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Highlights Of The Latest Tell-Alls By Cher And Marilyn Manson.
By James DiGiovanna
The Long Hard Road Out Of Hell, by Marilyn Manson and
Neil Strauss (Regan Books/Harper Collins). Cloth, $24.
The First Time, by Jeff Coplon, with Cher (Simon Schuster).
Cloth, $25.
THE BEST PART of the colder months is of course the joyous
holiday season, wherein we put on our most disturbing outfits
and force strangers to feed us toxically colored sweets. Unfortunately,
this is quickly followed by the post-holiday let-down season,
marked as it is by the despondent overconsumption of turkey, and
pathetic attempts at cheering oneself by spending too much money
on unwanted presents for unlovable relatives.
Well, what better way to extend your post-Halloween creepy feeling
than with these two celebrity bios. The first is from Marilyn
Manson, who re-invigorated the world of shock-rock by introducing
colored contact lenses to the amusing get-ups that had made Kiss
and Alice Cooper such beloved figures in nursery schools around
the country. The other is from one-named warbler Cher, who, in
spite her obvious battles with literacy, has managed to tell an
entire book to co-author Jeff Coplon.
Perhaps the real surprise here is not the childish semi-prose
of Cher's latest autobio, but the fact that Manson's (with co-author
Neil Strauss) is actually quite good. Most celebrities "write"
their autobiographies as auto-hagiographies, or at least extended
love letters to themselves (I think Phil Donahue started this
trend...check out his treacly and egregious Donahue: My Own
Story...handy when you're low on emetics).
Manson, on the other hand, is incredibly open about portraying
himself as a loser, a young nerd, a cry-baby and a morally questionable
character. He doesn't glamorize this behavior, he's just terribly
honest about the stupid things he's done. He's even clear on how
easily manipulated he's been, and doesn't use this as an excuse
to blame others for his troubles, unlike so many of the "recovery"
based biographies. He's even capable of distinguishing when his
drug taking was a mistake and when it was fun or enlightening.
You don't see an even handed approach on that issue every day;
most of the time it's either anti-drug fanaticism or simple-minded
pro-hemp activism.
As you would expect, The Long Hard Road Out of Hell begins
with Manson's childhood. There are, however, many ways to recollect
one's salad days: Currently, a tale of victimization at the hands
of dysfunctional families is the popular trope; not long ago,
rose-tinted images of pre-suburban bliss colored the recollections
of many of these stories. Manson tries another take entirely:
He remembers the images that hinted most strongly at just how
disgusting, creepy and unwell the world could be. These are not
so much events wherein he was harmed or wronged (although those
are included), but rather images of perversion and abnormality.
The opening image is of a young Manson (then called Brian Warner)
slipping into the first ring of a Dantean underworld:
Hell to me was my grandfather's cellar. It stank like a public
toilet, and was just as filthy. The dank concrete floor was littered
with empty beer cans and everything was coated with a film of
grease that probably hadn't been wiped since my father was a boy...Dangling
unconcealed from the wall was a faded red enema bag...to its right
was a warped white medicine cabinet, inside of which were a dozen
old boxes of generic, mail-order condoms on the verge of disintegration;
a full, rusted can of feminine-deodorant spray; a handful of latex
finger cots that doctors use for rectal exams; and a Friar Tuck
toy that popped a boner when its head was pushed in.
Young Manson, trapped in this cellar, is later confronted with
the image of his aged grandfather masturbating while wheezing
through a spittle-covered tracheotomy tube.
And yet...this book isn't just about grossing out the reader;
rather, these opening sections do explore an area of childhood
seldom looked at with much distance or subtle interest--children's
fascination with the grotesque. This is perhaps one of the strongest
interests of the young, as so many of our earliest and most suppressed
(but not repressed) memories are of seeing what we were not supposed
to see: the hidden porno magazines, playing "doctor"
with other kids, the first time we saw a dead animal. The opening
chapters cover this with a subtle insight, illustrating the mesmerizing
and disquieting effect such images can have on the young. This
alone gives the book interest far beyond its status as a celebrity's
story.
Manson goes on into his teen years, where tales of rejected affection
(a much less original topic, no doubt) are covered in a way that
brings forth the rage and resentment that would motivate a young
nerd-boy like Brian Warner to become an ebulliently excessive
and abusive rock star. Manson never presents his sins as pardonable,
only explicable, and he seems to consistently take responsibility
for the nastiest things that his teen-self did. In one section,
he relates how he planned to kill a young woman who was harassing
him after he dumped her. Frustrated at her ability to cancel his
band's shows and spread damaging rumors about him, he went to
her house with several cans of gasoline, intending to burn it
to the ground. Luckily, he was spotted by too many people and
had to give up the scheme; but his telling of it is full of the
kind of rage and embarrassing failure that strike a chord in the
reader at the expense of the writer's dignity. That kind of move
seems to me far more courageous than the tales of survival that
trumpet the power of the human spirit in overcoming adversity.
On the other hand, it should be pointed out that Manson is something
of an asshole. No big surprise there, but when he admits to degrading
and humiliating some of his groupies the stories are not pretty.
Oddly, he seems to feel bad about it, especially if the people
he's debasing seem to him to be losers: He can't help relating
to their situation, what with his loser adolescence. In fact,
he himself winds up the butt of a cruel rock-and-roll joke at
the hands of his idol, Trent Reznor, when Reznor's hired goons
cover Manson with condiments and leave him in the middle of a
dangerous downtown area half-dressed and penniless.
Somehow, in spite of these rock-n-roll hijinks and his penchant
for glam-rock attire, Manson manages to sound thoughtful and articulate,
even when he's discussing post-concert groupie enema contests.
Cher's book, au contraire, is so stupid as to at least
give up a few yuks, though not much more. One imagines that her
co-author would provide a great deal of help, but the bite-sized
sections of The First Time read like they were written
for a fourth-grade English assignment. Cher's at her best when
she waxes political in the section entitled "My First Allergic
Reaction to Republicans." Here, she makes the insightful
comment that Jackie Kennedy was much better looking than Mamie
Eisenhower. How could anyone vote for Nixon, wonders Cher, when
he was so "creepy" and his wife was "pinchy-faced"?
Indeed, if Cher had been running CNN during the last election,
she may well have been able to point out some of the atrocious
clothing that went completely unnoticed by Bernard Shaw.
She also, of course, discusses her first sexual experience (at
age 14). And her first sexual experience with a "Mook."
And her first sexual experiences with Sonny. And her first sexual
experience with a "bad boy." And her first one after
her divorce. But don't get excited: Her kindergarten prose hardly
makes for one-handed reading.
Cher finishes with a long section (seven pages, which is about
seven times longer than any of the other sections) on Sonny's
death. It seems contrived, inserted only so that the last line
of the book could be, "And I remember thinking this is
not good-bye" (italics in original).
Somehow, in spite of the sweet tone of her book, Cher comes off
as more manipulative and amoral than Marilyn Manson, who at least
has the capacity to express a story that engenders sympathy in
the reader. But then again, one could argue that Manson is man
enough to fist audience members on stage, whereas Cher hides behind
those slinky fishnet body suits and Academy Awards statues. Still,
with Manson looking more like Cher everyday, it's only a matter
of time before they team up and produce a sweet little song called,
"The First Time I Fisted An Italian-American Senator."
Rock and roll awaits the moment.
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