giving of pleasure. Or to put it another way, Arnold Schwarzenegger endorsing George Bush is one thing, Schwarzenegger wanting to be George Bush is another. Of the two men, George remains the better actor, yet Arnie still imagines he's allowed to speak on social issues.

And oh, how a lazy media has swallowed the notion that celebrities are interesting in themselves rather than for what they do, able to turn their manicured hands and big mouths to anything under the sun.

Look around. All the categories are col- lapsing. There's Neil and Glenys Kinnock fronting GMTV, happily forgetful of how another Labour leader, Harold Wilson, once fell flat on his face pretending to be a chat-show host (but that was during the staid Seventies, when former Labour Party leaders were expected to be former Labour Party leaders, and not all-singing, all-dancing personalities).

And now we have the boyo Neil flying solo in print, interviewing footballer Ryan Giggs as if he were actually a qualified Journalist, even while confessing he has never heard of Giggs's bottle-blonde or squeeze, Dani Behr.

Regard the transmutation of Mandy Smith. Who could have predicted that under-age sex with a much older man was Just what was needed to qualify as a televi- sion presenter and aspiring chanteuse?

Perhaps that final ridiculousness marks the bottom of the barrel. Or perhaps not. After all, the Sunday Times continues to employ 'TV's' Mariella Frostnip as a columnist. They probably think they're fill- ing empty space. What they're doing is adding to it.

John Lyttle is on the staff of the Indepen- dent.