by Jeanne Beker
Then out walked a subdued Puffy, looking more like a college student than a bad-boy pop star, to the tune of Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing.” It may have seemed like bullshit to some, but I liked Puffy and found the personal theatrics rather inspirational.
Backstage, Puffy seemed as earnest as ever. “We know you for your music, and your flash, and your own personal sense of style,” I said to him, “but what would you want to be most remembered for?”
“Hopefully … I’ll be known as being a great entertainer, [a] child of God, and a nice human being. It’s a long road to get to that point. But you know, I’m up for the journey,” he said. God must have been on his side, because a few weeks later, a jury found him not guilty on all charges.
By July of that year, Puffy was tripping the light fantastic once again, this time in Paris during couture week. It was moments before the Versace show at the Théâtre National de Chaillot, and Puffy made his grand entrance with date Emma Heming (now Mrs. Bruce Willis) in tow, enveloped by an entourage of security heavies. Shutters clicked, bulbs flashed, and I made a beeline for Puffy, microphone in hand. But it was impossible to get to him. He was being guarded like royalty, or some precious, paranoid politician. I had a post-show invite, however, to a party he and Donatella were hosting for a couple of hundred people at Cabaret, the newly opened Paris nightspot at the Place du Palais-Royale. Maybe I’d see Puffy there.
Cabaret was a basement club that felt like a glam 1970s rec room. The space was decorated with countless twinkling votives and huge roses. Donatella’s brother Santos was sitting at a table near the door with some beautiful blonde. The Champagne flowed. The Hilton sisters were cruising. I was munching caviar canapés when I noticed Puffy sitting at the back of the room with Donatella, Rupert Everett, Kevin Spacey, and Naomi Campbell. All the models and stylists and other assorted fashion types were crowded in front of the table, gawking at the celebs. Heath Ledger walked by. Chloë Sevigny posed for pictures. When Puffy got up from the table, I tapped him on the shoulder. He looked happy to see me and grabbed my hand. We did a little jive to the funky music, and then Puffy went over to start deejay duty. My pal Tim Blanks, the Fashion File host, and I started dancing like crazy with Amber Valletta and Shalom Harlow. It was a million degrees in the club, and we were all dripping with sweat. Puffy was on the mic, urging everyone to “have another shot of tequila” and “take your clothes off and get naked.” It was another one of those hedonistic moments that will stay with me forever.
I started running into Puffy more and more in the years that followed. In 2004, around the time he won the coveted Council of Fashion Designers of America award for best menswear collection, Puffy and his “Sean John” company bought a 50 percent interest in Zac Posen’s label. Zac was a young designer whom Fashion Television had followed from the very beginning of his career, just after he graduated from Central Saint Martins. Because Zac was always so grateful for my support, I was treated with great respect at his shows, and Puffy seemed especially pleased to see me backstage. No matter how many crews were fighting to get to him—the mood was electric whenever he entered the space—he always came directly towards us and never failed to give us great sound bites, forever thanking me on camera for being the first to recognize him as a design force to be reckoned with.
In February 2008, I managed to secure an intimate one-on-one interview with Puffy to be used for both SIR, the men’s magazine I was editing, and Fashion Television. Puffy was relaxed and eloquent, with the controlled chat taking place in his large studio space. His design team was readying the fall/winter Sean John collection for its impending Fashion Week presentation, the first big show he had staged in five years, on the tenth anniversary of his label.
