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Theory of RelativityHomeCelebrities in mirror are less famous than they appear. Some things from Britain, like Burberry and Simon Cowell, translate very well over here. Other things, not so much. One night this past summer, I found myself trying to break the crossover code while walking on the Strand in London, when I heard wolf whistles and a whole lot of whooping. “Dean! Dean! Dean!” Hundreds of young, hyperventilating Brit ladies had gathered outside the Adelphi Theatre, and the crowd was about as wild and hectic as Rod Stewart’s hair. Seeing through the thick huddle was impossible. Looking up, however, I noticed that the awning was mirrored, and so I stood there, craning my neck in a manner not recommended by chiropractors. Would I glimpse this “Dean” upside down, whoever Dean was?
I anxiously searched my brain files for a Dean of note. Was it the 1990s-era Superman Dean Cain, still, bizarrely, capable of creating pandemonium in London town? Was it the ghost of Dean Martin? The phantom of James Dean? Then I noticed the sign that read “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” which was playing at the theatre. A star boy-lita emerged – pretty and Orlando Bloom-like – flashing his smile and being led by handlers. I had no idea who he was. In my hotel room later that evening, Google informed me that Dean was Dean Collinson, and besides playing an Elvis-inspired Pharaoh in Joseph, he was also somewhat famous for successfully suing Andrew Lloyd Webber for nearly $15,000 after suffering a hernia and other injuries on a different production. I still had no idea who he was. And I liked it. For a social columnist such as myself, visiting England is, at times, like being a botanist and suddenly discovering a new species of plants. The U.K. – with its trolley-full of mystifying soap stars, well-enunciating aristocrats and special-to-Her-Majesty reality TV personalities – is a reminder that Hollywood isn’t the be-all and end-all of celebrity that it often seems. Around the world, fame is mostly a local phenomenon, just as it’s always been. In part, the famous-only-in-England thing is remarkable because of the sheer number of celebs over there. Plus, the U.K. doesn’t seem that different; for the most part, we like the same movies, the same music, the same fashion and, sure, their sense of humour is famously dry, but we love Ricky Gervais! There’s a lot of crossover on entertainment’s top shelf, but for every Nigella Lawson, there is a Billie Piper. For every Amy Winehouse, there is a Sophie Ellis-Bextor. For every Sienna Miller, there is a Peaches Geldof (Bob’s daughter, who is very, very famous in London and very, very not elsewhere). The phenomenon exists in Canada too. Quebec is an obvious example, with a different language and a pop culture electric fence. Lucie Laurier and Guy A. Lepage could surely walk the streets of Toronto undisturbed. But in the rest of Canada, we also have our own star system, with its own set of incongruities and boldface particulars. An example: In Toronto last year, I was at a film party where I saw a photographer trying to get American über-producer Harvey Weinstein to pose with Canadian chanteuse Chantal Kreviazuk. Confused, Weinstein plainly asked her, “Who are you?” “Oh, nobody,” replied the singer, who is famous enough in Canada to get on eTalk almost every second day and to have her own hair product commercial. The truth is that many of Kreviazuk’s compatriots would not have mustered such a self-effacing response; rather, they gaze longingly across the border, coveting that distinct brand of American fame. The same phenomenon exists in Britain in spades. Indeed, the country that gave us Ozzy Osbourne and Gordon Ramsay is filled with stars who have chips on their shoulders since they’re not bigger elsewhere. It’s this vexing situation that may have prompted the royal migration of Posh and Becks to America. How to Lose Friends & Alienate People author Toby Young has commented on this schizophrenia: “Even British celebrities, oddly enough, feel like second-class citizens if they haven’t yet made it in America.” It’s an illusion, of course, that America is where celebrity begins and ends, and the theory of relative fame works deliciously in reverse too. When silver-haired newsman Anderson Cooper appeared on the cover of Vanity Fair last year, he did not get to show off his mug in the corresponding British version of the mag. And you, Mr. Skinny Tie-favouring Ryan Seacrest, you probably couldn’t get arrested in London if you tried. In fact, in the celebrity corridors of Britain, Mr. American Idol may actually take a backseat to Dean Collinson. And, hey, isn’t that just jolly? Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net Shinan Govani is the Scene columnist for the National Post and frequently appears on television commenting on celebrities and the social whirl. |
