You don’t need me to remind you that 2020 has been a year completely marked by loss and tragedy. Yet even though a pandemic has made tragedy a part of daily life, there seems to have been a strangely cruel wave of high-profile deaths in recent times. John Hume, Jack Charlton, Kelly Preston, Naya Rivera, Ennio Morricone, Ian Holm; even in the last few weeks, it seems we have switched from one to the other.
The year has already taken its share of legends. Some can hardly be described as untimely – Vera Lynn died at 103 and Olivia de Havilland at 104 – but somehow when the news comes in it causes a strange emotional mix of shock, nostalgia and even vulnerability.
It’s a strange experience, almost like crying for a friend or acquaintance
The time was once a celebrity death was mentioned at the end of a nightly newscast or in a newspaper obituary. A moment of warm homage, barely repeated. We would hear about the death of a notable person with a sad, resigned sigh and most likely we would carry on with the rest of the day.
But not anymore.
The celebrity death show continues for days on end with a series of tributes and think pieces. News organizations think through every detail until the sad event has been put to good use. The celebrity deaths have been high in the news and will stay there for days as the details, consequences and final words are examined. The latest tweets and “poignant” Instagram posts grab the headlines. On social media, tributes roll in for days on end, with everyone feeling compelled to join the choir, or at least report the death as if it were one Reuters. The emotional responses multiply. Someone always seems to have an unsavory conspiracy theory on hand. In some particularly gruesome cases, there are disturbing photos of the deceased online.
“What happened there, do you know?” people would ask me about the tragic death of actress Naya Rivera in July, as if I could have some sort of weird inner trail on how her death happened.
There is an authentic, dark theater in the celebrity’s death. It’s a strange experience, almost like crying for a friend or acquaintance. Childhood, unrequited crushes and old memories of concerts in crowded concert halls or dim lights in cinemas resurface.
Sometimes the days of mass grieving can feel appropriate, even heartwarming. With tributes at a steady pace, Ireland gave Gay Byrne and Brendan Grace the kind of loving sendoff they deserved. The past week has also been an opportunity to reflect once again on John Hume’s considerable political legacy.
sensuality
Yet at its worst, a celebrity death story can sometimes spill over into the realm of sensationalism.
Last week, following an investigation into her death in February, I learned more about TV presenter Caroline Flack’s terrible last moments than, frankly, I should be entitled to. What was clearly a hellish episode for Flack, let alone his family, is consumed with giddiness as entertainment.
How did we go from a celebrity death as a news footnote to a seriously gruesome soap opera? For starters, we have a closer attachment and a stronger sense of belonging or loyalty to these celebrities than we did years ago. They mean more to us and mark our experiences more than they ever have before. The singers express our sorrow; the actors express our hopes and our challenges on screen. Mourning them goes far beyond mere sentimentality.
Maybe this exaggerated and performative grief is a way for us to cope with our own mortality.
It may depend on the public figure in question. If they have lived their lives in private, they can sometimes enjoy the dignity and respect of a private death. Those who have left their lives consummated publicly are not so lucky. The public’s voracious appetite for detail does not end with death.
However, the death of celebrities leads to something else. We are shocked and frightened not so much by the loss of a public figure, but by the reminder of the one thing that is going to happen to all of us. Because we now expect to live well into old age, we have a cultural taboo around death that makes it seem so far away. There is a feeling that if we try hard enough, we might just get past death.
But death is the only thing science cannot cure.
Perhaps this exaggerated and performative grieving is a way for us to deal with our own mortality. There is a certain comfort in sharing our emotions with others. On the day Prince died in April 2016, I was meeting some friends for a drink. The news of his death reached us like a feverish whisper. And yes, I was stunned for the details. Later we arrived at a hastily organized tribute party and listened to one Prince song after another. We were obviously maudlin. We weren’t die-hard fans, but we reflected on his place in our collective memories. At the end, we partied like it was 1999.
Celebrities have provided us with keepsakes, escapes, and entertainment. Some of them will have been involved in some of our best and worst times. In many cases, it does not occur to us that a complete stop could happen to their life. As the significance of organized religion and rituals diminishes in modern society, celebrities have become quasi-religious gods these days. And no one expects the gods to die.
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