Puffy’s income had been estimated at $346 million a couple of years earlier, making him one of the richest men in hip hop. Now, with all his successes and a new huge billboard towering over Times Square, he admitted that he felt as though he was living a dream. “I wish we all could,” he told me, characteristically conscious of the countless fans who’d helped him make it. “I worked hard to get to this point,” he said. “I want to keep living it. I want to keep dreaming.” He had carved out his role as an urban folk hero, and I was impressed to see that as grandiose as his persona had become, he still stayed focused on his goal. “I’m not just doing this for myself,” I remember him telling me ten years earlier. “My motivation is that I’m trying to make history. I’m just doing things that show younger people what you can do if you keep your eye on the prize and you have fun with your life.” Now, Puffy was advocating social change. He was very much behind the power of the youth vote and was committed to helping get Barack Obama elected. He credited his past with preparing him for his success. “Growing up in Harlem,” he said, “growing up without a father, watching my mother and grandmother work multiple jobs to make sure I could go to college, I grew up watching a certain type of work ethic. And it makes me a person that really believes he can achieve whatever he puts his mind to, because that’s how my mother brought me up. Failing, for me, is not an option.”
That September, I was thrilled to hear that my network, CTV, had booked Puffy to play at a big, splashy party we were hosting for the Toronto International Film Festival. He would be performing live on a grand stage to be erected in the CTV building’s Queen Street West parking lot, as part of what promised to be the hottest ticket in town. We asked if Puffy might swing by our studio just before or after his afternoon sound check for a live-to-tape interview before a live audience, which we could then package and broadcast as a special. His office agreed, and we hurriedly made arrangements to pull the show together.
I was excited by the prospect of sitting down with Puffy again, and especially pleased that about one hundred of his fans would get the chance to hear him speak in this intimate setting. Most of this select group of fans had won tickets to watch this exclusive interview, and everyone who arrived at the studio that afternoon was pumped at the thought of seeing their hero at such a close vantage point. We didn’t have an exact time for Puffy’s arrival, but we wanted to be ready for him. So we assembled the crew and the audience at least an hour in advance. The studio was buzzing with anticipation as we all practised our welcome, cheering loudly and applauding wildly. The hour passed. But there was no sign of Puffy.
I entertained the patient audience by recounting stories about my encounters with their hero over the years and answering any questions I could. A producer came by to tell us they had just got word that Puffy was on his way to do the sound check. Instead of doing the interview before the sound check, however, he would do it afterwards. We were all relieved to hear that at least he was on his way to the building. We would just have to be a little more patient.
Another hour passed. It was as though we were waiting for Godot. But eventually a producer assured us that Puffy had finally arrived and was in the parking lot, doing his check. Another few minutes and he would be all ours. I refreshed my makeup, readying myself for our big welcome. When another half hour had passed and there was still no sign of Puffy, I decided to go out to the parking lot myself to see what the holdup was.
“Well, where is he?” I asked a small group of producers and technicians who were huddled with what appeared to be some of Puffy’s people.
One of the producers looked me and humbly said, “Well, he was here. But he just left.”
“What!?” I shot back. “We’ve got a studio full of fans who have been waiting close to three hours. When’s he coming back?”
“I don’t think he’ll be back until right before he has to go on tonight,” the producer sheepishly explained.
I was appalled. “Can I talk to one of his people?” I asked.
A young woman came up to me and introduced herself as Puffy’s assistant. “I’m so sorry,” she told me, “but Puffy was really wiped out. He had to go back to the hotel to brush his teeth.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was almost funny.
“Are you serious? We’ve been waiting for so long … He’s coming right back, isn’t he?”
“Well, actually, I’m not sure that he is. I’m so, so sorry. Nothing I can do about it,” she said, evidently a little mortified that her boss had pulled such a stunt.
I went back to the studio and announced to the audience that Puffy wouldn’t be showing up after all.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s probably one of the most outrageous things I’ve ever seen in over thirty years in the business. But he’s gone back to his hotel, and he’s not coming back until he does his performance tonight. That’s showbiz, I guess.”
The fans were crestfallen, and I just wished that Puffy could have seen the disappointed looks on their faces. We tried to make things better by offering everyone a wristband to get into the concert in the parking lot that night. But many were so disillusioned that they just went home. I wondered how they would regard their hero now.
