A car rattled on the early morning of the last day of August in the year of our Lord 1997. It was traveling a bit over 100 miles per hour, or maybe a bit below — eyewitnesses weren’t entirely sure, even with the hundreds of cameras focused on one of the most famous people in human history.
That car would, in a few long minutes, crash into a pillar in an underpass in France. Out of the four passengers, two would die at the scene, and the third would pass a few hours later at a hospital from her injuries.
And with that, Princess Diana became immortal.
See, there’s something almost strangely romanticized about horrific celebrity deaths. It’s part of the voyeurism that is part of the identity of tabloid newspapers, TMZ, and the community that spends time attached to celebrity gossip. “The Happy Life of One Tom Hanks” won’t move magazines, but speculating about a possible unborn child of a dead princess will grab eyes.
You’ve been to a supermarket, I’m sure. You’ve seen the racks of Enquirer, Globe, and People, all with scandal and shock captured on their front page in a macabre imitation of photography.
Have you ever been curious, just a tad interested in what hides inside those glossy pages?
Congratulations. You’re only human, and you’re just more prey for paparazzi.
It was an idea that came to mind when Michelle Trachtenberg passed recently, and the entire internet took it upon themselves to dissect and analyze her very private health issues before her body was cold. Why didn’t Trachtenberg’s family and doctors tell us everything we need to know? Are we not obligated to know the ins and outs of a person’s life if they deign to appear in front of us once or twice on stage?
No. We’re not. And we treat people with fame with morbid fascination because the tabloids consider their deaths as content and not a private moment for their families.
I started feeling this way when Liam Payne’s death was plastered across every news source I read: my friend’s Instagram story and the unhinged rants of an odd family member. Somehow, this celebrity, a man I hadn’t thought about since grade school, was on my mind.
And his death was played, to some extent, for curiosity and interest. “I GUESS THE ONE DIRECTION WAS DOWN HAHA,” someone posted on their story. “OMG I CAN’T BELIEVE LIAM PAYNE DIED,” someone else wrote.
And somehow, somewhere, TMZ was posting actual pictures of Liam Payne’s body.
That, unfortunately for the newsies over in the Thirty Mile Zone, was just one bridge too far.
But it sells.
And that’s the issue.
See, TMZ took down that picture. TMZ apologized, TMZ won’t do it again, TMZ says, TMZ never meant to insult Liam Payne and his family.
This, of course, is just enough apology and denial to cover for those brave newshounds at TMZ to get through this scandal and find another one to fixate on.
In the 21st century, we’ve put celebrities closer to their audiences than ever before. Thirty years ago, Princess Diana was only really known via interviews and her own curated, public personality. Now, I can hop on a podcast with some white guy sporting a misshapen man bun and hear the unfiltered thoughts of almost anyone I can think of on topics I really do not care about.
It’s a bit terrifying — it’s more than a bit shocking. The way we talk about celebrities has changed, yet the tabloid fascination with death hasn’t. The magazines keep printing, the conspiracies keep winding, and how people keep talking about the ways people die remains the same. It’s front-page news. It’s in everyone’s feed, with the last moments of troubled souls broadcast and immortalized to make sure that in some fundamental way, death itself cannot help one escape fame.
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