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I was at a dinner party, dissecting recent Hollywood splits--because, apparently, being newly married, my own life just isn't as interesting anymore--and up came Ryan Phillippe and Reese Witherspoon's impending divorce.
"What happened!" I exclaimed. I'd seen their movies; I'd seen the premiere pictures in People magazine. I thought I knew them so well.
My friends, who work in the PR and publishing industry, rolled their eyes as if to say, get your head out of your butt, Jory. One provided the answer:
"She won the Oscar," she said.
Today, I was in the drug store, reading celebrity tabloid headlines. One rag referred to Phillippe's agony over his dissolving marriage.
If my less-than perfect memory serves, the cover read something like:
Ryan breaks his silence about his breakup
The cheating
The heartbreak
Reese's Ambition...
It was getting clearer to me now. Whatever happened in that marriage, it was HER fault.
I found it strange, reading others' commentary about the split, that Witherspoon's success was the unspoken clincher in the breakup. No one suggested any insecurity on Phillippe's part, nor any broken promise to support his spouse through thick and--well--thicker. This had nothing to do with Phillippe's alleged cheating. Witherspoon deserved her fate, it would seem, because she was ambitious. She made more money. She won the Oscar. She proved her utter lack of commitment to the relationship because she dared to have it all.
It's possible that Witherspoon committed the ultimate sin by becoming more successful than her Man.
That Beeeyatch.
It seems that in Hollywood--and many other industries women who become more successful than their men become more unappealing than a pus-encrusted cold sore. There are many ways to kill your marriage: have sex with other men and report back, gain weight and stop touching up your roots, or for the real sadomasochists, make more money than your husband. That'll do it. He'll like it at first--probably try to establish a singing career and wear his hair in cornrows for a while. But in the end, it rarely works.
A rather silly Fox News story almost seems to console Phillippe (when reading the next paragraph, replace the word success, with "ass" to get the full gist of the ludicrousness of this claim):
The sad thing is they are both nice people. But they are also young; Ryan is 32, Reese just 30. They could never have calculated her stratospheric success.
But actresses tend to hit their stride early, with tougher times after 40. For men, it's the opposite. In five years, Ryan could be a perennial best actor nominee.
If only Reese could have held on longer, kept a lower profile. CONTROLLED herself. Wench, whore, high-paid harlot! She just had to have it all, didn't she?
Witherspoon is a modern day Eve. Remember that film? Bette Davis was the appropriate Diva because she was talented and tormented at the same time. She couldn't handle a relationship. She proved that being successful and being happy couldn't mix. Then in walks this ambitious wench who takes it all. She doesn't even want a man, she's so filthily ambitious! She'll get hers. She'll. Get. Hers.
The only difference today is that women are supposedly allowed to have it all. We want our women to be successful, don't we?
I read another interesting article in Us or People, I can't remember which (and please don't discredit the argument because of the source--they actually have a point). The article provided a list of recent Best Actress Oscar winners who divorced or broke off their relationships afterward: Hilary Swank, Julia Roberts, Halle Berry, Reese Witherspoon. All wealthy, all beautiful, all successful. All ... cheated on, disgraced, or dumped.
It's possible that Swank's marriage, the one with the least gossip around it, simply ended; but the public won't give the marriage that credit. Why? As my friend, the publicist explained to me: It just won't work when SHE becomes too successful.
This "truth" hurts. Don't we dream of making it big, buying new houses for our mothers, and thanking our wonderful, loving, supportive, spouses as we stand there on the stage? Or on the podium? Or in the corner office? Sure, I dream for my Man. But I dream for me, too.
I asked my husband, "Would you still love me if I ever became successful?"
"You are successful," he said.
"No, I mean REALLY successful. Like Oprah successful."
"Of course!" he assured me. "I could quit my job and ride my bike all day."
Strangely I felt re-assured by his answer; relieved that he didn't mention cornrows or his own clothing line.
But