I never heard from Puffy after that—no explanation from his office, no note of apology, nothing. I never even saw him backstage at Zac Posen’s show the following season—though if I had, I had made up my mind to pass him by. Forget about the professional impropriety Puffy had committed against me after all those years of support—I just can’t imagine any excuse for the total disregard with which he treated his fans that day. Any notion I had ever had that this man was a style icon went up in a great big “puff” of smoke.
HEELS ON THE GROUND
WITH THE HYPE and hysteria around celebrities, we frequently assume that they’re all egomaniacal misfits. While I’ve certainly met my share of self-important, arrogant divas, there have been a few mega-stars who have wowed me with their kindness and humility. I’m always inspired by those who remain real and down-to-earth, and aren’t caught up in the superficial trappings of their celebrity status.
I’ll never forget interviewing Sarah Jessica Parker at the Eaton Centre in Toronto in 2005 when she launched her first fragrance, Lovely. I’d had several encounters over the years with the talented star of Sex and the City, and I always found her to be affable and generous. But these exchanges were brief and usually took place on the fly, at various fashion shows and on a number of red carpets. Our first sit-down Toronto chat was on a small stage inside the busy downtown mall, at lunchtime, in front of about five thousand adoring fans. After our interview wrapped, the diminutive star sat at a table for about an hour and a half, meeting fans who diligently stood in line to get autographs. Many who came up to her were in tears, overwhelmed at getting the chance to meet their heroine—Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw—up close and personal. Whenever these fans started gushing over how much they related to Carrie, and how much she had meant to them, Sarah Jessica was quick to point out that it was the talented team of writers on the show who’d created this compelling character.
When it came time for the actress to leave, she held back, determined to sign as many autographs as possible. The security team had to practically drag her out of there! She was evidently moved by her fans, and she knew how much meeting her or getting a quick scribble from her would mean to them. She tried to indulge as many as she could. This was one star who knew on which side her bread was buttered. The mutual respect I witnessed that day was inspiring.
“It’s very hard to not be aware of why I have an opportunity,” Sarah Jessica told me when she came to Toronto in 2010 to launch her Halston Heritage clothing line. “I know that if I hadn’t been part of Sex and the City, I certainly wouldn’t be here today, talking to you about this particular job at Halston. I certainly wouldn’t have come to Toronto a few years ago to launch a fragrance … The audience of Sex and the City is the most important part of the equation,” she said. “So if I’m not willing to spend time with the people that are really responsible for the privileges that I have in my life … I should be looking to do something else.” The much-loved actress agreed that all the hobnobbing with fans was a lot of hard work. But it’s work she takes on voluntarily.
Not all stars are as comfortable meeting their fans face to face. For some, the media melees that develop whenever they make a public appearance are nothing short of frightening. And I’ve learned that sometimes a star’s unwillingness to stop and chat is based not on snobbery but on fear. Take the inimitable Olsen Twins, for example. The front-row frenzy that erupts whenever the duo walks into a fashion show is among the most extreme I have witnessed. The twenty-something sisters, who began their acting careers on the hit TV series Full House when they were only nine months old, have grown up to become bona fide style icons, and now, with their own clothing lines, “The Row” and “Elizabeth and James,” they are among fashion’s most powerful players. Their irreverent approach to dressing—a kind of effortless chic—has won them respect as trendsetters for a whole new generation.
I have watched Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen through a particularly loving lens since 1995, when they were in Toronto shooting It Takes Two, a comedic romp that co-starred Steve Guttenberg and Kirstie Alley. Bekky and Joey, my own girls, about eight and six at the time, were diehard fans of the twins, so I took them on set with me when I interviewed Mary-Kate and Ashley, who were then nine. The young movie stars were delightfully personable towards my girls. The film’s unit publicist, Prudence Emery, told me they were off to Muskoka that weekend to shoot—coincidentally on the same lake our cottage was on. I enthusiastically extended an invitation for a boat ride, sincerely hoping—but not really expecting—that the twins would take me up on it.
