It’s been weeks now. Every day I tune in for another horrible instalment, and every day like the rest of the world I shake my head in despair at the state of affairs. I am not talking about the pitiless war in Ukraine. I am talking about the war of the Depps. The terrible proxy battle for who was more appallingly behaved in their year-long marriage portending to be a defamation case.
The fight to be right. Johnny Depp vs Amber Heard 2.0. Because unfortunately they already had it out last year in the UK. And Depp did not like the answer. But here we find ourselves — once more, with feeling. And here’s the thing — I am almost certain we may have hit peak shadenfreude.
The moment came when Kate Moss was called upon to give testament to the time she slipped down three stairs on some tropical island getaway 20 odd years ago. This is how the cookie crumbles. Not with a bang but with a whimper.
Watching the horrifying scenes of their marital implosion on instant replay on every available medium could be more damaging to one’s personhood than previously anticipated. Also to one’s ability to hold body and soul together. Here are the things I need to work through in no hierarchical order whatsoever because they all make my brain go PFFT.
JARS OF COCAINE
The Amber Heard Hate Club, which flourishes in direct proportion to the Johnny Depp Fan Club. Why is the internet, all of it, hating on Amber? It could be misogyny. It could be the #MeToo or even the #MePoo backlash. But it could just be the parade of coy 1930s hairstyles making their daily appearance in the courtroom.
Each one saying something — but what? Is this hair as semaphor? If so, what can these twee twists and small plaits and peculiarly ambivalent tendrils mean in the greater scheme of things? What is she saying? And why must it come in this retro-fitted hair situation. Also, how long does it take for her hairstylist to make the up dos, or rather court dos, every damn day?
Which brings me to the number of people staffing the combined Johnny Depp and Amber Heard lifestyles. The testimony is rife with attendants. Security, managers, managers for the managers, agents, handlers, cleaners, friends who had practically moved in, drivers, poop scoopers.
The sheer number of compliant souls it takes to run these egos is mind boggling. No wonder the protagonists in the courtroom drama were taking to the drugs and the drink with wild abandon. They needed some me time. They needed to escape all the hangers through chemically induced oblivion. Just a little something to still all the noise of the entourage.
The language of misery trotted out on the stand. Look at me, me, me. And of course the memes
The language of misery trotted out on the stand. Look at me, me, me. And of course the memes. The free ranging analysis that has gone into every facial tick, every nuance on Amber and Johnny’s faces, every word they have uttered, in what order, how the handkerchief was brought to the tear in the corner of the eye and so on and so on .
I know we humans are tuned and programmed to read tomes into the silent language of the body but this meta narrative is crazy. There are theories and counter theories on every pathetic snivel and snide snigger. This is performative high drama and you had better be watching closely. Though mostly it seems to be a case of just hamming it up. Are we the untiring watchers visually impaired victims of some remarkably second grade acting, or are these people really as petty and troubled as they seem?
I will not even start to talk about the tapes. Why on God’s good earth are their tapes of their every inane argument? What?
And the clothes? I just can’t even. Johnny looks like a small time goon from Poughkeepsie — he’s on the make. His suits are as tight as his alibi and his roughs are standing by the getaway vehicle in matching poor boy caps. While Amber is all business — in that early millennium version of Melanie Griffith’s working girl mode. Now that her career on celluloid is crashed and burning, she is auditioning for the part of a floor manager in a suburban call centre, or a very efficient girl Friday. The glass ceiling was real in the 1930s. And apparently they are paying for this styling.
KATE MOSS’ CHEEKBONES
I am starting to I feel like I need to join a support group for Post Traumatic Reality Court TV Stress Disorder. It’s not even just this sorry show that is streaming to a device near you. The cases keep piling up — in the last few weeks we have had the Kardashian’s vs Rob’s ex-wife (what was her name again?) and Wag vs Wag all vying for our bandwidth. It’s a pandemic of gigantic egos clashing at gigantic cost on a global scale. Again this is not about Russian President Vladimir Putin. I need help, lots of it. But most of all I need to recover from the experience of the nuclear fallout of what is proving to be the most toxic marriage of the 21st century. I need it to stop. For pity’s sake, make it stop.
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