What’s behind our obsessive surveillance of celebrities?

Like many of us over the Christmas break, Golden Globe-winning actress, comedian and writer Ayo Edebiri watched Saltburn. Since its release last November, Emerald Fennell’s sophomore feature has taken an incredible foothold within the cultural discourse, so it’s no surprise that Edebiri joined in on Letterboxd. She gave it a standard one-line review (“my man’s is doing all of this but can’t eat runny eggs? 🤨”) and liked other takes she agreed with. Within a few hours, the post went viral, and then, like clockwork, she was criticised for being flippant, leading her to go private (as private as you can go on Letterboxd).

Edebiri has been the latest instalment of the “She’s my Princess Diana” phenomenon (titled after the late Princess of Wales, who stole the heart of the nation through her relatability as a “down to earth” figure in comparison to the rest of the British Royal Family). Being the internet’s Princess Diana means being an internet personality who has often had a relatively quick rise in popularity, and who has, even by accident, positioned themselves as very online and/or relatable. They aren’t as untouchable and polished as most A-listers, but their charm and talent sway you in such a way that they almost seem equal or, if not more beloved, than their more established mainstream counterparts. There’s no obvious PR team or attempt to separate themselves from the masses, which makes fans see them as someone they could be friends with if they played their cards right.

But the familiarity breeds a strange kind of obsession. It’s as if these fans categorise themselves differently, believing their invasiveness can’t be placed on the same level as stans with darker histories – like, for example, exposing where their faves are staying (One Direction), or swarming the wedding of their fave’s friend (Taylor Swift). 

Our obsession with celebrity is, of course, nothing new – but the internet, and this increased sense of familiarity, has seen it morph into something more unsettling. “The rise of celebrity culture, particularly from the 1890s to the 1940s, coincided with the rise of urbanisation and secular culture in the US,” culture critic Charlie Squire tells Dazed. “There were no saints or spiritual figures of aspiring goodness, and I think for a long time, when people wanted to put adoration somewhere, it was either towards God or Art. But a lot of people don’t believe in God, and a lot of people don’t like good art, so the only interface you have for a righteous way to live (funny, relatable and all the things you want to aspire to) is to idolise someone. It’s a phenomenon that seems much more intense and concentrated in a culture that’s slightly alternative in a way that you don't see with the girl from The Bachelorette or normal celebrities that aren’t in this internet bubble.”

Now, audiences want to commandeer their favourite celebrities’ careers by being their fans, agents, PR team and therapists – all rolled into one. It’s their almost parental assumption they know better than them, and that, by regularly chastising them, they can eventually Frankenstein the perfect celebrity – one who will never need an apology tour or make them feel guilty for being their fan. When Ariana Grande – a relatable celebrity in that we’ve watched her grow up, grieve, and experience multiple heartbreaks on a public stage – stepped out with her new boyfriend, Ethan Slater, after months of rumours regarding her “home-wrecking” and an alleged affair, she was met with immediate dissatisfaction from her fans, even going as far as stating that watching Wicked Part I would make them feel like they’re partaking in the affair itself.

 “When it comes to the history of celebrity, the Hays Code and morality clauses controlled celebrities and their job was to be at the movies and always working,” notes Squire. “When it ended, that level of control ceased to exist, which led to a dynamic where modern-day audiences want to be PR agents for the celebrities they like. It’s therapy language, as well as PR language, coming from the very specific preferences and opinions of every single audience member.”

Take Paul Mescal, for example. He took over our feeds during the Christmas holidays due to the TikTok to Twitter rumour mill, where gossip about his alleged one-night stand antics entered the public domain. But pretty soon, the jokes about him running away from dates at parks became people posting secretly recorded footage of him at a pub and peering over his shoulder to expose his private messages.  

The act of stalking Mescal on a night out and recording him without his consent feels reminiscent of Perez Hilton and TMZ, but it’s not a major news blog doing this – it’s us. All it takes is one camera and an opportunity to cosplay as an invasive pap from 2006. Once it’s online, we feign horror and shock that this could ever happen, and it goes viral. It plays into our lifelong contradictions of wanting to rid ourselves of celebrities – or at least claiming to – but still being hungry enough to satiate our desires to know them inside and out, even without their say-so.

Dr Hannah Yelin, Reader in Media and Culture and Chair of the Creative Industries Research and Innovation Network, tells Dazed,  “Celebrity is a screen for our projections of the social dynamics we exist in and seek to either intervene in or perpetuate. It’s both/and – celebrity culture both reflects and shapes our norms.” There’s a level of distress people feel when the celebrities they identify with no longer seem agreeable, that the girl on TV they could be friends with wouldn’t share their views on their new favourite show or movie, or that the guy they thought was so dreamy turns out to be just a guy. Edebiri and Mescal have a unique sense of accessibility, where they speak to online audiences about their opinions and tastes so candidly that it makes them vulnerable to the changing tides of opinions. Reviews that were once funny on Letterboxd are now deemed annoying, while Mescal’s dreamy adoration for indie singers like Mitski now stands out as a bright red target for resentment.

We live in an age where community and friendship seem much more distant than ever. Is it any wonder we’re projecting onto people who, in some ways, seem just like us but have all the makings of a bonafide star? This doesn’t necessarily look like allowing a celebrity obsession to take over your life, a la Club Chalamet, but parasocial relationships can take many forms. Dr Hannah Yelin explains, “What we see now isn’t a new audience appetite, but an evolution of the forms in which we get to indulge these concurrent opposing impulses for praise and censure.”

The distinct lack of boundaries and privacy that comes with treating celebrities “just like us” begs the question, if this is how we treat the people we adore most in the world, how does this translate to our interpersonal relationships and how we interact with non-famous people? Unsurprisingly, our general apathy and acceptance for gleefully exposing people’s mundane and personal behaviour (to audiences they did not consent to) exist outside celebrity. Last year, we had the Mean Girls scandal, which led to virtual strangers becoming infamous overnight (two women were caught in the background of an influencer’s TikTok video making funny faces at the camera). What should’ve been left as an in-person disagreement was brought to social media, where people ran through their private lives to find information on them, their jobs and their families. It was a harassment campaign usually held in reserve for public figures who do unspeakable acts. Here, the internet was conducting a public humiliation ritual for the crime of being juvenile – a natural evolution of our impulses, where checks and balances seem to have all but disappeared. 

As we enter 2024 and descend into the latter half of the 2020s, there needs to be a better way to relate to and show support for the people we admire. It’s not just about the plight of celebrities: it’s clear that the way we treat people in the public sphere is creating and upholding all sorts of oppressive social norms, which inevitably filter down to everyone else. Maybe that starts with respecting our own privacy and that of the people we encounter, before it’s too late.