Seeing Stars
A few years ago, I was in an elevator, having a terrible time. I had just finished watching a comedy show at a now-defunct summer comedy festival. It was, as usual, sweltering and sticky, so the dim, cool interiors of the theatre were deeply welcome. I remember very little from the show itself aside from some heckling, which made my skin crawl, but almost nothing from the performer’s stand-up has stuck in my mind. The heckling was distinctly Canadian in nature - relatively gentle, mostly people just referencing the comic’s other work in a supportive, somewhat sycophantic way. I seem to recall that even he was a bit surprised at the quality of heckle, apparently anticipating a much more aggressive response from the punters.
The show let out, and about two hundred or so people, greatly cheered and cooled from several hours in that dark theatre, poured from the double doors. There was more than one way to get out of the building, and my husband and I took the elevators - I don’t remember why, exactly. Just as the doors were about to close, a very familiar face appeared, and another comic who was in town for his own festival performance stepped into the elevator, and down we all went. It was a harrowing journey. I am from a smallish city in the middle of the country that does not have a great reputation with performers, so I had never seen a famous person in, you know…person. I once passed by Rick Mercer in an airport, but I hardly think that counts. But this comic, whose work I had seen on numerous programs and heard on podcasts, was now standing in the same elevator with me, and I was surprised by my own reaction. I hated it. A squirmy, slithery feeling of prickly shame and embarrassment and too much self-awareness wriggled down my spine - a distinctly unpleasant experience. He was genially signing programs and taking selfies with the other people in the elevator, and I wanted the tiled floor to open up and swallow me whole.
But why? He seemed perfectly affable, quite pleased that people were speaking to him and appreciating his work, not at all the self-satisfied, hot-headed star one sometimes hears about. Why was I so uncomfortable, so eager to flee the elevator and return to the sweaty, soupy air so typical of July out east? I suspect there is more than one reason. Firstly, I can be shy with just about any new person, regardless of how many times I’ve seen them on television. But also, when you meet a new friend at a party or your weekly sewing class or something like that, (just me?) they know about you exactly the same amount that you know about them, which is usually nothing. But in this case, I had all sorts of exposure to this person in a way that is distinctly unnatural, not normally recreated in more regular encounters. There is a name for this - a parasocial relationship. It might be interesting, it might be satisfying in some ways, it might bring joy, but it will always be one-sided. And the television might have something to do with it, too. I had only ever experienced this person as a two-dimensional image, usually sitting behind a panel desk on a comedy show, and suddenly, here he was, with three dimensions and legs and everything. Very disconcerting. Perhaps my discomfort came, then, from confronting a reality that my television screen had erased: that this was not a two-dimensional, miniature image, but a real, honest-to-goodness human being, with thoughts and feelings and foibles and strengths just like everyone else. And perhaps realising this illusion-shattering reality would enable me to encounter another star in person in the future and not immediately wish to disappear. All the same, I don’t think I’ll risk it.
Jennifer