The celebrity fall from grace

Does the newsreader threaten an established narrative?

Trigger warning: this article contains references to trauma, neglect and abuse.

Will Ferrel in Anchorman (2004)

In a given year, we hold in our minds only a handful of favourite A-list film stars, only a handful of A-list singers, only a handful of A-list TV presenters, newsreaders and influencers. And yet in the same year, can we think of a film star who has suffered a dramatic fall from grace? And a singer? A TV presenter? A newsreader? I will leave out politicians to give the Americans a break at this stressful time, but you can join the dots yourself. Often, the fall from grace involves an idealised celebrity being exposed as a perpetrator or as being a fraud – not the person we were led to believe they were. I want to look at how we make sense of this phenomenon.

Of the entertainers, it was the rock star who first fell from grace. It was a long time ago. We were shocked, but then we realised that he had been on the road. He had performed night after night. And part of that lifestyle was drugs. It was a different life to ours. One we don’t understand. Drugs take their toll. He was alone in the world, on the road, when he fell from grace. Then the film star had their private life exposed. We were shocked. But then we realised how tempted he must have been. The teenagers thought he was a god. We thought about the pressures, and how young he was. There was a lack of guidance. Then the older film star fell from grace. We were surprised. But then we realised how difficult and empty his personal life had become. Then the TV presenter fell from grace. We were worried. Because he was not a rock star. And not so pursued and pressured. Perhaps he partied too much. And then, the newsreader fell from grace. And with the newsreader, our well-worn explanations, today, are really starting to show holes.

What strikes me about the newsreader exposed as perpetrator, is that it starts to undermine the narrative of exactly how fame and power wear people down so that they behave badly. In the newsreader, the persona that was presented to us was by necessity a sober one. This is a person that would deliver historic news without showing strong feelings. They were not a person of passion. Sometimes, they did smile - for that story about the baby rhino to end the programme. But the smile was never their go-to expression. Because sometimes, there is an unprecedented news announcement in the middle of the night. When this happens, the newsreader will need to be contactable. And sober. The newsreader is not on the road. They do not have teenage fans knocking on their dressing room door. For the humble newsreader, there is usually evidence of none of these things. On the surface, all that remains in common with the rock star, is fame itself. And even this appears as a more sober kind of fame. Does this raise questions?

How do we explain this falling from grace of our celebrities? I am usually found writing about the extreme cases of iconic fame. But I want to take a moment to think about the fall from grace that we are seeing more and more frequently in our TV presenters, our newsreaders, influencers and stars of reality TV.

Perhaps I am naïve. Perhaps these celebrities live like everybody else, and it gets exposed only in these high-profile figures because it makes for a shock story? Perhaps these exposes just have great voyeuristic journalistic value – at the expense of an individual whose salary we were starting to envy? Or is it something else? Is there something about the people that reach the glow of our screens, that makes them more likely to be a perpetrator than the average citizen?

The life of singer songwriter John Lennon provoked me to ask, how can the same childhood experiences provoke, in the same person both violence and creativity? Looking at the iconically famous, I have come to a conclusion about how we explain the celebrity fall from grace. Yes, there are the temptations of fame, the effects of drugs, and the corrupting of money and power. But often, before fame, before performance, and even before specific talent, there is a need to live out of a persona. We remember Tupac Shakur as a gangster rapper. This was his defining persona (with all its risks). But as a teenager he was shining as an actor, a poet and a future politician. Marlon Brando, John Lennon and Elvis drew attention at school first not because of any performance. But because of their dress code and what was called in John Lennon, a ‘front’. Brando’s antisocial biker persona in The Wild One (1953) was developed, by Brando, before he was an actor. Before fame, they were distant and aloof. They found fame, because it fitted their number one strategy for coping with life. And before persona, in these extreme examples of iconic fame, there was often trauma.

The psychological theories that connect childhood emotional trauma with persona, talent and performance are theories of narcissism (see theory post). I have been looking at performance and charisma – the holding of the attention and admiration of others – as a particular face of narcissism. Often, we find this face alone – sometimes mild, sometimes extreme. In our entertainers and celebrities, this is a valuable thing. It tells us stories. It takes us away from the disappointments of our lives. It inspires. When we are tired of life, it wakes us up.

