Let’s get hypothetical for a moment. Say there was a fame-starved young heiress who allowed a sleazy has-been film producer to videotape the sex she gave him in exchange for his idle promise to help further her lifelong quest for celebrity.
And let’s imagine the resulting footage was later “leaked” to the Internet, becoming a viral video sensation despite her confounding lack of fame (outside of Maxim readers), personal accomplishment or sexual prowess, thus turning a completely unlikable amateur porn star into a household name, on the cover of mainstream magazines, practically overnight. I know this hypothetical scenario seems like completely improbable lunacy, but just bear with me for a minute after the jump.
So let’s say this sudden celebrity degrades and humiliates herself with an ongoing display of shocking (sometimes even creative) personal publicity disasters, which stunningly seems to somehow make her EVEN MORE famous. And let us imagine that at some point, her name (despite the revolting connotations it comes with) is recognizable enough to convince Hollywood that she could possibly be profitable as an actreess, resulting in her bit part in a throwaway horror film that her laughable acting skills don’t really seem to completely ruin, climaxing with their regrettable decision to let her star in her own film, no matter how incompetent she is as a performer.
Then let us visualize a scenario in which her finished film product somehow manages to fall short of the most miniscule of expectations, making John Tucker Must Die look like Citizen Kane, and leaving even the dimmest Hollywood decision-maker with no choice but to fold their hand, send the movie straight to DVD, and desperately pray this colossal mistake doesn’t destroy their entire career.
And picture this hypothetical producer standing on the roof of his office building, ready to give Sunset Boulevard a bloody paintjob, when something dawns on him: the one skill this talentless socialite truly possesses is attracting negative press by the truckload, and everybody knows there’s no such thing as bad publicity. So what if he was able to concoct an inspired plan to turn this trainwreck starlet’s tabloid antics into an innovative new viral marketing campaign (hey, look what Snakes on a Plane did!) by convincing her to get a little wasted (but not too wasted), drive erratically until she attracts the attention of the authorities, and get herself arrested, on camera, at almost the exact same time her movie (that’s about drinking, the title of which immediately becoming a newspaper punchline in this new context) is supposed to be released. The public gets predictably (and unnecessarily) obsessed with her latest crisis, the piece of crap movie suddenly gets profitable, Paris gets tons of press for something that seems almost saint-like compared to her previous antics, and Mr. Movie Producer gets to keep making bad comedies about the hilarious hijinx that ensue when Ryan Reynolds puts on a fat suit and takes a road trip with his frat brothers.
It’s just too bad the real world can’t have endings as happy as hypothetical ones.