Where are the superstars of yesteryear?
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Last weekend, after Donald Trump posted “I HATE TAYLOR SWIFT!” on Truth Social, my first thought was: “Who is Taylor Swift?”
Of course, I jest—but only a little. Yes, I am aware of a person named Taylor Swift who writes and sings pop songs, performs in outrageously over-the-top stage shows, sells an inconceivable number of albums, periodically attends NFL games featuring her football-star beau, and inspires widespread devotion among the hoi polloi—at least those not voting Republican in November.
Even so, what I know of Taylor Swift has largely been acquired through osmosis. Taylor Swift is in the atmosphere, so I am conscious of the reality of Taylor Swift. But my familiarity with her goes no further than acknowledging her existence. I am certain that I have never listened to the entirety of one of her songs, and if I have heard a verse here or there, it is because I happened upon one of them on the radio or on a TV commercial. I could not give you a title or a line; I could not even define her musical style. I have seen clips from her live shows on ads on YouTube. I do not believe I have ever heard her speak for more than a few seconds, though I vaguely remember flipping by and seeing her host Saturday Night Live.
I say all of this not to validate Donald Trump’s assessment of Taylor Swift—for me to render a judgment on her songs or role in American public life, I would have to actually know something about her beyond the mere facts of her face and omnipresence—but to confirm something about myself: I am getting older.
Although I turned 41 only this year—still a young man, or so I am told—I have reached an age when I have started to resist processing entertainment figures who emerged after a certain date. That I can string together basic facts about Taylor Swift is simply a sign of her ubiquity; were it not for the fact that she is a genuine superstar, she would be as anonymous to me as Billie Eilish or Charli XCX—people about whom I know literally nothing other than their names. I did not even know Charli XCX’s name until Kamala Harris deposed Joe Biden.
To be sure, these are not exactly my sort of pop artists. When I listen to American popular music, I’m likely to listen to Bobby Short performing Cole Porter, Johnny Mathis or Andy Williams singing Christmas songs, or Frank Sinatra lamenting “in the wee small hours”—the last of which reflects my own aversion to the daylight hours to an almost eerie degree.
Yes, I admit that I seem to have developed decidedly retro tastes, but my preference for the old, the well-worn, and the downright antique in music does not in and of itself account for my feelings of bafflement and perplexity about what the kids are listening to these days.
Take the movies. This is a form of entertainment in which I am—allegedly—far better versed. After all, I work as a film critic and essayist, and I am sometimes identified, on the back of DVDs or Blu-rays for which I have recorded audio commentaries, as a “film historian.” I am proud of my mastery of cinema, but I find that my mastery has a cut-off point. I saw virtually every new movie worth seeing in the 1990s and 2000s, but thereafter, my attention drifted and my expertise waned.
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I can rattle off the best movies of 1994 (Barcelona, Bullets Over Broadway, Nobody’s Fool, Quiz Show, The Paper—see, that was easy), the best neo-noir of 1996 (Blood and Wine), and the best car chase of 1998 (it was in John Frankenheimer’s Ronin, of course), but I would be hard pressed to name the Oscar nominees from 2020.
I gather that I am not alone in being unable to tell Chris Pratt apart from Chris Hemsworth. And there’s another one, isn’t there? Chris Pine? But in my case, it’s really true. When I saw the trailer for Deadpool & Wolverine, I was genuinely surprised that the star was named Ryan Reynolds and not a Chris. At least I think it was Ryan Reynolds—it wasn’t Ryan Gosling, was it? Because I still review new movies, I eventually learn to distinguish this actor from that actor, but I maintain there is a certain advantage to having no idea who is on the screen: Because I do not see a movie with Ryan Reynolds with any real sense of his stardom, I can evaluate his performance far more honestly.
I would like to tell myself that my ignorance of these celebrities is a reflection of the quality of their work. In my considered opinion, modern music and movies are severely wanting, and therefore my lack of knowledge of their practitioners is itself a form of criticism. But I think the truth is simpler: It’s my age. It may well be that the human brain can only absorb so many movie stars, pop singers, and internet personalities, and I have reached my limit. So, as I go through my favorite TV shows of 2000, remind me again—who is Taylor Swift?
Sourse: theamericanconservative.com
