Like most people, I don't often think about Hilary Swank. Or her husband Chad Lowe. I've met them a couple times in the course of work, and they seemed lovely. So it was surprising when my computer started insisting I read about their marriage. Suddenly, I couldn't even check my email without dodging pop-up windows, teasing me with the promise of their tawdry secrets: "Hilary Swank tells all about Chad's substance abuse problem!" I mean... Seriously? Putting aside the obvious question of who fucking cares, there was the sadder feeling of a two-time Oscar winner ratting out her ex-tv star ex-husband (whom she forgot to thank in her acceptance speech) after dumping him. Why would she do such a graceless, tacky thing? Then it all clicked: she wanted the cover of Vanity Fair. And she got it.
The fact is, spilling an ugly secret is the price of admission for the cover of Vanity Fair. And it's corporate policy. Just ask Terri Hatcher, who tried to peddle "I got dumped by Clooney and/or Seacrest" and ended up having to go with "my uncle molested me" to get the cover. Anderson Cooper revealed "for the first time" the tragic details of his brother's suicide, and became one of the few men to grace the cover. Jennifer Aniston practically subjected herself to a full cavity search to get the cover. And of course there's perennial fave Nicole Kidman, who has really mastered the art of giving V.F. readers emotional, in-depth interviews that reveal absolutely nothing. In fact, other wanna-be cover victims should take a page from Nic's book; she's great at gaming the system.
But I don't really blame Vanity Fair for the current pop culture of confession. In fact, I blame Oprah. She legitimized and encouraged the notion that celebrities have to reveal hideous secrets to become human, and humans have to reveal hideous secrets to become celebrities. It's probably not a coincidence that a woman like Oprah, who was raised reciting scripture in Mississippi churches from the age of three, would become the nation's pastor, hosting afternoon confessionals. Every weekday afternoon, she leads her flock of 25 million into one side of the sacred booth, to hear what co-opted guests will whisper through the partition.
But even Oprah's raising the stakes. No longer is it enough to kiss and tell. Any of J.Lo's husbands could do that. No, Oprah now wants to actually possess her victims. Recently, of course, there was Jennifer Aniston, the modern role model for all victims who would like to cash in personal sorrow for fame vouchers. She literally moved into Oprah's Santa Barbara ranch, sensing no safer place for a woman wronged who's eager to spill intimate details in front of a camera.
Then Oprah had Anderson Cooper actually drive with a camera crew to show us the spot where his brother hit the pavement after jumping to his death from his apartment balcony. He hadn't been there in a long time. He choked back tears. Oprah wasn't with him of course, she's far too busy to actually participate in the orgiastic confessional ritual from which she profits so handsomely. But she did arrange to have Anderson's mother listen in the audience as he recounted the tragedy. Oprah then had mom recount her version, while Anderson listened, framed in the tightest close-up possible with current technology. That, my fellow Americans, is the price of doing business with Oprah.
So, too, is punishment by Oprah. Fake drunk author James Frey had to get ambushed, not because she cares about the integrity of her book club, but because there is no greater offense in Oprah-land than a false confession. And just a couple weeks ago, she started gunning for guest Meg Ryan when Meg wouldn't play "poor me" in response to Oprah's baiting questions about how hard it is to be famous. "I don't think many people can relate to that problem, Oprah. I'm here to talk about the CARE organization in India." Oprah looked like she was going to kill her.
According to Christianity Today, Oprah's "effect extends beyond media. She is a force that has permeated the way we think about culture and interpersonal communication." The Wall Street Journal coined the word 'Oprahfication' to describe "public confession as a form of therapy." Jet magazine uses Oprah as a verb: "I didn't want to tell her, but. ... she Oprah'd it out of me." Politicians now hold "Oprah-style" town meetings to gauge the mood of their constituents.
Like many, I respect the hell out of what Oprah has done to make the world a better place. And I guess I shouldn't be surprised that a woman whose rise was fueled by her own confessional stories of child molestation, incest, and teen pregnancy would believe there is healing power in revealing all in front of a devoted congregation. But the inevitable bastard child of such ethics is the cover of Vanity Fair, and people like Hilary Swank selling loved ones down the river to get there.
A while back, I had dinner with an Oscar winning actress who had been unceremoniously dumped by an Oscar winning actor, so he could marry a younger, more famous Oscar winner. "Vanity Fair called," she told me, "they said they'd put me on the cover if I gave them dirt on (her ex)." I knew this was a real dilemma for her, as her acting career could use the boost such publicity would bring, and her venom for her ex was still running hot. The opportunity seemed too tempting to turn down. "I'm not gonna do it," she said, surprising the hell out of me. "Really?" "Yeah. I think Jackie O. had it right, you know? Keep your fucking mouth shut."