Last year, the New York Times published a list of what its critics deemed the best books of the 21st century. (So far.) Offices and book clubs across the country chattered about which books made it and which got snubbed, which were ranked higher and lower than deserved. But the most discussion was reserved for the winner of the No. 1 spot: Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend.
The book itself was a hot topic, but that’s just it—only the book itself could be discussed, because Ferrante is a pen name. Though she’s been active for decades, there has been no public confirmation of Ferrante’s actual identity. Thus her books stand on their own, with no press tours nor insights into her personal life anchoring her work in our culture.
Contrast that with much of our artistic landscape today. If you go to an art gallery, exhibition titles and informational displays establish an artist’s background and identity before you even see the work. At bookstores, or in the book aisles of superstores like Target or Walmart, authors’ names scream at you from covers, as if the most important thing about a book is that it was written by Colleen Hoover or Sarah J. Maas. Maybe most significantly, much of the work of creation nowadays is done by influencers, people known not by the art they make but by their names, identities, and lives.
Of course, names have power, and we often use them—and should use them—to select from an overwhelming array of content. I like Sally Rooney’s books, so I am inclined to buy books with her name on them. But after a while I notice that my inclination to judge has blunted; I let Rooney fill my head, regardless of whether the content evokes an emotional or intellectual reaction, or leaves a lasting impression.
Is a work of art actually good? Or is it skating by on the coattails of its creators’ past success? These questions often come up regarding film franchises like Marvel; it’s had winners in the past, but its content today seems to mostly bank on nostalgia over quality. (Although there are plenty who argue it never had any quality in the first place. Personally, it lost me after Moon Knight.) But these questions can—and should, especially now—apply to individuals too. Part of the point of art is to enrich the viewer—and the culture—emotionally and aesthetically, and that enrichment is threatened when artists get gimmicky. Or when the artist themself supplants their own art.
Which brings me to Timothée Chalamet. Last Sunday, the mustachioed heartthrob gave a speech at the Screen Actors Guild awards, during which he, having won the best actor award for his portrayal of Bob Dylan, stated: “I’m really in pursuit of greatness. I know people don’t usually talk like that, but I want to be one of the greats. I’m inspired by the greats.”
He continued: “I’m as inspired by Daniel Day-Lewis, Marlon Brando, and Viola Davis as I am by Michael Jordan and Michael Phelps.” And, lifting his trophy, he added: “This doesn’t signify that, but it’s a little more fuel, it’s a little more ammo to keep going.”
Much ink was spilled over this naked ambition, most of it laudatory, and I’m generally in agreement: Striving is what made America, particularly today’s tech sector, so powerful, and I’d rather live in a world fueled by dreams than one dragged down by over-focus on the reasonable. While Chalamet didn’t specifically define “greatness,” his examples offer clues to what he means: Everyone he named is a paragon of their profession, famous for mastery and complete dedication to their crafts, whether it be acting or sports.
No, the question isn’t whether we approve of Chalamet’s goal of greatness, but whether he can attain that goal. If we accept that part of an artist’s greatness comes from dedication and maybe even obsession with their craft, then Timmy appears to have that in spades: His Dylan portrayal, it’s said, took more than five years to prep for, when many young people today don’t have an attention span of more than five seconds.
But will his art speak for itself? One of the positive reviews of his speech came from Variety, which spent some column inches meditating on Chalamet’s activities outside of acting:
Whether dropping in on his own lookalike contest in downtown Manhattan or hanging out with the marching band at the University of Minnesota, Dylan’s home state, Chalamet has shown off his sense of humor and slightly bro-y bonhomie, throwing himself into a “Saturday Night Live” hosting stint and chatting college football like any co-ed who spends his weekends glued to ESPN. This is a man so in tune with the zeitgeist he’s dating Kylie Jenner, one of the only celebrities who’s mastered the attention economy as well as he has.
I knew all of this before reading Variety. Whether knowing this is good or not, I don’t know—I was able to suspend reality enough to believe Chalamet as budding jihadist Paul Atreides in Dune, but I do wonder if there comes a point where the star gets stuck as the star. The danger of typecasting is an oft-cited boogeyman of actors, but I wonder if there’s an additional valence to that danger, particularly nowadays when stars are tweeting, livestreaming, and doing Reddit AMAs: to be typecast not as a specific character, but as the actor themself.
We see this when pop stars feature in movies. I have never seen a film including Jennifer Lopez where she has become, to my eyes, anyone other than Jennifer Lopez. But it happens to true-blue actors as well; I confess that in Oppenheimer, Gen. Leslie Groves was never anything more than Matt Damon. This might work to some actors’ advantage if their characters and real selves are similar—I’m thinking Ryan Reynolds and Deadpool—but for others, the main draw is not their craft, it’s them.
I’m sure some people and studios are okay with that; we have lists of Hollywood’s most bankable stars for a reason. But it’s one thing to pay a talented actor $20 million to star in a film that will move hearts and minds; it’s quite another to give a celebrity a fat book deal for a shallow memoir just because their fame guarantees sales. This individual-first approach devalues both the form and the craft: If any singer can star in a movie, what’s so special about acting? And if any moderately famous person can “write” a book, then what’s so special about writing? Thus movies and books, and any other creative medium, become not creative mediums but extended marketing packages for a singular personality. Sure, they sell. But they usually don’t say much, and they have less power to enrich.
It falls upon today’s artists to be great on the merits, and for critics to boost good work, as opposed to work anchored only by a famous name; fame is sticky, but skill and hard work are not. Now, I don’t think the gimmick industry will go away entirely. But we have plenty of critics, and, hopefully, plenty of aspiring artists, and maybe someday, we’ll have more appreciation for what’s good and what’s not. And maybe someday, someone else will include Timothée Chalamet in their list of greats.
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