Bye, Heath

Goodbye, my first movie crush.

      When I saw the first headlines - "Heath Ledger Dead At 28" I thought it was some sort of sick joke. Surely he couldn't really be dead? I grew up watching him! The first R-rated movie I saw (this was a big deal for me) was the Patriot, and I cried when he died there. Now, I have no tears to shed, but I cannot help but to feel a deep melancholy. Why such despair in one so young? To take his own life - what pain he must have been feeling.

      In this sick culture, we revere our celebrities, and then, like the Aztecs, we sacrifice them on the altar of public opinion. We greedily 

devour every morsel of their lives, lingering especially on the morbid and obscene - favoring above all else that which shows them at their worst.

      I Googled Heath today to find a picture to show a Japanese friend of mine why I was feeling a bit depressed, and was sickened - but not surprised - that the most common photos to be found were a series of pictures of him completely nude, pictures taken without his knowledge by some hidden paparazzo.

     Why are these revelations met with such glee? Why devote entire magazines to these things? Who has gained weight? Who has lost weight? Who has an eating disorder? Who has a drug problem? Who's married? Who's dating? Who's cheating? Who? Who? Who? Is our sense of self-worth so very low, so depraved that we can only be glad in ourselves when those we celebrate has been exposed to have all the faults we ourselves possess, but would be mortified if other people knew?

      I don't mean this to be another LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE speech, but I wonder if people realise the rotting effect this sort of attention has on the focuses of our criticism? On one hand, they hate it as it tears away at their souls, but on the other, they become masochistically addicted to it, needing it, longing for it when it wanes until they are driven to debase themselves to be allowed to bask for a few moments more in the radioactive, toxic gleam of the public eye.

       Is it any great wonder that they find themselves driven to despair, unable to hold normal relationships with normal people? Is it any wonder that their perspective becomes drawn increasingly inward, until all that exists for them is their own selves and their misery? Is it then any wonder that so many commit that final, ultimate selfishness which is taking their own life, in desperate ignorance or jaded indifference to the pain it will cause their loved ones?

       I find the greatest tragedy in this terrible event to be not the death itself, but the horrible culture that demands its celebrated humans to take the place of God, and then slaughters them when they are unable.