“You are exactly what he would have loved,” Kathy Hilton tells her socialite daughter, Paris as they talk about Andy Warhol and flip through old photos of her mother in the “heyday of Studio 54.” And yes, as everyone knows by now, Warhol illustriously coined the aphorism that we’re all unwittingly living by now: “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.”
To build on this notion that the “democratization” (a.k.a. “fame”) all these online platforms have allowed the common man brings up the ultimate point: “That’s how lonely we are, that we’re going on here and seeking validation from strangers to love us.” At least, this is how one of the most avid users of social media, comedienne Brittany Furlan, explains it in Bert Marcus’ documentary, The American Meme. And, to be sure, this is one of the greatest dichotomies about people who use social media the most–seemingly confident and therefore willing to be the most over the top with their content, it is in fact a deep rooted desire to be noticed–“loved”–that drives them.
Yet others would argue that we don’t need to get so psychoanalytic with it. For instance, Kendall Jenner lookalike Emily Ratajkowski counters against all the stigma for posting one’s everything on social media with, “My argument is, ‘What’s wrong with attention?'” Nothing, to a certain extent. It’s just a matter of how addictive that craving for attention can become, birthing a world of baby histrions.
And with, for some reason, Hailey Baldwin weighing in on the subject, she coldly demands of the screen at the beginning of the movie, “What if you woke up and you were a nobody? You had no followers, none of that. Can you go back to being yourself?” The answer, of course, is likely no. For we’ve all been programmed by now to suckle the social media tit, unable to keep our mouths off of it for very long, lest we go off the grid altogether. Because it’s all or nothing in these extreme twenty-first century times.
Also appearing as potential cautionary tales of social media prowess is Josh Ostrovsky, better known as The Fat Jewish (who is sure to get his Madonna “collaboration” plugged at some point in the documentary) and nightlife photographer/general rabble rouser Kirill Bichutsky (better known by his Instagram handle, @slutwhisperer). Despite the presence of these other “personalities,” the one constant that Marcus keeps going back to in order to thread the trajectory of where being “famous for being famous” began in its modern form is Paris. And The Fat Jewish, still filled with endless reverence for the original queen of branding points out, “Never forget that Kim Kardashian started out as Paris Hilton’s intern.” And yes, Kim has certainly one-upped the notion of branding as a profession (though is noticeably missing as a commentator on the phenomenon–perhaps being in The American Meme is “beneath” her brand right now, what with all that “fitness” tea promoting to do). But no one will ever top Paris for being the quintessential party girl socialite that came up at a time when “24-hour reality” was just beginning.
During the aforementioned exchange with her mother, Paris demands, “Do you have any old pictures of me and Andy Warhol?” She assures, “I have them somewhere, I’m just going through all this stuff.” Paris solemnly insists, “Please find them. That would be so epic.” Kathy responds, “I know.” And as images of Warhol from the glory days of his reign over New York appear on screen, Paris explains her first major photoshoot with David LaChapelle: “I met David…who I was obsessed with because I had seen all his photos and just what a genius he was.” Side note: this word, “genius,” is also the overblown epithet Edie Sedgwick gave to Warhol before he fucked her over. “And he said, ‘What’s your name?’ I said, ‘My name is Paris.’ He’s like, ‘You’re a star, you’re gonna be my muse.'” This stated, naturally, just as Edie and Andy come onscreen and Paris adds, “Like Andy Warhol and Edie Sedgwick.” Being that Paris’ longtime sex symbol inspiration has been Marilyn Monroe (whose hasn’t, but whatever), the Andy connection further makes all the sense in the world. For Andy just wanted things and women to be pretty, pleasing to the eye. The world is already such an ugly enough place as it is, right? Yet there is something innately ugly about the way we present ourselves online to complete strangers, opening ourselves up to lynching-like judgment because it feels somehow safer than being scrutinized in real life by people we know. It’s less meaningful.
At one point, in reference to the lack of longevity of a career as a “digital influencer,” several interviewees point out that there’s nowhere else to go once you’ve immortalized your “youthful folly” and other antics on the internet. It will follow you forever, the same way you thought your followers would. But no, once a particular age bracket is hit and pouring champagne on women’s tits is no longer “kosher,” where is a person with no real professional experience supposed to go next? This was the question Edie had to answer as well once she was dropped like a hot potato by Andy with nothing but those humiliating movies to show for it. Social media as a conduit, in fact, is a lot like a neo-manifestation of Warhol himself, with all of its users being an endless parade of Edies not really thinking about the future, when this present moment of fame and “success” inevitably bottoms out.
And as the film ends with Paris in talks about how to make the perfect virtual reality avatar model of herself so that those “less fortunate” (never forget her shirt: “Stop Being Poor”) can travel to places they would never otherwise go to (e.g. Ibiza), the dots strategically placed all over her face to create it add to the haunting vision of her saying, “It’s just endless what I could do with this platform… A lot of people don’t understand that you need to be sustainable forever.” So where is the fine line between “platform” and tool of destruction for encouraging monstrous self-involvedness? No one seems to know anymore. And even Andy would find this whole business somewhat grotesque. Ah Christ, no he wouldn’t, the man was a voyeur with NPD.
