I just finished reading this epic article called "When I Was Russell Crowe's Stooge" that recently appeared in an Australian newspaper. It's about the ass-kissing abyss a journalist can find him or herself when a big movie star turns on the charm (and dangles the glamorous high life like a glittering carrot before one's eyes). After being suckered into a "friendship" with the phone-tossing Cinderella Man, this Aussie writer finally comes to his senses and decides he should quit celebrity journalism altogether and get down to writing his version of "Day of the Locust".
(My book would be) a little fable that tells how these people are fakers, their pretence on film just the tip of the iceberg. How publicity is a lifestyle to he who seeks it, his lies indiscernible from our daily prayers, his conscience forgiven by his movie star dreams. How success can make a good man swollen with lust for praise, needlessly bluffing his way into good books and buying his way out of bad. About how this egotist's plaything called Motion Pictures is out of control, the characters jumping from the screens and swinging their dicks in ordinary lives. All the world's a stage, it seems, and an elite few are aware of the plot. We clueless extras are there to be deceived, abused and bullied into playing our parts, for the show that celebrates the stars must go on.
Ouch! And just to remind all us Tinsel Towners why we got into this slimely little Business we call Show in the first place, I give you the exhuberant song stylings of Hastings Riverside Company Showchoir! (Thank you to musician/produer/archivest Don Fleming for sending me this clip! I laughed so hard I triggered a hot flash!)
Maybe Mr. Crowe should lighten up and say "Yes" to jazz hands!
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