Is charisma acquired or something people are born with in measures small or big? Celebrities have it, usually in dollops, which is why you notice them as soon as they enter a room – and you’d be surprised at how many might otherwise pass unnoticed for being diminutive or nondescript – only because their presence registers itself: some in a flashy, diva-esqe mode, others in an understated, quiet way.
Up close and personal though, the sophisticated world of the glitterati and the chatterati, the glamourati and the literati, is likely to strike you as being shallow. Hang around long enough and you can’t help but notice their preoccupation with their crow’s feet (because the botox treatment was delayed again) and nicotine-stained teeth; some have BO and others bad pronunciation, some pimples, others blackheads, some have nasty eating habits and still others poor hygiene. You’d expect someone to tell them – spouse, children, colleagues; stylists or agents – but whether actors or writers, fashion designers or socialites, the only thing you can count on is their right to have a tantrum at their subordinates’ expense. They get so used to their star status, they’re rude if they’re held up at the airport, want to be the first to be served at restaurants and will have a fit of temper if they aren’t recognised.
The paparazzi press, though, is their undoing — at least where the entertainment industry is concerned. For the red carpet, they’re togged out in whatever the luxury brands have handed over to them to wear, and will thereafter have a trying time getting back. Actors and models, particularly, are notorious for returning the clothes torn, sometimes falsely claiming that accessories have either already been returned, or lost, in spite of contracts they’ve signed to the effect that everything will be immediately handed back in pristine condition. Snapped at airports without their lipstick and liner, their clothes dishevelled, or inappropriate, they’ve become the target for outspoken columnists on television and in print. There is no more privacy – in restaurants, at gyms, on flights, at religious shrines – yet they daren’t show their claws, the poor darlings, they need the press that feeds viciously on them.
Targets of their own celebritydom, is it any wonder that the cliché is, alas, so often true: that authors are uncouth, stars callous, sports stars abusive, socialites gossipy. Hoteliers love their business but loathe their manners. Unable to go shopping on a whim, or for a movie, or just for a jaunt, they’re prisoners of their tarnished halos more likely to cause a stampede if they arrive for a parent-teacher meeting than earn a brownie point from their children for trying to appear normal when, alas, they’ve been cursed with charisma.
My wife definitely has charisma — why else wouldn’t she attend parent-teacher meetings, organise the weekly bazaar, take the children for their haircuts or swimming lessons, when they were young? If I asked her to respond to the doorbell because I was having a shower, you could be sure she’d answer, “Not without my lipstick on, sweetie.” The driver once explained that the car ran out of gas because madam would not let him stop to fill petrol till her nails were done. In a multiplex, she watches movies with her shades on. She can’t be rude to the domestic staff without running the risk of a walkout, so she practices being offensive with the family instead. The charisma part is done, if only the celebrity part would now follow…