Women Behaving Badly: the allure of the Diva

Female celebrity meltdowns are depicted very differently from male ones – but is it such a bad thing to be a diva?

We've long argued that there is really no such thing as a 'guilty pleasure'. After all, if you felt that guilty about it, then it wouldn't be a pleasure - and if it's a truly, wholly pleasurable activity, then presumably you don't really give a toss about what anybody else thinks. And pure, unadulterated pleasure is how we both feel about international singing sensation and boundless warbler Mariah Carey. It is a love that will last until the end of time, transcending the occasional troughs that have marred an otherwise illustrious career. Yes, even Glitter.

Now that we've got that bombshell out of the way, we'd like to talk about divas. It is a label which, perhaps more than any other singer, has followed Mariah around like a slimy little paparazzo since the beginning of her career. As a term, its operatic origins have been relinquished in favour of its use as a moniker for any female singer who dares to forthrightly express an opinion on anything, ever. Granted, that opinion is more often than not related to the number of scented candles in one's dressing room (or, in the case of one particular rumour, a strong preference for only one colour of Smartie, thus presumably necessitating the employment of one lucky lackey whose job it was to filter out all the other Smarties colours in a hundred tubes). Nevertheless, the way in which stories about diva behaviour compare with coverage of male meltdowns does raise some important questions.

Lists featuring the top ten celebrity tantrums are often female-dominated, despite the fact that paps have documented male paddies on behalf of everyone from Russell Crowe (not impressed when the BBC cut his televised poem) to Alec Baldwin (numerous toys-out-of-pram offences, most notably calling his daughter a 'rude, thoughtless little pig' on a leaked voicemail) to Hugh Grant (baked bean brouhaha - we'll say no more). According to the media, male meltdowns are either comedy fodder, entirely justified on the basis of papparazzi harassment, or, in the case of Charlie Sheen, concerning spirals into mental illness. Where women are concerned, such distinctions are hardly made, and instead seem to fall under a group umbrella of 'diva behaviour' regardless of the underlying reasons. As recent coverage of Amanda Bynes and Lindsay Lohan demonstrates, somehow, 'troubled' has become a euphemism for 'spoilt'. Meanwhile, alcoholism is a serious affliction in a man, but explained away as 'a tad unladylike' in his female counterpart.

But who is the 'classic diva', and why? In a world where examples of the media ridiculing 'women on the verge' abound, it's important that we distinguish bad behaviour from actual cause for concern, not only because failing to do so perpetuates a lack of understanding about mental illness, but also because tales of bad celebrity behavior are hilariously, cringingly entertaining (of which Reese Witherspoon's drunken don't-you-know-who-I-am footage is a prime example.) Yes, very bad behaviour should be condemned, especially if you're Trudie Styler and your reaction to your pregnant chef's inability to make you soup is reportedly, 'Who the fuck does she think she is?', in a bizarre reflection of the aforementioned Witherspoon incident. Proper Diva Behaviour, however, can probably be exemplified by Beyonce's recent attempt to remove some ugly pictures of herself 'from the internet'. We've all been there, B, and therein lies the nub of diva-ishness. The diva demand should be completely and utterly divorced from reality, but also, at some level, relatable in its audacity. Hence our sympathy with Mariah, who once reportedly insisted that she be lowered onto the GMTV sofa by members of her entourage. Fair play. After all, who would sit there of their own free will?

The other important facet of the diva is, of course, her apparent willingness to pit herself against other divas. Mariah's name has been sullied all over Twitter by that challenger to the throne, Nicki Minaj, but ultimately we all know that Carey has spent so much time being pitted against other divas already (see video) that we don't fancy Minaj's chances in the latest Mail-sponsored CELEBRITY CATFIGHT. Perhaps, like the girl Rhiannon's boyfriend overheard on the phone in a bar last week, things will go 'literally apeshit', which I think you'll agree is something we'd all like to see.

It should go without saying that the 'diva philosophy' plays directly into the narrative which asserts that in order to be successful, as a woman, one needs also to be a mega-bitch who hates other women. Space is limited at the top, the logic goes, and nobody wants too many kittens in showbiz; they'll have to get their claws out. So women 'throw tantrums' (because it's childlike); men 'fume' silently, or 'become enraged' with enough provocation, safe in the knowledge that there's room for them when they're done. Divas have probably gained an inflated sense of self from PMT-induced fervour; shirty men have 'complicated stories', and most likely 'psycho ex-wives' who drove them to it. In other words, male frustration is seen as personal and explicable in a myriad of ways, whereas female frustration should be seen as a veiled attempt to trample on her sisters, a cry for the continued attention of Daddy Media to the detriment of others.

Back when the diva *was* a temperamental opera singer who had to be pandered to because of her extraordinary talents, things were a little different. Her ilk were seen as fairly discerning, if dramatic, with little tolerance for incompetence in her peers; nowadays, her demands are seen as all the more impudent because of an altered definition. The 'celebrity diva' of the 21st century is a fairly replaceable pop-star, often of apparently questionable talent, with a trailer full of make-up artists and an eagle eye on the photographs of herself presently circulating in cyberspace. She is ridiculous because she is both high-maintenance and dispensable. The thrill of hearing about Naomi Campbell's latest altercation with airline staff lies in the knowledge that she's treading a much more dangerous line, not as the prima donna in an isolated theatre but on a global stage full of worthy competitors. At any moment, her star may fall, or indeed be knocked down by the girl behind her in a continuation of the diva circle of life (see Carey and Minaj.) The audience to modern-day 'diva behaviour' isn't just rolling its eyes; it's baying for her blood.

