THERE must be few fates worse than being a movie star today. Think of having to spend your life in that galaxy of black holes and bright, shining anti-stars. Think of that world of brutal competition and expensive divorce, that vast field of stumbling alcoholics, suicides, and drug addicts with their fitness trainers, oceanfront palaces and the latest in cosmetic dentistry. The average movie star spends thousands of hours in the dentist’s chair, millions of hours on the treadmill, trillions of hours lifting weights. Whenever I see celebrities on the red carpet at awards ceremonies, like Greek gods lining up for deadly sport, I think of all the dull hours these semi-divines had to spend looking at themselves in the mirror or getting fitted for their costly shreds of clothing. All for the sake of movies that involve real artistry and technical virtuosity but are more often than not still bad movies. Talk about selling your soul. There is no rehab center that can keep these gods from weeping.

Robin Williams and his third wife. 

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