No one Ever Really Dies
On January 24th 2008, in the midst of her well-publicized breakdown, Britney Spears made two late-night trips to Rite-Aid, followed by her usual baying pack of personal paparazzi. In the videos her face looks puffy, ill. The lips are thick and slimy, two badly painted snails crawling limply, shell-less, across a pale, bloated face. Her hair is dark this time, and seems to be receding across a greasy scalp. She wears oversize Chanel sunglasses, a shapeless black tank top, an ornate gold-and-black jacket. She walks out of Rite-Aid with two staff, a man and a woman. The man, short and a little porky, wearing sweats and a baseball cap, waspishly attempts to usher the waiting paps away while Britney smiles briefly, regal, distant, a little coquettish; basking in the flash of lights ricocheting off her reflective lenses.
The video jumps to Britney sitting in her car in the parking lot. She is behind the wheel. The window half-lowered, she runs her fingers through stringy hair, twists it into a careless ponytail, messy and unfettered. She reaches for a packet of Marlboros in the glove compartment. “Damn Brit, you look good, though,” says one of the paps, a sycophantic fabrication somewhat diluted by the qualifier “though” which suggests, “despite” hinting at the unspoken theater played out in this late-night freak show, this circus, this cheap number: the ridiculous puppetry in the complicity between hunter and prey.
Britney sits, eyes averted, that same smile playing upon distended lips. Her reluctance to drive away invites the waiting paps to attempt conversation.
“Are you sad, Britney?” one asks.
“Oh no, I just need to get home,” comes the response, in an odd, convoluted, affected British accent.
“No I’m talkin’ about Heath Ledger. You sad about that? 28 years old, two year-old daughter…”
“Oh,” she murmurs nasally, and the oh is protracted, reflective, almost surprised. In that same jolly, comforting British cadence, she responds flippantly, reassuringly, simply - as if she cannot believe this has not occurred to anyone else - regarding the tragedy of Heath Ledger’s prescription drug overdose.
“He’s still here.”
“He’s still here?” The pap sounds confused.
Britney turns around and fiddles with her purse in the backseat of the car, attempting to retrieve a light.
“Oh, yes.”
That elongated, gently surprised oh. Britney turns back, lighter in hand, and glances sideways at the camera through those oversized Chanel sunglasses, droplets of rain still clinging to the half-lowered window, windscreen wipers swishing rhythmically from side to side.
“No one ever really dies.”
Britney lights a cigarette.
The video jumps to Britney sitting in her car in the parking lot. She is behind the wheel. The window half-lowered, she runs her fingers through stringy hair, twists it into a careless ponytail, messy and unfettered. She reaches for a packet of Marlboros in the glove compartment. “Damn Brit, you look good, though,” says one of the paps, a sycophantic fabrication somewhat diluted by the qualifier “though” which suggests, “despite” hinting at the unspoken theater played out in this late-night freak show, this circus, this cheap number: the ridiculous puppetry in the complicity between hunter and prey.
Britney sits, eyes averted, that same smile playing upon distended lips. Her reluctance to drive away invites the waiting paps to attempt conversation.
“Are you sad, Britney?” one asks.
“Oh no, I just need to get home,” comes the response, in an odd, convoluted, affected British accent.
“No I’m talkin’ about Heath Ledger. You sad about that? 28 years old, two year-old daughter…”
“Oh,” she murmurs nasally, and the oh is protracted, reflective, almost surprised. In that same jolly, comforting British cadence, she responds flippantly, reassuringly, simply - as if she cannot believe this has not occurred to anyone else - regarding the tragedy of Heath Ledger’s prescription drug overdose.
“He’s still here.”
“He’s still here?” The pap sounds confused.
Britney turns around and fiddles with her purse in the backseat of the car, attempting to retrieve a light.
“Oh, yes.”
That elongated, gently surprised oh. Britney turns back, lighter in hand, and glances sideways at the camera through those oversized Chanel sunglasses, droplets of rain still clinging to the half-lowered window, windscreen wipers swishing rhythmically from side to side.
“No one ever really dies.”
Britney lights a cigarette.
MIMI IN NY | 6:18 PM |
