'Why is humanity so lost?' I asked myself. A deep dive into celebrity drama reveals the humble fragility of the human heart, our common struggles, and a path to redemption.
I was spending a week alone at home and decided to watch a movie on Netflix. As I perused the films, I was reminded that movies these days have been degraded somehow, a reflection of the general state of the world. So I'd been choosing movies based around good actors, or even just actors who intrigue me as people. People who seem to carry a bit of magic. At very least, I trust in them to teach me something when I watch, no matter the context.
On this evening I chose a film with Johnny Depp. Call me unoriginal, a Hollywood fangirl, but there's something of Johnny that demands respect and proliferates magic. Still, I was sadly unsurprised when 'The Tourist', (a film with co-star Angelina Jolie) delivered what seemed to me a superficial (sex-money-power), disappointing story. Not for the first time, I reflected, 'Humanity really seems to have lost itself.'
Sanity is found in the silver linings, though, so I look for the places where light shines through and focus there. I thought about magical Johnny and wondered why he'd chosen this film, whether he'd lost himself with the rest of us. So I Googled him to see what he'd been up to.
Sanity is found in the silver linings, so I look for the places where light shines through and focus there.
Digging Deeper
I'm deeply interested in understanding people. Celebrities are people (despite what many tell us) who, for whatever reason, find the minutia of their lives gets broadcast globally. I get the sense that people end up celebrities in part because there are lessons these particular souls have to teach the human collective by example, for better or worse. Sometimes I study them, to learn what.
Johnny Depp - very presently - had been involved in a deeply messy courtcase defending his reputation against allegations made in The Sun and The Washington Post that he was a 'wife-beater' of his ex-wife, Amber Heard. A little Youtube research turned up a plethora of private relationship arguments recorded by Johnny and Amber, clips acquired in mistrust for protection or evidence, now made entirely public. 'How incredibly sad,' I thought.
Compelled by the humanity of it all, fascinated by the dissolution of the celebrity facade, and honestly concerned for what was happening to the magic of that guy Johnny Depp, I listened.
The Truth About Us
Let me preface what's to come by saying that I obviously don't know what really happened between those two people. Nor is it my business, nor is that particular relationship what matters here. Yet here the two of them were, a globally broadcast example, with Amber a self-proclaimed spokeswoman for the 'Me Too' movement, and Johnny a man in defense of his character. The situation was iconic. An archetype. A man and a woman and in a way, every human being at this time in history, on trial.
I was curiously struck by my own biases and reactions to the story as I watched them moving through. First, 'Oh no, Johnny's a wife-beater. That magical guy has fallen.' Because men with material power often abuse it. Women have been silenced. Their voices need to be heard. Women are frequently victims. They're usually telling the truth. I'm one of those, an abuse survivor, the victim of a man.
Then I listened to some recorded conversations between the couple. Then to Johnny's testimony, and to Amber's. To my surprise, the evidence I observed suggested that Johnny Depp himself was the primary victim of domestic abuse, if not the only victim.
I listened carefully to his voice in the dialogue and heard what sounded like love, or at least tenderness, for Amber. I also heard frustration and defeatedness. Fear for his own safety, and for hers.
Amber's testimonies seemed defensive, desperate, spiteful, inauthentic and contrived. Yet I continued to watch my reactions. 'Have I been duped? Am I just trying to defend some powerful celebrity hero?' I digested further evidence, where Amber admitted her physical abuse of him, belittled his attempts at self-protection, and told him that no one would ever believe he was a victim of domestic violence.
I found myself moved to tears. Suddenly the humanity that had seeped through the cracks of celebrity facade had now flooded the recesses of my own heart. My own experience. 'Men and women are not so different after all.' Beyond the tragedy, it felt oddly unifying.
'Men and women are not so different after all.'
Another wellspring of reaction arose within me: 'Amber Heard's an abuser! That cunning, manipulative woman has taken down that magical guy!' And then with more awareness, 'Woah, steady there Steph, you're really judging these people. Also, you don't actually know them.'
Funny how that little voice in the head loves to make extreme claims with such unfounded confidence.
I listened more closely to Amber and at points seemed to hear a desperation in her voice, like that of a frightened child. I heard a need for love. A longing for security and a desire for healing and connection. I heard care, confusion, regret. A desire for a sense of power.
Their story had been amplified on the megaphone of fame and it's messy companions, but at heart, the plight of these stars was nothing but incredibly common and poignantly relatable. Amidst the glamour, the accolades, the ludicrous wealth - two human beings, struggling deeply with their own pain.
Redemption
In the search for someone to blame, if we're honest, what comes up is victimhood across the board, defending itself blindly. Even when a victim seems vindictive. Or intentionally cruel. Defense unchecked looks a whole lot like offense.
In the search for someone to blame, if we're honest, what comes up is victimhood across the board, defending itself blindly.
No matter what we've done or who we've been, at heart we are innocent. Worthy of forgiveness, acceptance, and restoration to dignity. So often I've heard people suggest that to offer grace and compassion somehow allows a perpetrator to evade responsibility. That judgment, blame, shame, condemnation and punishment are the only ways for us to 'get it'.
What does shaming actually do to us? I can't say it causes us to learn, or feel genuine remorse. Shame may cause us to feel badly about ourselves (as if we need more of that), or to behave differently, but neither has its root in true understanding or rehabilitation. Shaming mostly creates a sense of painful suppression that prevents self-reflection and any authentic desire for change.
And who are we blaming, really?
The perpetrator. Or wait, maybe it's the perpetrator of the perpetrator, whose actions turned a victim into an offender. Convinced we'll find some ultimate villain responsible for some deeply intentional evil, we hold out for a place to channel our anger about the way things are. We hold on.
No matter what we've done, or who we've been, at heart we are innocent. Worthy of forgiveness, acceptance and restoration to dignity.
The vast majority of humankind are - by no true fault of our own - simply wounded, reactionary, self-protecting. Through our pain we've sought love and fulfillment in misguided ways. We feel afraid to face our short-comings, since we already feel quite badly about ourselves. The reality of the task before us can feel too painful to own.
Resolution
Johnny and Amber's case will deliver a verdict this September. Cleansed by the process of investigation and reflection, I'm doing my best to reserve judgment, to send love. To these two, and the vast number of people in situations far more painful.
Times of great pain seem an opportunity to pause in compassionate reverence. Not a time to create more enemies out of strangers, but a time to recognize the humanity in everyone.
After all, every one of us is made of a precious magic worth preserving.
Times of great pain seem an opportunity to pause in compassionate reverence. Not a time to create more enemies out of strangers, but a time to recognize the humanity in everyone. After all, every one of us is made of a precious magic worth preserving.
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