To my great delight, the Olsens contacted us at the cottage that weekend and told us they were staying at the Deerhurst Inn, which was just minutes away. Thinking they would get a kick out of our 1939 Shepherd, a vintage mahogany boat that my husband, Denny, had restored with loving care, I gathered a few spare lifejackets and we all piled into the impressive craft for the quick trip across the lake. We pulled up to the dock of Deerhurst, where Mary-Kate and Ashley; their older brother, Trent; their little sister, Lizzy; their dad; and a young woman who appeared to be a nanny or assistant were all waiting, eager to get on board. The kids got into their life jackets, but much to our chagrin, when we tried to start the old boat up again, she simply died. The engine had conked out, as it often did, and Denny couldn’t get it started again. Both sets of little girls—our Bekky and Joey and the twins—didn’t seem too upset, and they all waited patiently while we called a neighbour to come and get Denny so he could return to Deerhurst with our other, more reliable speedboat.
Finally back at our cottage, we had a delightful time relaxing on the dock and taking the Olsens on tube rides around the lake— something they had never done before. I was completely taken with the twins, charmed at how down-to-earth and unspoiled they seemed, especially for kids who had grown up in the public eye. At one point, I saw the four little girls—who had really bonded that afternoon—all go into the bathroom together. Years later, when the Hollywood Reporter dubbed Mary-Kate and Ashley “The Most Powerful Young Women in Hollywood,” I joked to my girls that they had had the honour of peeing with “The Most Powerful Young Women in Hollywood”! It was a real, if dubious, claim to fame.
The Olsens went on to build a substantial empire for themselves, and by 2006, they had reached number five on Forbes magazine’s list of the top twenty earners under the age of twenty-five. I interviewed them again when they launched their kids’ clothing line for Walmart in 2001, but I had seen them only fleetingly in the past few years, at the Paris and New York fashion weeks, when they would make a much-ballyhooed appearance at the odd show. While I occasionally made eye contact with them, they never spoke to me and never responded to questions I threw their way. The Olsens were constantly surrounded by security types and throngs of press and paparazzi, and they were always escorted directly to their seats, never stopping for a moment to acknowledge anyone. I often wondered what they were thinking, and what kinds of young women these “little girls” grew up to be.
In August 2009, Mary-Kat
e and Ashley came to Toronto to launch their “Elizabeth and James” collection at Holt Renfrew, and I was granted an exclusive TV interview with them. I was enchanted to discover that not only had the sisters managed to plough through the muck and mire of celebrity culture, tenaciously forging their way to the top, but they also were still as sweet and down-to-earth as that day we went tubing on Penn Lake. They had fond memories of that afternoon, and were eager to know what Bekky and Joey were up to after all these years. When I asked them how they felt to be called two of “the most powerful players in the fashion world,” they both laughed.
“Those are just words,” said Mary-Kate. “I think you just have to stay grounded. Maybe that’s powerful.”
“And stay true to yourself,” piped up Ashley.
I asked the twins how difficult it was to be in the public eye all these years.
“It was important to learn early on that you really couldn’t pay attention to the noise,” explained Ashley. “That would really be the biggest distraction, paying attention to whatever is getting written about you, and just all that noise. It’s the most distracting thing. We don’t pay attention to it. We don’t read it.”
I told them that whenever I had seen them at fashion shows, I couldn’t get near for all the craziness. “I wonder what goes through your minds,” I said, “when you’re sitting there, in the front row, and the paparazzi are going nuts, and you’ve just got to keep ‘grounded,’ as you say. Because it doesn’t look enjoyable.”
“I turn white,” said Ashley, “and—”
“Shake!” laughed Mary-Kate, finishing her sister’s sentence.
“And my palms start sweating, my legs start shaking,” Ashley continued.
“I think you just sort of black out for ten minutes, and then it’s over,” interjected Mary-Kate.