Clearly, it's unfair that the two-dimensional diva role lies at the female door, telling its same old celebrity magazine story about pigeonholing 'emotional women'. Still, many would argue that if the role is foisted upon you, why not play it? With all these myriad expectations, it's no wonder that Rihanna's taken to reclining on a white six-foot sofa surrounded by animal furs before she does another chorus of 'Rude Boy' at her latest venue. After all, it's clear that the myth of The Diva and its ardent subscribers aren't going to die out any day soon - and there will always be a few performers who just can't resist feeding the trolls.

Nicki Minaj, sitting on a cloud. Photograph: Getty Images

Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett and Holly Baxter are co-founders and editors of online magazine, The Vagenda.

Photo: Getty
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Essayism is ultimately about how literature can make a difference

Brian Dillon’s study of the essay is a beautiful and elegiac volume – having read it, I re-read it.

It is somewhat unseemly for a critic to confess that their immediate reaction to a book is one of unremitting envy. But Brian Dillon’s study of the essay is so careful and precise in its reading of a constellation of authors – Derrida and Barthes, Didion and Sontag, Browne and Burton, Woolf and Carlos Williams, Cioran and Perec – that my overall feeling was jealousy.

Dillon is a writer on art and culture and a tutor at the Royal College of Art, and the author of an award-winning memoir from 2005, In The Dark Room, about losing both his parents in his youth. A remarkable meditation on memory, it shares with his other work – an examination of hypochondria, Tormented Hope, and his writing on the cultural significance of ruins – a wide and nimble range of reference as well as a sense of personal grief and literary anomie.

 In Essayism, Dillon deals, with a kind of weary shrug, with the etymology of “essay”. But more than just sauntering through “attempt”, “try” and “test”, he digs much deeper: from essayer he goes to examen, the needle of a scale, an image of control. The essay is both a proposition and the judge of it. What truly comes across in this book is that the essay may well be a sally against the subject, but what is tried, in the final reckoning, are the authors themselves. And, of course, found wanting, in both senses of the word. The essay, in Dillon’s account, is both erotic and absent, lapidary and profuse, and is at its best when always concerned with its own realisation of its inherent sense of failure. Before this discussion of etymology, though, comes a bravura cadenza of topics, placed to make us realise the essay is never about what it claims to be at all.

The close readings of various essayists are counterpointed by chapters headed “On Consolation”. This is some of Dillon’s most autobiographical writing to date. In Essayism he both excoriates and exorcises, using the essay as a flail and a balm. In other
essayists he finds mirrors of his own joys and despairs, particularly in a wonderful piece about Cyril Connolly, which deserves commendation simply for not mentioning the pram in the hall.

Essaysism resists defining its subject. As the critic David Shields has said, you don’t have a drawer labelled “non-socks”; and “non-fiction” is a singularly slippery notion. Dillon’s “essays” range from aphorism to such glorious sprawls as Robert Burton’s 17th-century treatise The Anatomy of Melancholy. Some are journalistic, others are philosophic. To an extent, it is the very fluidity that Dillon admires; but above all he claims to admire style, and he is exceptionally good at defining the styles he likes. He reads more into the placing of a comma in a piece by Elizabeth Hardwick than most critics might find in the whole of her work.

This neatness, as it were, typifies the book. It is about noticing, and scrutinising, and reflecting. He has a keen ear for when a sentence has a word that is somehow out of key – “porcupine”, “broccoli” – yet possesses a strange beauty.

The book shifts into a higher gear when Dillon writes about his own depression. There is never a moment where he asks the reader to feel sorry for him. There is a steeliness in his descriptions of the nebulous haze that anti-depressants led him into; a stoic willingness to face one’s own sadness. Books, and the tiny curlicues of beauty he notes in them, were a kind of redemptive force for Dillon, far more so than Prozac. That at one point he found consolation in the pages of the NME is remarkable.

His account of depression is reflected in thinking about the essay. Is it something composed of fragments and shards? Is it a coolly organised progression? Is it about confession? Is it about concealment? The book’s excellence lies in the way these paradoxes are held suspended.

It seems churlish to mention omissions, but I do so because I would like to read what Brian Dillon would have to say about figures such as William Hazlitt, Richard Steele, Matthew Arnold or Iain Sinclair (perhaps our most essayistic novelist). And Dillon’s assertion about the absence of a literature of sickness is unjustifiable if one considers Thomas Mann, Knut Hamsun, Céline. His canon is, as all are, arbitrary: they are the pieces of writing that mattered to him when they mattered most.

The book, ultimately, is about how literature can make a difference. It is a beautiful and elegiac volume. I can give no greater compliment than to say that having read it, I re-read it. 

Essayism
Brian Dillon
Fitzcarraldo Editions, 228pp, £10.99

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder