Nobody who reported the Anna Nicole Smith story or viewed it on TV need apologize. The Anna Nicole Smith death trip didn’t catch fire on cable just because she was a bosomy, semi-famous blonde who checked out at the age of 39. For 15 years, she had been gathering chunks of fame the same way a successful World of Warcraft player gathers gold, armor, and potions: again and again. A Playboy cover girl in 1992, she became Hef’s “Playmate of the Year” in 1993, and then won a Guess Jeans modeling contract. The following year brought bit parts in movies and status as New York magazine’s “White Trash Nation” cover girl.
By this point, Smith was no more accomplished, newsworthy, or interesting than, say, Carmen Electra is today. What paved her path to renown was her 1994 marriage to an elderly oil billionaire who had the superb timing to die in 1995. For the next 11 years, Smith earned almost as many headlines for the legal fight she waged for a portion of the codger’s estate as she did for her performances as model/actress/spokesperson/reality-show star.
Fat, no-talent, bleach blondes from Texas with breast implants aren’t rare. But add a little show-business success to that package and top it with a potential half-billion dollars, and you’ve got a story. When Smith won a procedural round before the U.S. Supreme Court in 2006, even the New York Times’ Linda Greenhouse had to pay 654 words of attention to the gal.
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Please. Her entertainment credits peaked in 1994, when she had amassed the impressive resume of being a jeans model, a Playboy centerfold, and an extra in a forgettable movie.
Plenty of billion-dollar lawsuits, and plenty of more significant jusisdiction disputes taken to the Supreme Court were overlooked because they didn’t involve such a trainwreck.
Her implants and her hair color certainly contributed, but what drew people to the story was the tawdry nature of the case. A 20-something marrying an 86-year-old billionaire on his deathbed, her subsequent descent into addiction, and her copiously displayed stupidity playing right into the stereotype were what made this story popular.
So do apoligize. This wasn’t a fascinating legal dispute over jurisdiction in estate cases. This was a blonde with huge hooters and the IQ of a pork belly falling apart for the cameras.
Jack Shafer = part of the problem. Slate = part of the problem. Anna Nicole = vapid, talentless (dead) ‘ho. No self-serving rationalizations could possibly obfuscate these basic facts.