When Conde Nast and his editor Frank Crownshield launched the first incarnation of Vanity Fair in 1913 - the year that the American public were introduced to “modern art” by the groundbreaking Armory Show - the idea of celebrity was in a state of flux, and it shows in the early photographs on show at the National Portrait Gallery.
There are actors, actresses and dancers aplenty, and even a few characters mostly famous for being famous, but politicians are absent, while authors and artists, even the most avant garde, are set on a level with the more frivolous famous. Virginia Woolf looks decidedly Victorian in a three-quarter-length portrait, Aldous Huxley glowers intellectually into the frame, George Bernard Shaw flashes jauntily the lining of his suit jacket with an eyebrow raised, James Joyce thinks deep thoughts behind his specs and eyepatch, and the beautiful Frida Kahlo poses proudly with fellow artist and husband Diego Rivera.
These simple, straightforward, almost documentary shots are set against rather more hammy fare - Isodara Duncan in robes at the Parthenon, a moody Augustus John clutching a paintbrush - and, in establishing these two modes of celebrity portraiture, the pioneers at Vanity Fair established the standards followed to this day.
Indeed, when the magazine was resurrected in 1981, the tics and tactics of the celebrity photographer had been set in stone, and, aside from a willingness on the part of celebs and publishers alike to show some skin, there is next to no difference between the images of the 1900s and those from the 1980s and beyond. The merely famous are given a veneer of gravitas by the solemn, full-face portrait in black and white, now out of choice rather than necessity, shown to be real people, relaxing at home (not their own, more often than not, but one rented for the occasion), mugging with props suited to their profession, or arranged in “classical” poses, as if the photograph were a good old-fashioned painting.
The exception to this rule is Annie Liebowitz, and on the evidence here, her reinvention of the celebrity photograph is not entirely positive, with innovations resting on ham-fisted symbolism, arty pretensions and a tendency to show the not particularly great and good as they imagine themselves, or glibly to remind the viewer of how they found their fame. Lance Armstrong’s battle with cancer is explored by depicting the champion cyclist naked on his bike, riding through driving rain. Kate Winslet is dunked in a tank of water in a diaphanous dress, just in case anyone flicking through the magazine was unaware of her role in Titanic. At times, one almost suspects Liebowitz of puncturing her subjects’ vanity, or adding a satirical edge to her work, but it seems safe to say that this is in the eye of the beholder.
A shot of Arnold Schwarzenegger, gazing into the middle distance, his biceps straining against the T-shirt he’s chosen to wear, oddly, while skiing, is hilarious and sinister, the right-wing actor-politician as übermensch, with uncomfortable echoes of Leni Riefenstahl. The less said about the preposterous image of Mr and Mrs Tom Cruise cuddling their new baby on top of a mountain, the better. Jack Nicholson celebrates his bad-boyhood by smoking a fag and driving golf balls off a Hollywood rooftop. Both men look silly, and the photographer’s collaborative approach - read sycophancy - is at least in part to blame. Then there’s the pull-out covers, a much-copied Vanity Fair trademark, featuring a galaxy of stars, shot on separate occasions in separate time zones, assembled by a skilful, uncredited Photoshop expert, who doubtless removes blemishes and slims paunches along the way - these are wonderful in their way, because the idea of a gathering of the ultra-famous in one place is titillating - was there bitching on set, did so-and-so blank the one from that film? - but beyond that, Liebowitz does little but arrange actresses in flattering poses.
Interestingly, when Liebowitz plays it straight, the results are rather wonderful. A snap of three generations of the Redgrave acting dynasty is full of warmth. Martin Scorsese and George Lucas are caught in a moment of friendly banter, as Steven Spielberg and Francis Ford Coppola look on. Rupert Murdoch is cast as a friendly old duffer, messing about on his boat.
Thanks to Liebowitz’s showboating, and the strength of her simpler work, the plainest portraits and more candid shots stand out. Daffyd Jones’s shot of Mick Jagger, looking tired and rather bored on a banquette beside Tony Curtis and Madonna at one of Vanity Fair’s Oscars parties portrays three people as people, however feted they may be. Herb Ritts lets Clint Eastwood’s craggy old mug shine in an unforgiving close-up, and captures a telling moment, part public, part private when he shoots Sylvester Stallone and Brigitte Neilson from above, snogging before cheering crowds. Helmut Newton, unable to fashion one of his studied tableaux due to time constraints, shows Mrs Thatcher, cast-iron barnet intact, but tired and sad about the eyes.
Rather more twinkly is Harry Benson’s shot of Ronald and Nancy Reagan engaged in a spot of impromptu ballroom dancing. And there’s plenty more of Benson’s generous approach to his subjects at the Kelvingrove.
In fact, perhaps due to the rather fawning captions he provides, Benson seems too generous at times - the photograph of the Reagans is in both shows, accompanied in Glasgow by a sickly soft-focus image of the Clintons, a cheery Nixon on the campaign trail, and a portrait of George W Bush, then governor of Texas, smirking and playing golf.
Benson is much better when engaged in reportage. His documentary work on the Glasgow of the early 1970s is powerful stuff, and the coverage of the assassination of Robert Kennedy is little short of breathtaking, from Ethel Kennedy in a panic, pushing the photographer away from her husband’s body to the simple image of a straw-boater floating in the senator’s blood.
On the lighter, celebrity side, Benson’s unposed snaps beat his posed set-pieces hands down. The Queen is caught looking terribly jolly on a 1957 trip to a coal mine; Bob Guccione is shown sleazily touching up a model, who casts a withering glance in the Penthouse publisher’s direction; and Judy Garland looks lost and alone as an assistant lights her cigarette. For the most part, though, Benson’s work falls flat. It remains of interest thanks to his subjects - at times it feels as if he’s shot every single star of the past half-century - but not thanks to his photography.
This review was first published in The Herald on Friday 4th July , 2008.