Boo hoo, Baldwin and Bingle.
Two more celebrities, acting like toddlers throwing tantrums, because they’re not getting their way.
First to angry Alec, whose career is punctuated by pugilism.
He’s pinned one paparazzo to the hood of a car, wrenched another’s arms behind his back, and punched a third in the face.
Hilariously, he compared that last incident with the fatal shooting of teenager Trayvon Martin, tweeting this: “I suppose if the offending paparazzi (sic) was wearing a hoodie and I shot him, it would all blow over”.
It’s a good thing he’s acting on 30 Rock, not script writing. In his repertoire, racism sits astride homophobia.
Last year, he reportedly called a photographer a “c*cksucking fag”, and a journalist a “toxic little queen”.
In a defence rivalling, “But I have a friend who’s gay!” Baldwin says his comments have “nothing to do with anyone’s sexual orientation” because, “I am awash in gay people, as colleagues and as friends”.
Now, he’s taking his bat and ball and going home.
In a 5,284 word essay for New York magazine, he says he “loathes and despises” the media, and this is the “last time” he’ll talk about his personal life in public again.
What he fails to mention is, he’s promised the same thing a dozen times before, in childish pleas for positive publicity.
(Alanis, THIS is irony.)
In 2009, he said he’d “lost interest in acting” and considered his film career a failure.
The interview, in Men’s Journal, was accompanied by the sycophantic headline, “How Baldwin Made His Own Rules and Won”, and stylised pics by approved photographers.
There were no complaints about the Vanity Fair cover story in 2012, portraying him as a devilishly handsome rogue in a rumpled white dinner shirt, black tie, and little else.
But anything unflattering, negative or critical is out of bounds.
You know the old saying, “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen?”
Well if you can’t stand the publicity, get out of the business.
The same can be said of Lara Bingle. Reading from the Nicole Kidman playbook, Bingle’s publicists tip off the media about where to take ‘candid’ snaps.
Then, she complains about the intrusion.
Later, she loses it at a poor paparazzo who’s simply trying to pay the bills.
It’s narcissistic – and it’s nasty.
Her ‘husband’ Sam Worthington is a repeat offender.
In a double-Alanis, he punches a photographer for following him, before asking police if they’re familiar with “that movie Avatar”.
Fame is a double-edged sword, and clever celebrities know their relationship with the media is symbiotic.
Bryce Corbett, news editor of the Australian Women’s Weekly, tells a story about an actress who graced the cover several times.
“She sat down and said, ‘Now, I’ve told you about my miscarriage, we’ve done the divorce, my Dad’s mental illness. Jeez, what have we got left? Oh! I know. OK, are you recording?’”
Someone who understood this more than most was Charlotte Dawson, forming fast friendships with paparazzi, like Jamie Fawcett, on a basis of mutual respect.
“They’ve got a job to do; it works both ways,” she once confided to me, after being papped in the street.
Sure, there’s a line to be drawn. But it’s between public and private figures.
Like the parents of eight-year-old Bridget Wright, killed by a falling tree branch in the grounds of a Sydney school last week.
My cameraman husband was sent to do a ‘death knock’ an hour and a half later. Apparently that’s the new statue of limitations on grieving time, according to the TV networks.
These people have the right to complain – loudly – about their treatment by the press.
Not spoiled celebrities.