In praise of Anna Nicole Smith
1 Comments Published by ginny on Friday, February 9, 2007 at 12:30 AM.
I'm very sorry that Anna Nicole Smith is dead.
I don't mean that ironically. (You know I almost never mean things ironically.) I mean it with real sadness. I liked her. I've always liked her, even back when she was a Guess model. I watched her show, and I enjoyed it, and I rooted for her mumbly, shuffly self. I was glad she married Howard K. I was sorry for her when her son died, and in no way did I think it was her fault. And most of all, I've been on her side in the ridiculous affair of her ancient husband all along.
Why? Because Anna Nicole Smith never once – never in her entire, ultra-dramatic, ur-celebrity public life – pretended to be anything other than what she was. She was from first to last a consummate celebrity of a certain type – sexy, witless, hapless, gente and transparent. That is: I think she was entirely genuine. Anna Nicole Smith was as genuine as a hot pink faux-fur collar or a neon-green plasticine chandelier; as genuine as a mop-haired miniature dog; as genuine as a rhinestone jacket.
Am I being intentionally paradoxical? Maybe a little. After all, I ought to detest diet drugs, for which she advertised (though really, I don't. they too have no pretense to them), and I've never had a more unpleasant shopping experience than at Guess stores. But that's not really part of Anna Nicole herself, and I've never felt any need to stop liking her because of it.
What I mean, I suppose, is that I appreciated the open-facedness of Anna Nicole Smith. Even when she wore sunglasses, as in that picture of her exiting the supreme court, she wasn't hiding behind them. She was proud.
She seemed proud, in fact, of every moment of her life – proud of the down-home Texan sweetheart stripper looks that propelled her to stardom; proud of marrying an ancient millionaire; proud of the money he left her in his will (and you know what? I would have left it to her too. Especially since his son seems like such a jerk); proud of her tiny dog and her druggie son and her semi-sleaze husband and her possibly lesbian makeup artist friend; proud of her reality show even when it was being consistently described as a train wreck; proud of being part of a supreme court case; proud of her body when it was small, when it was big, when it was in between. Anna Nicole Smith never seemed to apologize for simply being who she intended to be, and that's an intensely rare quality. I don't begrudge it to her for a second, and neither, I think, should anyone else.
So I'm sorry that she died. It does, I suppose, put an appropriately dramatic cap on her fantastic story – another thing I've always appreciated about her is that she seemed to have some sort of unerring talent for living life as a compelling narrative, though I don't think she ever intended it. But I wanted to see her more victorious than I guess I ever did. She took a lot of abuse in her life, and almost none of it was warranted. She certainly couldn't help being pretty, and if she was stupid (and she doesn't seem to have been extra-brilliant), she couldn't help that either. She couldn't help the way we look at models, and marrying for money is most absolutely nothing new (and if you're going to do it, by god, do it unapologetically, like she did). I think she genuinely made the most of whatever it was she had, and she never deserved to be pilloried for that.
Perhaps I sound too laudatory. I admit that part of my liking for Anna Nicole Smith is perverse, but I don't really apologize for that. I just liked her, that's all. I hope, wherever she is, she's having fun. Thanks for being you, Anna Nicole.
Labels: bodies, celebrity, death/mourning/corpses
thanks for this post, it's very well-done. i totally agree with you. i feel the same way about her. maybe it's something like what is said of holly golightly's character in breakfast at tiffany's-- "she's a phoney, but she's a real phoney."
it does remind me of marilyn monroe, a bit, but it's very tragic how ANS lost her son recently. speaking of MM if you're ever looking for a light, enjoyable novel, Joyce Carol Oates's BLONDE is magnificent. it's a 3-day book. it's a fictional retelling of MM's life, but it's also sort of the story of every female sex symbol in hollywood.