Roeper: In the end, Smith wins
February 8, 2007
BY RICHARD ROEPER
In the hours before Anna Nicole Smith died, these were the most recent headlines about her to be found via Google search:
“Anna Nicole Smith sued by weight loss woman”
“Anna Nicole Smith’s lover denies giving her drugs”
“Anna Nicole Smith ordered to submit baby for DNA test”
“Anna Nicole Smith enraged by mom’s visit to son’s grave”
Good Lord. The woman’s entire depressing, pathetic, ultimately tragic life was one long and painful reality show.
As I write this, it’s just after 3 p.m. CST, and CNN’s Wolf Blitzer is covering the news of Ms. Smith’s sudden death with all the urgency he’d bring to the unexpected demise of a United States senator or perhaps a world-class entertainer who had collapsed and died.
Of course, Anna Nicole Smith was more famous than most senators and legitimate entertainers. She was one of the most famous women in the world — even though she had no discernible talent and contributed nothing of lasting value to the pop culture library beyond the spectacle of her life, which was a series of salacious scandals, ridiculous romances, public embarrassments — and some terribly sad personal losses.
Already we’re hearing the comparisons of Ms. Smith to Marilyn Monroe and other Hollywood icons who lived star-crossed lives and died too young — victims of their own addictions and excesses.
On the most basic level, there’s some validity to that. On other hand, if I say, “Name a Marilyn Monroe movie,” you’ll answer “Some Like It Hot” or “The Seven-Year Itch” or “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” If I ask you to name an Anna Nicole Smith’s most famous performance, only one role comes to mind: She played Anna Nicole in the movie of her own life, and we all watched and gaped and laughed and shook our heads, wondering how one woman could be so messed up in so many ways.
Ms. Smith was Andy Warhol’s beyond-worn-out cliche multiplied by a thousand. She was famous not for 15 minutes but for 15 years. It was in March 1992 that “Vickie Smith” appeared on the cover of Playboy. A few months later, she was the Playmate of the Month.
Most centerfolds quickly fade into pop culture oblivion. A few, such as Carmen Electra and Jenny McCarthy, parlay their nude pictorials into lasting careers as spokespersons/actresses/personalities.
Anna Nicole Smith didn’t have Electra’s movie-star beauty or McCarthy’s ability to laugh at herself. Even after she was named 1993 Playmate of the Year, she probably would have drifted from the public consciousness were it not for the fact that she married 89-year-old billionaire J. Howard Marshall, who died in 1995. The subsequent battles between Smith and Marshall’s children (who were a generation older than Smith) were covered with great fervor and relish by the media. To this date, the case hasn’t been 100 percent resolved.
In the 1990s, Smith tried to make it as an actress. She had small roles in mainstream movies such as “The Hudsucker Proxy” and one of the “Naked Gun” sequels, and starring roles in exploitation films that weren’t good enough to be called B-movies.
The last time I saw Ms. Smith acting, it was on premium cable a couple of years ago. She was in a bathtub, naked, kissing another woman. It was somewhere between soft-core and full-on pornography — and not to be cruel, but she wasn’t even very believable in that performance.
Nobody ever accused Ms. Smith of having any talent, and to my knowledge she never claimed to have any. She just acted like a star, and she was treated like a star — and the fact that her death has everyone in the media (including yours truly) rushing to write something about her confirms that on some level, she won. She was a star.
In the 21st century, Ms. Smith wavered somewhere between cult icon and national joke. Her reality show was an instant ratings smash on the E! Channel, but the ratings dropped like a stone as it became increasingly obvious that the “reality” was heavily staged and there was really nothing of interest going on in the woman’s life.
Smith’s yo-yo weight problems were widely chronicled. She’d slur her way through appearances at awards shows. She gave birth to a daughter last year — but her 20-year-old son collapsed and died in his mother’s hospital room. The debate over the baby’s paternity — another tawdry spectacle.
Then Thursday, Smith was found **61** in a room at a Hard Rock Hotel and Casino.
A manufactured pop icon found in a venue bearing a manufactured pop brand name. So fitting. So sad.