It’s the first Monday of May, which means absolutely nothing if you’re neither girlie* nor gay. And this year, I’m afraid to report that even then, the inaugural Met Gala is lackluster. The iconic Met Gala used to be a night to watch, which is how I preface most of my statements about big celebrity-studded events nowadays: in past tense. But not even nostalgia can cloud the apathy I feel towards a roomful of rich people dressed silly. It doesn’t matter if the looks are good (they usually aren’t) or if the guest list is remarkable (it’s meh). It’s not disdain or anger, it’s just… irrelevance.
It’s generally a good thing that we’re all tiring of celebrity, especially after Gal Gadot’s infamous Imagine video (stars, they’re stupid just like us!). There’s something about a global pandemic and the attempted insurrection of the United States that puts our culture into perspective. If there was ever a divide between celebrities and the general public pre-2020, Ellen Degeneres made sure it’s one that we’ll never bridge when she complained about quarantining in her multi-million home.
But celebrities have always been laughably transparent in their efforts to be relatable. An It Girl claiming to use $8 drugstore lip gloss in her Vogue Gettting Ready does not discount the fact that she has access to the top dermatologists and makeup artists in the world. In a paradoxical way, I do appreciate this about the Met Gala: it makes no efforts to conceal the lines between us and them. It’s intentionally extravagant and avant garde, even though nothing has surpassed its 2018 Heavenly Bodies theme.
It’s not exactly the waste nor the capitalism of the Met Gala that makes it so uninteresting (though they are arguably factors). Celebrity culture, whether it be an award show or fashion week, has always relied on exclusivity to keep its relevance. Put a bouncer outside of any old building and everyone will be tripping themselves to get in. But these institutions of celebrity—which is very much a business— were built on old ideas of whiteness, thinness, and gender. At its heyday, the Met Gala didn’t care about inclusion (and arguably still doesn’t). The people who attended in the early aughts were representative of a myth of what aspirational meant.
The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show embodied this as well. When the OG Angels were in their prime, it was very obvious what kind of women our culture uplifted. But as more people push back against these ideals, the less power these big celebrity-studded pedestals retained. It doesn’t matter if you have the biggest party of the year if no one cares to come.
A few months ago, I wrote this op-ed for Teen Vogue on why the Golden Globes felt so hollow: “The 80th Golden Globes weren’t about the stories that were told or the people who brought them to life. It was about—just as it’s always been—the higher powers that control who is even allowed to be in the room. Until that changes, the “reforms” that were alluded to are just another story Hollywood loves to tell.”
It used to be that the Met Gala—like the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, like the Oscars—was the place to be. It represented all of our ye olde ideas of grandeur, before we knew better, before celebrities themselves destroyed their own credibility. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that some of the biggest talent in the world (Beyonce, Taylor Swift, etc) no longer concern themselves with being in that room. Just as the Met Gala needs them more than they need it, institutions need us to buy into them to thrive.
And I don’t think we’re into what they have to sell. Not anymore.
There’s a new generation of artists who don’t need the validation of Vogue and most definitely would have been rebuked by Karl Largfield, who famously sucked. Celebrity culture has been on the decline for some time, but with each passing first Monday of May, we inch closer to its grave. Sure, there’ll always be a place in our culture for tabloid fodder because it’s familiar and profitable. But as far as the actual institutions that once defined celebrity?
I won’t miss her.