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was it that called gossip "halitosis of the mind?" Whoever, they
must have been watching too much reality-based TV. It's a shame
when a normal curiosity about other people's lives degenerates
into such a noxious parade of vapid bimbos and boorish beefcake
as displayed recently on Temptation Island, but it's hardly
surprising; anything human can (and will) be perverted. And there
are few inclinations as unquestionably human as the desire to
reveal and revel in the private (and preferably unseemly) details
of other people's lives.
But at its best, gossip is an uplifting and ennobling endeavor.
Okay, I'm kidding. The natural human appetite to peer into other's
backyards, though, can surely find a better satisfaction than
the crude display of vacuous narcissism of Survivor I,
II, and (cringing in advance!) III. Talking trash
doesn't have to be trashy. But what can you do with odious Richard
Hatch for a subject? It's impossible to make fine wine from sour
grapes, no? Just so, a worthy gossip, like a va-va-voom vamp,
must have something provocative to throw around before anyone
worth their salt will pay attention. (And, of course, we've all
seen what
Mr. Hatch has got. Best he kept his clothes on.)
As with any art, to understand how it's done, it's best to study
a master. And it just so happens that the "Grande Dame of Dish"
herself, Liz Smith, recently released her memoirs, Natural
Blonde. Liz Smith is the world's most prominent gossip columnist
because 1) she knows Everyone and 2) Everyone likes her. Most
celebrities would rather have their secrets told by someone they
trust than some unscrupulous tabloid; so for forty years everyone
from Liz Taylor to Frank Sinatra to Madonna has been confiding
in her.
Natural Blonde is, of course, ostensibly Smith's account
of her own remarkable life. But wisely she never forgets that
her readers aren't so much interested in her as in the
stories she has to tell about the people she's met. Here is Tallulah
Bankhead "playing hostess in an old worn pair of gray flannel
slacks that made her look as if she'd been hit in the ass with
a shovel;" Helen Gurley Brown, "the shockingly dirty-minded ex-secretary
and ad copywriter;" Truman
Capote, who served Smith and John
Berendt "a large fishbowl" of cocaine before snatching it
up, saying, "No, it's too good for the likes of you;" Liz's biggest
fan, Madonna, who "[loves] Liz Smith because she has balls, like
me;" and many, many more.
But though Liz Smith is the world's most successful and respected
gossip, for my taste I prefer Michael
Korda's slightly higher brow Another
Life: A Memoir of Other People. Korda is a bestselling novelist
in his own right, so he understands well how to shape an entertaining
story. And, like Liz Smith, he has known a remarkable number of
supremely famous people. Korda is editor and chief of Simon &
Schuster, and, therefore, one of the most prominent figures in
the publishing world. But as his subtitle implies, Korda doesn't
dwell too much on himself. This marvelous, breezy book is an endless
procession of entertaining stories about the people who have shaped
and recorded the last several decades of our cultural and political
history. Here, for example, is Korda's account of the time he
was invited to dinner at former president Richard Nixon's house:
| Most of the rooms had a certain formal, unlived-in quality,
rather like an expensive hotel suite or, more to the point,
the White House. The unlived-in feeling apparently extended
to Nixon: He didn't seem familiar with the layout of the house
himself. At one point, he opened a closet door, apparently
thinking that it was the door to his study, then slammed it
shut hastily, with a muttered oath. Like people lost in a
museum, we circled aimlessly... |
By coincidence, Korda also spent a fair amount of time with Ronald
Reagan, whose memoirs
he edited. His anecdotes about this baffling and, at times, childlike
man add an interesting footnote to our understanding of one of the
most powerful men in recent history. But as a prominent New York
editor, Korda was more a witness to our cultural than our political
history, and it's his entertaining and revealing anecdotes about
the many important literary writers he has known that make Another
Life such a compelling, not to mention entertaining, book. Take
as an example the following account of a prominent awards dinner
he attended in honor of his friend Tennessee
Williams. After much adoring fanfare, the time came for the
guest of honor to speak:
| With unfeigned shyness he stayed in his seat while everybody
else – except the woman sitting next to him – rose
to their feet applauding and calling for him to speak. Tennessee
blushed modestly and finally rose to his feet, swaying slightly.
He waved for silence, and, as the room grew still, he leaned
toward the microphone. In his musical Southern drawl, enunciating
very slowly, even hesitantly, but by no means quietly, he
said: "I would like to introduce you all to mah beloved sister,
Rose…" He paused to indicate the small woman seated beside
him, who seemed to be totally unaware of the fact that he
was talking about her. Tennessee smiled down at her, his expression
full of sympathy but somehow puckish. He took a deep breath
and went on: "…who had the first pre-frontal lobotomy
in the state of Alabama."
With that, he sat down, still smiling benevolently. The
room remained hushed while everybody contemplated this bombshell.
Rose herself smiled on, as vacantly as ever, while the rest
of us waited for Tennessee to say something – anything
– else. But he did not.
A lady from the National Arts Club seated next to me gave
a loud, disapproving snort. "I told everybody we
should have given the award to Arthur Miller," she said
angrily. "At least he'd have made a decent acceptance
speech."
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÷÷÷
Perhaps gossip can best be compared to the art of mixology. Like
gossip, a quality cocktail must be mixed by someone who knows
what they're doing; it can only be as good as its cheapest ingredient;
it goes well with a cigarette; and, in quite a few cases, a cherry
figures prominently.
But if cosmopolitan Liz Smith is a champagne cocktail at El Morocco
and sophisticated Michael Korda a single malt at the Stork Club,
the vulgar display of reality-based TV is a beer bong at a frat
party. At the time, it may have the desired effect, but in the
years to come, it will only be remembered with nausea.
—Carlisle
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