I AM FINDING myself inexplicably attracted to Kevin Spacey.
Not, in a physical sense, it has to be said. No, the compulsion to stare at Spacey manifests itself in a need to hit the Netflix button, to take in (belatedly) his performance in political drama House of Cards.
But why? Have I suddenly been touched by his greatness? Unlikely. He’s convinced many times over the years. A sense of schadenfreude perhaps, a Great Gatsby-like experience in the form of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s seducing us with Hollywood glamour and then we see the make-up stripped off?
Spacey’s funeral has been dragging on mercilessly for several weeks now, like a New Orleans procession marching past us at a slow rate, tubas and trumpets bellowing, the watching world celebrating the end of an acting legend.
Is Spacey-watching an odd, unconscious rebellion, a way of saying actors such as White Gold star Ed Westwick may indeed be a vile sex beast (as three actresses have claimed on social media) but what of due process? Is it a way of kicking against trial by social media, that in today’s world accusation alone is proof? While those theories are tossed around the head like an odd sock in a tumble dryer another thought dawns. Perhaps the Spacey fascination is an attempt to answer another question; can we separate the artist from the man?
Should we switch off the Spaceys of the world because they have crossed the line?
This week practising miserablist Morrissey suggested some alleged victims of Harvey Weinstein were “just disappointed” that they hadn’t been given a “great career”. The singer’s comments have caused a furore, and provided many with another reason not to buy his new (duff) album.
But if we are to reject idols who behave atrociously where does that leave us with the likes of the fabulous Sinatra, whom according to several authors has, at the very least, used Mafia friends to have legs broken? More recently it was even claimed he tried to have Woody Allen killed. Does this mean the Sinatra CDs should hit the trashcan? Or in fact, we should give up on Woody Allen movies given his relationship with his adopted daughter?
Looking in on Spacey is also perhaps a subconscious way of questioning our own individual responsibilities. If we truly care about abuse, that should override all judgements about entertainment value and talent. And demand a distancing from the performers we adore. But does it?
Steve McQueen has always been a personal screen idol, from that first sighting in 1963 at the La Scala in Paisley when he looked the epitomy of cool in The Great Escape, through performances such as the enigmatic Thomas Crown. But recently an actress friend, Shirley Anne Field, who’d worked with McQueen in 1962 film The War Lover, revealed the blue-eyed boy wasn’t always nice to women.
Does this mean the annual Christmas tune in to The Great Escape will be a prisoner to conscience?
There are no real guidelines in society to help with the answers. We live in a radio world that still plays Michael Jackson records, the desperation to play Billie Jean over-ridding the serious allegations of child abuse. We chose to love Sean Connery, despite his misogyny, because he was a great Bond.
We revere writers such as Truman Capote, choosing to ignore his predilection for seeming to adore murderers.
What also adds to the confusion is the shifting, often contrasting manner in the way we judge celebrities of their crimes and misdemeanours. Former Eastenders actor Leslie Grantham, for example, managed to build on stardom after it was revealed he’d once murdered. But one night of panto dressing room madness when he flashed his Dick Whittington via social media saw his career vanish in a puff of opprobrium.
Our confused relationship with flawed celebrity figures runs closer to home. Who didn’t love Rikki Fulton in Francie and Josie and Scotch and Wry? But who didn’t suffer from his spiteful behaviour, his great talent for comedy often running a close second to his ability to make others feel small.
The same could be said for Lex McLean. And by several accounts, if Duncan Macrae were alive and working in theatre today, there are scores of young actresses who would be wearing a #MeToo t-shirt to rehearsals.
There could be another reason for watching Spacey on television; perhaps it’s a study in seeing him play yet another oleaginous creature (as in Seven, American Beauty, Baby Driver) to see how easily he drew from his own character.
Perhaps Spacey isn’t such a great actor after all.
But perhaps what we have remember is he’s a two dimensional character, three or four inches high, and he’s speaking words written for him by a very clever screenwriter. We have to separate the artist from the private person.
Otherwise there won’t be too many TV shows or films we can tune into.
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