The Met Gala Is Pure Uncut Celebrity Worship
The past few years seem to have cooled the United States on the pastime of unabashed, hardcore celebrity worship that was the root of so much media and the rise of tabloids to so much more than the gas station rags they started as. It’s not too difficult to see where this growing disinterest in the lives of the rich and famous comes from, as it’s not nearly as fun to get a tour of someone’s marble bathrooms when we live in an oligarchy that’s less functional than you’d even expect an oligarchy to be. When Roe v. Wade is on the eve of being overturned, it’s hard to gin up any sort of feelings for Ben Affleck’s love life.
Each year, though, for whatever reason, the media seems to still hold the Met Gala as an event of high priority. We have to endure a media dump of the outfits of one hundred Timothee Chalamets, with websites screaming at us about who did and did not understand the assignment, while we’re in the middle of attempting to find the money for tax payments and defend reproductive rights with the money we have left over.
The Met Gala is the absolute pinnacle of wide-eyed celebrity worship. It has the energy of a rich socialite asking her maid how she looks and us, the maid, cleaning our hands on a towel, going “you look like a princess” in hope that maybe when she dies she’ll leave us a silver ring. The red carpet feels like a king’s promenade, with the serfs roped off and reaching for a feel of the king’s robes, for a little of the perfume to rub off on their dung-stained hands.
It’s an awards show without any awards. Look, if the generationally wealthy want to have a fun little costume party, that’s their prerogative. But don’t make us pretend that it’s some sort of affecting social event for the rest of the population. To celebrities, you also don’t have to attempt to wear something that makes a statement in order to act like you’re not about to get a gift bag at a value that could house someone for a year. You don’t need to wear a dress that has the word “immigrants” sewn into the hem, or have a makeup artist attach sapphire tears for the lives lost in Ukraine. You’re at a fancy party, that’s fine, but stop trying to get me to care that you went.