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The dangers of being a celebrity
When Tom Cruise leapt up and down on Oprah Winfrey's sofa
to proclaim his love for Katie Holmes, the world was divided
over his sanity.
Half the planet thought, "Of course he's mad. He's famous.
Sends them all crackers." And the other half thought,
"He obviously isn't mad, because he's famous. That excuses
anything."
It isn't a crime to mistreat the furniture on a worldwide
chatshow. And there's nothing illegal about calling a press
conference to announce that, two hours ago, you proposed to
your girlfriend, as Cruise did after popping the question
at the top of the Eiffel tower.
(The joke doing the rounds among green-eyed celebs this week,
as we marvel at the publicity Tom and Katie are creating for
their latest movies, is that when Katie said "Yes",
she added: "You can stop kneeling now." And Tom
said, "I'm not kneeling.")
Nobody who doesn't know the happy couple personally (and
I don't) can really be sure whether their exuberant happiness
is for real, although I feel they truly are in love - their
bizarre statements are just the kind of frantic chatter that
actors use when no one is writing their scripts.
These are people who call their most casual friends "darling"
and "you wonderful thing". What kind of language
is left to describe genuine emotions? There's no choice but
to start punching the cushions.
The same instant judgments we make about celebrity trivia
are applied when stars are accused of crimes.
Nobody waited for the verdict before deciding whether Winona
Ryder was guilty of shoplifting, for example; half the world
started kvetching about megastars who thought they were above
the law, and the rest pointed to the pressures of celebrity,
which could make anyone innocently scoop the contents of the
perfume counter into their handbag before walking out of the
store whistling.
I'm always careful never to carry money, because that ensures
I won't be tempted to buy anything when I'm out. That way,
nobody can ever accuse me of plotting a shoplifting expedition
- no matter how trumped up the accusations, I know that half
the public would be automatically convinced of my guilt.
That's not antisemitism, it's anti-celebritism. I'm not Jewish,
I'm famous.
Unimaginably worse than claims of pilfering from department
stores, the charges against my friend Michael Jackson were
appalling.
His horrendous ordeal through the Californian courts has
seemed endless. I can hardly believe it's over, and I know
it will be many months before he begins to feel that the lies
and libels are in the past.
The trial dragged on for 14 weeks, even though it was quickly
clear that prosecutor Tom Sneddon had no evidence worthy of
the name.
If Michael had not been so celebrated, the case could not
possibly have gone to court, even in America. He was, in effect,
on trial for being famous.
My lawyer son Daniel agrees with me that in Britain the case
would have been dismissed - assuming the Crown Prosecution
Service could have been reckless enough to press charges.
As Dan says, "British justice must be seen to be done.
American justice must be seen to be believed."
I knew with complete certainty that my friend was innocent
of all charges, because early in our friendship I quizzed
him under hypnosis. This was during the last stages of the
recording of Invincible, and he was under intense stress.
At his request, I put him into a trance and planted positive
ideas of calmness, peace and spiritual tranquility deep in
his mind.
And then I did something which was certainly not at his request:
I probed his psyche for skeletons. Maybe I was behaving unethically,
but if I was to be this man's friend I had to know the truth
about the rumours that had dogged him for years. "Michael
Jackson," I commanded, "tell me with total honesty
what was the real story behind the allegations of sexual abuse
made against you by the boy Jordy Chandler?"
He answered without hesitation. "It was all made up.
His family just wanted my money."
"Why did you pay the family?"
"It was the easiest thing to do."
The statement was simple and unembroidered, made without
pause to invent a lie.
"I couldn't take it any more. I'd had enough."
"Have you ever touched a child or a young person in
a way that you shouldn't?" I asked. And he replied: "Never.
I would never do that. My friendships with children are all
very beautiful."
At the outset of the trial in Santa Maria, Michael's legal
team handed over a list of stars whose testimony might be
called upon during the defence.
They included Jay Leno and Macauley Culkin, who both gave
evidence on Michael's behalf. Culkin, the former child star
of Home Alone, was particularly convincing as he crushed suggestions
that Neverland's sleepovers had ever involved any hint of
sordidness.
Like Elizabeth Taylor and Liza Minelli, I was among those
named but not called. I believe that Tom Mesereau, Michael's
chief lawyer, feared the defence could degenerate into a celebrity
parade.
If I had taken the stand, I would have used all my energy
to convey to the jury how certain I was of Michael's innocence.
But there was a danger the jury would automatically discount
anything I told them: "You would say that, wouldn't you...
you're famous, like him!"
Michael's trial has convinced me more than ever of the dangers
of celebrity. I'm used to the crank calls, the oddball fans
and the grafitti outside my home.
What happened in Neverland was different: the stalkers were
the police, the lawyers, the establishment.
It isn't only the fans who are obsessed with the cult of
fame: it has reached into the heart of the justice system.
Email
him at uri@urigeller.com
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