TV production companies have the privilege of searching out and recruiting these shining lights of culture. And certainly, we should expect the best of people until their behaviour suggests otherwise. But increasingly, production companies are finding that their employees are not simply a random selection of the population who happen to come across well on screen. They are not just the people who had such a nurturing childhood that they became a leader in popular culture. They did become this kind of leader, and taking this achievement on its own, it deserves our undistracted applause. But there is often something else. When researchers gave the Narcissism Personality Inventory (NPI) to 200 celebrities to complete, all types of celebrities scored higher than average: actors, musicians, comedians and reality TV stars.¹

Narcissism theory suggests that individuals who urgently seek fame may struggle with a thorn in their side. It says they have often had a particular set of difficult emotional experiences. And charisma, performance and emotional distance became their number one strategy for escape. Whilst the child’s emotional life was invisible, and their caregivers often condemning, performance and charisma offered a completely different emotional experience. A relief. Discovering this strategy, they had to take control of it. They had to perfect it. Perhaps for those who need this strategy the most, success is most likely. Perhaps for those who need this strategy too much, the strategy itself is flawed. Because fame does not deliver constantly or consistently. And at times it can deliver the kinds of emotional experience that take the celebrity right back to the trauma. Additional strategies are then needed. And these different strategies may not be so breakfast TV friendly.

We come to view the TV presenter in an idealised way – that they are essentially better than the average human being. We have chosen them, in some way, as a person to inspire us. We rely on them to do so. Until we are let down.

Narcissism theory points to the gaining of admiration specifically as an escape from difficult childhood experiences. It explains why the person with this weakness came to be in such a role of trust. The distance from the idealised and trusted persona to experiences of vulnerability and shame is great. And it is great by design. In a person with this need for distance from vulnerability and shame, there may in some be a need for additional strategies – to make others ashamed, or to make others vulnerable. These strategies are shockingly different. But the emotional effect for the perpetrator may in some cases be shockingly similar to the effect of being admired.

Steve Carell playing a weather reporter in Anchorman (2004)

Psychological theory describes in narcissism both the performance face we value, and the perpetrator face we condemn. By selecting the extreme cases of charisma and performance, we sometimes select people who need this strategy too much. We get used to finding on our screens only those who have won this charismatic race. They are masters at provoking our attention and intrigue. Perhaps we become desensitised, and demand more edge, more wit, more charisma. Who can provide this, and what primes people to have this kind of magic? In celebrities, we seem to see an increase in both the likelihood and severity of particular risks.

If we select in our cultural leaders this performance face of narcissism, and the traumatic childhood experiences that can lead to it, we need to learn to manage the risks. But we don’t. And even if we had no obligation to, we are repeatedly dumbfounded, when a new TV presenter falls from grace. The problem, it seems, is that we want celebrities to idealise, and we want perpetrators to condemn. And we don’t want to think of our celebrities as people who might be weak. This might contaminate these archetypal and archaic roles. Instead, when the idealised TV presenter is exposed, there is a re-ordering of the narrative. They were always a perpetrator, never ideal. Or there is always the conspiracy theory: they were always ideal and are now a victim. The press try to deal with the individual case in the way that persona invites us to: as something distinct. It is not viewed as part of a phenomenon.

In the UK, the case of the TV presenter and DJ Jimmy Savile, promised to change industry thinking permanently. It was after his death that the report of Operation Yewtree was released – revealing a man who had used his celebrity, and astonishing levels of public trust, to abuse hundreds. In retrospect, the producers and directors saw high value in his magnetism, and devalued concerns about private behaviour – even if it had happened at the BBC. Even if it was TV programmes that served to introduce Savile to his victims. Senior figures in the establishment had been groomed into collusion (police officers), blackmail (hospital staff) and endorsement (the British royal family and the prime minister).

What happened after the report of Operation Yewtree? Have we thought about particular weaknesses that those drawn to fame might bring with them? Have we thought about how, whilst celebrating their talents, we can help them not to get into trouble? Have we thought about how to safeguard non-celebrities who are brought onto TV shows to interact with these idealised men and women? The TV industry probably suffers from institutional narcissism. It creates whole communities of professionals who perhaps all share similar blind spots. Have we started employing safeguarding leads who specifically do not have these blind spots? The BBC are still struggling with this issue today.

In sombre tones, the actions of another exposed perpetrator are described to us by a new high ranking and idealised newsreader. To have such shining lights, we must have some measures to detect and manage the weaknesses that such people might have. The Operation Yewtree report was a wakeup call. It was a loud and detailed wake-up call. But there is a problem. A report doesn’t love-bomb us with its cutting wit and its alluring smile. It seems that we have reached that point, where only charisma can wake us up.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are my own unless otherwise stated, and do not necessarily reflect the views of any institution I have been employed by. The content here is for information and should not be interpreted as advice.

1.        Young, S.M. & Pinsky, D. (2006). Narcissism and Celebrity. Journal of Research in Personality, 40(5), 463-471.