These
days, much of our experience of social
and political reality is mediated for us by a
phalanx of public relations gurus. A permanent
legacy of the 1980's is likely to be the
irresistible rise of the ubiquitous "Spin Doctor".
The photographs
here recall an era of
Hollywood which was altogether less cynical.
The moment of spontaneous joy as Jose
Ferrer and friends hear he has won an Oscar
would now be pre-plotted by TV producers
into a major media event. Every tic, sniff,
twitch and blush would be scrutinised in
graphic close-up detail.
Bert Lancaster's
agent would now never
allow him to risk life, limb and the 20 %
commission by leaping high into the air on
set, and the studio's insurance brokers would
be having kittens.
Mary Astor
would not allow herself to be seen
drowning romantically in flowers. She would
demand that Annie Liebowitz should photograph
her naked torso strategically covered with
tantalising camelias, with perhaps a serpent
or two draped around her thighs to suggest
the imminent loss of innocence.
Jacques
Cousteau would surely not pose like
this against a flock of seagulls, risking that a
dollop of bird shit splat in the middle of his
forehead could undermine his dignity.
And the
intrepid paparazzi leaning nochalantly
into Liz Taylor"s limo would soon discover
that a large hired fist had rearranged the
position of his nose.
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