Interesting, but nope. We don’t hate Anne Hathaway because of the economy. Actually, we don’t hate Anne Hathaway at all. We just don’t give a shit about her particular fairy tale.
It’s not Anne’s fault. She just doesn’t project authenticity. I know that sounds ridiculous, given that authenticity is as manufactured as anything else we absorb from pop culture. Still, authenticity is what it takes for us to scrape off our protective layer of cynicism and enjoy a genuine emotional response to whatever they’re trying to sell us.
In Anne’s case, we’re just not buying it. Sure, she’s talented and lovely and probably holds the world record for never slouching a day in her life, but her humility is false, and even by Hollywood standards her stardom is hyper-calculated. It’s hard to like someone who takes her celebrity that seriously.
Anne has one of the most beautiful smiles in the history of teeth, but you know what? We don’t trust it. We don’t believe that the expression on her face matches the content of her soul, and that slight emotional hypocrisy is enough for us to turn on her.
That’s the fundamental difference between Jennifer Lawrence and Anne Hathaway. We’d all rather imagine ourselves as J-Law’s BFF because when she smiles (or trips or cries or farts) we believe her. She is authentic in a way that Anne just isn’t.
Please stop sending it to me. It’s painfully unfunny. I’m not offended by it. I’m just unimpressed. It’s a weak premise strung together with hacky observations by a person with very little comedic talent. The whole thing reeks of mediocrity and sadness, and I feel nothing but pity for the casually misogynistic schlubs who find it relatable.
Silly boy. Your cigars do not impress me. All the small batch whiskey and straight razors in Silver Lake won't make you more of a man. They are props in a co-opted collection of masculine rituals that you perform with the disconnected precision of a priest who never learned Latin. You are pretending at manhood.
“The New Jersey native left behind a Louis Vuitton handbag containing handwritten notes describing how she’d been bullied by co-workers and classmates in the fashion industry, singling out five friends she did not want to attend her funeral.”—This fashion week suicide is a genuine tragedy coated in a thick layer of tragical comedy.
The Scientology “Knowledge” ad is trying to make you buy something, whereas the Dodge “God Made a Farmer” ad is trying to make you believe something.
That’s an incredibly important distinction.
Scientology wants to sell you a product with its ad. Sure, it happens to be a set of beliefs, but the ad is still just a glossy sales pitch. (The beliefs come later.) All it wants you to do is buy Scientology, and that’s why it’s marketing disguised as propaganda.
Dodge, on the other hand, doesn’t want to sell you a product with its ad. The truck is for sale, of course, but that’s not the point. The ad exists for the sole purpose of reinforcing an American myth about farmers that can be co-opted for brand identity. It wants you to believe in the myth, and that’s why it’s propaganda disguised as marketing.
For the record, propaganda disguised as marketing is infinitely more insidious than marketing disguised as propaganda.
In observance of America’s most celebrated annual ritual, I have prepared an offering of seven layer dip.
I shall now drive deep into the suburbs and consume large amounts of alcohol so that I might better pretend to be emotionally invested in the professional sports team based out of the city nearest to the one in which I live.
Yep. I’m starting to see a trend in the topics of my Dear Coquette submissions.
A lot of you out there are about to be single again, so if things aren’t going well in your relationship, fuck it. Might as well enjoy the last few days with your soon-to-be less than significant other.
Just remember, if you get dumped between Superbowl Sunday and Valentine’s Day, you’re probably better off anyway.