There was a time in the previous decade in newsrooms around SA when the daily news conference would start with one burning question: what are Juju and Britney doing today? Juju was engaged in flagrant demagogy (and nothing has changed on that front); Britney was falling apart. Every day. The news cycle is a vicious thing. It feeds on the car crashes of society. Like those slug-like creatures on the beach that emerge rapidly from the sand with their carapace of protective shell to suck the life from a dying jelly fish, the media slows down to ponder the morality tales unfolding before us and society tut-tuts in unison.
In 2007 Britney crashed and burned — by which I mean she created a feeding frenzy in a nondescript California hair salon. She buzz-cut her hair, cueing an immediate visual shorthand for a woman in a very particular type of personal peril.
Sinead O'Connor had come buzzcut intact, so her embodiment of the "troubles" was the pre-packaged deal. This, however, was another thing. To hear it told, Britney spoke the immortal and telling words "My mom will be pissed" before she took to her head with the shears. E-bay ran an auction for the fallen locks; the bidding hit over $1m before it was taken down.
The drama continued apace, with all the tropes. Messy custody battles, rehab visits, vampiric managers, umbrella attacks on the paps and significant questions regarding panties and their relative positioning on Britney's body. Which only served to remind us of all the questions relating to her virginity.
And then, after loosing this maelstrom on the world, the dogs barked and the caravan moved on. Britney lived a quiet life of residencies in Vegas under the whip of an eternal legal custodianship. Which means that her father stepped in and took charge of Britney's life and finances and never let go. That is, until the New York Times revisited the shambolic life cycle of this celebrity and put a gendered post #MeToo reading on the story.
Society, the media and her dad had wronged her. Her fans have been saying as much for years — trying to free her from the past decade. Where was everybody when the fans stood with their posters, revolting in front of the court, calling for her emancipation?
In the meantime, Britney herself posts vacuous messages and selfies on Instagram — a screen onto which everyone can project their feelings and channel their messy emotions. Free Britney — a movement for our times. She's a poster girl for everything that's been wrong with gender relations for the past couple of millennia. Is Britney compelling because she represents an old-school version of the female condition — captivating and captive to her talent and sexuality because everyone can make a quick buck, but essentially just a passive victim? Or is she interesting to us because we all love a good spot of Schadenfreude?
Whatever it is, this is a story with a narrative arc as old as time: hero emerges, hero sings in sexually flagrant school uniform, hero has a fatal moral flaw and is cut down to size. You know how this ends — the hero rises from the ashes to sing: "Hit me baby — one more time."
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