The double-edged sword of modern celebrity

Andy Warhol got it spot-on when he talked about everybody's 15 minutes of fame. Not only about the desire for fame but its extreme brevity:  on the whole fame fades frighteningly fast.

Which makes fame, as seen through a provocative celebrity merchant's tale about Hollywood's manipulation of image and publicity, deliciously bittersweet. Never, according to Mark Borkowski, a publicist for 25 years, has so much effort been expended by so many hucksters for so little lasting reward.

Fame, too, is only rarely global. Put Carol Vorderman in Vietnam and she is just an unknown British woman with a flashy smile. Put Jeremy Clarkson in Chicago and he is just a man in ill-fitting jeans. Put them both in Borough High Street and you will have a celebrity orgy. But put them both there in 10 years and no one under 25 will bat an eyelid towards them.

Even the globally famous are ephemeral: 40 years ago John Wayne was more iconic then Brad Pitt is today. Nowadays he is an unknown name for most people under 30. In the 1940s, Johnny Weismuller - aka Tarzan - was the Beckhamesque model of the perfect male; now he's reduced to being the answer to a question on TV quiz shows. Yet, as Mark Borkowski's The Fame Formula tells us with insider's relish and sly objectivity, publicists plan, lie, fabricate, manipulate and distort to get their clients written about.

Why? Fame is corrosive, because it distorts the views and values not only of people who are famous but also of those around them. In the same way that power corrupts, so with fame. Fame disconnects people from real life, from being able to do the simple things like going for a stroll in the street. It also gives people a licence to behave badly.

If a famous person arrives shockingly late for dinner, more often than not no host will dare to admonish them. Instead, the host meekly accepts a million pathetic excuses or more likely expects no excuse. Instead, he forgives and instantly forgets the most unforgivable rudenesses. Fame is poisonous because it makes the famous oblivious to the normal rules and niceties of life. It twists their perspective, and that of their coterie.

And fame is always double-edged, at best bringing recognition and adulation, at worst toxic exposure. Remember: its naughty first cousin is infamy, when you become known for reasons of spite or scandal – vide Max Mosley. Welcome to bad fame.

But, as Borkowski shows, there are still legions of hucksters twisting, spinning, promoting and trying to turn ephemera into permanence. In truth, they are the most forgettable people of all. But then, they know what is good for them – and what they are good for. ·