For the Record: Lots of Abstractions

Sunday night I found myself sucked into the Britney Spears' documentary For the Record. I knew 2 minutes into it that she was not going to provide any real insight into her tailspin last year. The interview scenes revealed far less than the images of her simply going about her daily life. At one point, she tries to go to a NY boutique for some shopping and cannot get out of the car on the first try, since the paparazzi descend on her like scarabs from The Mummy. Seeing her stare blankly into the dressing room mirror as they plaster her with makeup and hairspray was more insightful. Sure, she's a superstar, but when you boil down her life from minute to minute, it's clearly very lonely. Her father, along with an army of handlers, has her under lock and key.

At one point in the interview scenes, she begins crying and admits that "she's sad." I'm not sure how to react to that comment. It's hard to feel sympathetic for someone who has the gall to say "I know that some people have it worse me." In light of the recession and the Bombay bombings, this comment is insulting. Sure, the interview was recorded in September or October, but that doesn't excuse how self-centered the her commentary is. Particularly since she offers no REAL reason for her tailspin. At no point does she mention addiction or depression or anxiety. Hell, just say you had a nervous breakdown, Brit. Let's get real.

The truth is that her life is so far from reality that she cannot be real or genuine in her interviews. Look no further than the caked on make up and the dried out weaves. She's a doll. At one point, she dresses up as a witch for Halloween and descends to the first floor of her house to attend to her two sons. She holds one and it struck me that she looked like a child holding a toddler. I pray those boys will make it to adulthood--even adolescence--alive.

I want to root for Britney. In a way, she is as much a product of America as the cheeseburger, a pickup truck, or baseball. Despite my disapproval of the idea of someone who bares her navel, girates, and sings in a octave that can only be described as sexy (and not angelic, talented, or even memorable), I find myself busting a move when her songs come on any airwaves. The scary thing is that my feelings regarding Britney are the same as rubbernecking: despite the horror and nausea I feel in the pit of my stomach as I look on, I cannot avert my eyes and ears.