You know, I’ve always thought of fame like a mirror- clean, polished, ever-so-perfect- a perfect reflection of joy and wealth and all you could ever want. But anyone who has ever watched Citizen Kane or Strictly Ballroom may just think that it’s a hall of mirrors- distorted, maybe a little dazzling, perhaps pretentious and sometimes incredibly ridiculous. And yet, for those reasons we rarely admit, we keep wandering into that hall, hoping that one of those mirrors will one day, show us the version of ourselves we secretly want
to be.

Baz Luhrmann gives us Scott Hastings, spinning across a floor dazzled by cheap sequins and glaring lights- ostentatiously blinding to some, the epitome of success to others. Orson Welles gives us Charles Foster Kane, a man who spends a lifetime building a vast kingdom of attention, so vast that it eventually collapses under the weight of its own emptiness. Two different worlds, yet both seem to whisper of the ominous undertones of fame, of the burning heat of spotlights dreaded by even the most hardened, experienced stars of them all.

And it makes me wonder:
What is it, exactly, that we worship when we worship celebrities?
Celebrity culture isn’t new.
The ancient Greeks had heroes etched in marble- Hercules, Achilles, men sculpted into immortality.
Today, there’s influences, pop stars, the occasional wannabe singer. One could argue it’s the same impulse, the same magnetic pull.
But, eventually, a spotlight becomes a sun, and people orbit around it as if it were a source of life- like a moth attracted to a growing flame.

You could go blind staring at the sun.

I overheard a conversation once- two people whispering about whether a celebrity couple had broken up. They looked like they were going to cry, poor things. They spoke with the urgency of a surgeon discussing a patient on life support. In a strange way, it was understandable. Watching other people’s lives is easier than confronting our own.

Easier to observe than reflect.
Easier to gossip than grow.
Easier to watch someone else dance rather than take the risk of dancing ourselves.

Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote that “he who gazes into the abyss must take care that the abyss does not gaze back.” Celebrity culture, I think, seems to be our modern abyss- an endless scroll of curated perfection that quietly encourages us to measure our worth. And ironically, those who seem the most adored die alone, spend their lives feeling alone, never truly alive. After all, Kane dies surrounded by his servants. Scott Hastings nearly loses everything simply by daring to be authentic.

Yet, I’m not here to condemn. There are joys in storytelling, admiration, and artistry. Film classics endure not because of their red carpets, but because they remind us of our own humanity. They open our eyes to the courage of trying, the beauty of failure, and the relief of admitting that we don’t have to dance another choreography for the rest of our lives.
The con is when admiration slides into imitation. When we believe a long-held myth that fame equals fulfilment. When we forget, as Tolstoy suggested, that truth exists not in grandiosity but simplicity.

So perhaps, the point I do return to is that this reflection of fulfilment, of a simple yet grandiose realisation of worth shines brightest when we stop trying to own it and simply let illuminate what we believe matters.

We can admire without definition.
We can watch without instruction.
We can recognise that behind every glittering spotlight lies a human grace.

And here’s the funny thing: films remind us that life is a stage, but the script is ours to write. We can follow the steps, or we can improvise. The choice is ours. And perhaps it is better — far better — to stumble in authenticity than to glide in emptiness.

And maybe that’s the lesson.
Not to reject this proverbial hall of mirrors, but to walk through it, knowing that the truest reflection is one you find outside.

Thank you.

Signing off…