By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
However disparate, the two iconographic figures -- one dead and one very much alive -- share an uncanny talent for the game of renown. As Gabler points out: "In this country, celebrity has a short shelf life, but Madonna has managed to evolve and hang on. Fifteen years in the public eye is a long run. Winchell did the same thing. Of course, he was on top for 30 years, although that was a much different era. There wasn't as much competition for the public eye as there is now."
Walter Winchell has become a historical footnote, largely remembered for his staccato narration of The Untouchables television show. But no journalist was ever as big, then or now. In the Twenties, he pioneered the gossip column, a mix of infotainment and news, blending high and low material: jokes, nightclub reportage, entertainment plugs, marital scandals, sordid crimes, and true news scoops. Once unleashed, gossip became a cancer upon the national discourse, infecting everything from high-minded journalism to low-rent television. Now, as Gabler notes, the separate universes of the New York Times and, say, the New York Post have begun to overlap. It's all a tabloid world today, and America has never been the same since Winchell.
From the start he was a worker, a classic rags-to-riches story. After a Dickensian childhood in Harlem, Winchell left school in the sixth grade and joined the vaudeville circuit, a twelve-year-old hoofer who worked his way up the lower rungs of stardom. In the early Twenties, he switched to the newspaper business and wound up at William Randolph Hearst's New York Mirror, chronicling the Jazz Age. In the Thirties, he evolved into a political commentator and cheerleader for the New Deal, while simultaneously documenting moneyed society and movie stars, most notably at Manhattan's Stork Club.
Winchell used gossip as a weapon of empowerment for the masses. By invading the lives of the rich and famous, he brought them down to earth, humanizing them and democratizing their supposedly exalted domain. At the height of his power in the late Thirties, Winchell was rich himself but still the people's hero: He commanded 50 million loyal readers -- some two out of three adult Americans -- for his syndicated daily column, "On Broadway." His weekly radio broadcast, accompanied by the urgent tapping of a telegraph key, attracted larger audiences than did Bob Hope and Jack Benny.
The late-period Winchell -- megalomaniacal, ruthless, petty, a monster of populist demagoguery who told off presidents and ruined careers -- inspired the 1957 movie Sweet Smell of Success, with Burt Lancaster playing the columnist-as-villain character J.J. Hunsecker to icy perfection. After Winchell's World War II wallow in patriotism, he drifted into red baiting, aligning himself with J. Edgar Hoover, Roy Cohn, and senator Joseph McCarthy. Trapped in the persona created by his column, driven humorless and mad by power, he lost readers and made countless enemies. Inevitably, he also succumbed to the changing tide of fashion -- too old and intense for television, an antiquated relic gradually outpaced by his competitors. In 1967 he was reduced to taking out an ad in Variety, begging for a column venue. Within five years he was dead. Only one mourner attended his funeral -- his daughter Walda -- although a friend noted that "historians will be unable to explain the Twentieth Century without understanding Winchell."
The final stages of the Twentieth Century are what concern Neal Gabler today, especially the legacy of celebrity culture left behind by Winchell, and the dangers associated with America's escalating addiction to fame: "Right now I'm working on a short book called Life, the Movie, which began as an article for the New York Times. The central thesis is that celebrity has become the primary aesthetic and moral value of America. The operative force of life itself has become entertainment, and life itself is now the hottest medium. What the worship of celebrity portends -- for everyone in America -- is a post-human society.
"Celebrities have become mere signifiers of themselves, commodified to sell Nike or whatever. When Liz Taylor's movie career ended, she started to play her life, and it's been her greatest and most lucrative role. In tune with an overload of celebrities, the public no longer has any real authenticity or identity, either. In the Eighteenth and Nineteenth centuries, people understood that everyone had a distinct private life and a separate public persona assumed for society. They were like actors in the classical tradition, performing the role of the people they were supposed to be. Now pretense is everything, and people are what they're pretending to be. It's impossible to find any kind of quotidian reality. As we are all bombarded by different varieties of celebrity, we have become denatured, removed from what's important. In our clothes, the label -- the signifier of the designer -- is now the important thing, not what we're actually wearing. With humans it's the same.