Word: tabloids
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DIED. MIKE MCALARY, 41, tabloid columnist; of colon cancer; in New York City. Over the course of his career, the pugnacious, Pulitzer-prizewinning journalist wrote extensively--and often empathically--about the city's police for the New York Daily News and the New York Post. But he was no apologist: in 1997 he broke the story of a brutal police beating of a Haitian immigrant...
Last week SIR ANTHONY HOPKINS called acting a "tiresome, disturbing and distasteful" profession, not to mention a "complete waste of time." Apparently years of accolades, knighting ceremonies and Academy Awards have left Tony a little bitter. In an interview with the British tabloid News of the World, Hopkins announced he was "getting out of this ridiculous business," adding that "acting is bad for the mental health." Once a mainstay of Merchant-Ivory productions, Hopkins has more recently appeared in such claptrap as the critically reviled Meet Joe Black. He says his project Titus Andronicus, currently filming in Rome, will...
...ROSEANNE sued the National Enquirer for publishing her stolen love letters. In February, she'll act as the tabloid's guest editor. "They're a very influential magazine," says the talk-show host, who apparently possesses a bountiful capacity for forgiveness. "I read stuff about myself in the Enquirer, and two years later, it shows up in the New York Times." Roseanne is no cub reporter. In 1996 she acted as a consultant for a "women's" issue of the New Yorker. "I've gone from the supposed highest literary peak to a real working-class one," says Roseanne...
Allegation 4: that Frank offered to "snitch on lefties for the FBI," as an unsavory tabloid put it. Again, the baselessness of this charge can be quickly deduced from its failure to jibe with what we know of Francis Albert's character. Leaving aside for the moment the question of how the Rat Pack may have gotten its name, consider: If Frank Sinatra had been angry at communists, would he have sneakily tattled on them? Of course not. He and his pal Jilly Rizzo would have headed for the nearest saloon where the dirty reds hang out, picked...
Decades ago, Alfred Hitchcock said actors were cattle. Today celebrities are meat: junk food for tabloid headlines, canapes for cocktail-party surmise, fodder for Leno and Letterman raillery. Are the charges, whispers and gags true? Hardly matters; they need only be entertaining. Star tattle proceeds from two American impulses: cynicism and sentimentality. Sentimentally we imagine that a popular artist must have hidden depths. Cynically we suspect that every star must have a guilty secret; all that power, money and spare time allow them to act out any sick whim. Gossip has become the purest form of show biz, a story...