If I ever met a celebrity in real life, I’d play it cool.
For example, say I passed, oh, I don’t know, Paul Mescal on the street. I might completely ignore him. Or perhaps I’d nod in his direction, or offer a knowing wink, which he and I would both understand to mean: I know who you are, but I’m not going to make a big deal out of it.
Something tells me Paul would appreciate that.
See, I happen to believe celebrity culture has gotten out of hand. These days, we think that just because we see every detail of our favorite star’s lives online, we somehow know them. Which is ridiculous!
I reckon Paul would agree with me on this, and I would love to discuss it with him, perhaps over a pint of Guinness in a quaint Dublin pub. But only if he asked.
Fame is rarely the goal, at least in the beginning. Actors just want to act!
Personally, I think it no small irony that by excelling at their craft of inhabiting other people, actors find themselves unable to truly inhabit themselves. (I’m sure just as much has occurred to Paul, being the thoughtful thespian that he is.)
What’s worse is that it is we, the adoring public, who inflict this punishment on these poor celebrities through our misguided adoration!
What I’m trying to say is, I get it.
And I refuse to be part of the problem.
Which is why, if I ever saw Paul Mescal sitting down to a quiet drink in a nondescript pub, I’d sit at the table next to his—and would make a point of not speaking to him.
He would, I’m sure, see what I was doing—shielding him from the cloying public—and might even invite me to join him at his table, convinced as he would be that I was not like the rest of them.
We’d get to chatting, about our respective days at first, but soon we’d shift to our upbringings, which we would find, though markedly different, share the inevitable commonalities of childhood: scraped knees, tyrannical teachers. Over this, we would bond.
Sensing that he could trust me, Paul would tell me about a particular character he is struggling with—about the difficulties he is having truly accessing this character—and I would offer some unburnished advice, from a non-actor’s point of view, which would alter his approach and totally unlock his performance.
He would recall this moment, months later, onstage, as he is accepting a prestigious award for that very performance. He would express his deep gratitude for my helping him through that creative blockage, but also for the friendship we had since nurtured, which had blossomed despite the myriad obstacles thrown up by our vastly different existences.
Soon I would be splitting my time between London and L.A., a one-man entourage, indispensable, always on call. We would talk about getting a project of our own off the ground. I could write the screenplay, and Paul could play the lead. Our names would appear side by side at the top of the poster.
It would be a massive hit. People would begin to recognize me in my own right. First, just industry folk. Then everyone.
I would find fame novel to begin with. Then it would become a distraction. Then a curse.
Whole parts of the world would be off limits to me. I would exit restaurants through the kitchen. I would go jogging only when it rained. I would spend more time with my agent than my partner. I would forget anniversaries but never release dates.
Then it would happen. One day I’d be sitting in a quiet café, or on a park bench, and a stranger would approach wordlessly. They’d wink at me, or perhaps they’d nod. And I would know that they were not like the others.
Simon Webster is a London-based lawyer and writer
