This is for bingo square ‘favourite’, partly because celebrity memoir/biography is one of my favourite genres, but also because Gwyneth Paltrow has, in one way or another, been the favourite her whole life–favoured of fate and fortune via her parents, acclaimed actress Blythe Danner and producer Bruce Paltrow, cynosure of critics, muse for Calvin Klein and Anna Wintour, tabloid and arty celebrity scene It Girl, Academy darling for her Oscar win at 26 for Shakespeare in Love (1998)—and more chillingly, for a while, as journalist and biographer Amy Odell details, Harvey Weinstein considered her his favourite, Miramax’s golden goose.
And then there was the pivot (a buzzword I find impossible to use without thinking of Ross and the sofa and the stairwell)
to Goop and shift towards telling women how to buy their best self, the thing she was born with, whether through sleek clothes or ‘clean’ beauty or, more insidiously, things to put inside their bodies that have not been medically recommended or properly scientifically proven (or indeed ways to avoid putting things like carbs inside their bodies)–which has made her a media favourite, the woman we love to hate, or at least roll our eyes over. (At the moment, for instance, the site recommends that you can either wake up tired eyes by using a spoon from the fridge, or a Theraface Depuffing Wand for $169.99. If only my eyes weren’t too tired to roll.)
While her insights into the Miramax situation and Paltrow’s strained personal and commercial relationship with Weinstein usefully clarify some of Weinstein’s power-wielding tactics as well as his eventual downfall and Paltrow’s role in it, Odell’s biography is at its best when dealing with Goop; she coolly narrates the founding of the company and its evolution from a newsletter to a content creation system and curated shopping site. (Incidentally, I teach a unit on ‘celebrity culture’, and one of the weeks is on ‘Who Influences the Influencers?’; I’m delighted to find that Odell also traces a direct line of descent from Goop to wellness Instagram and TikTok). Odell observes the frequent chaos in the company while acknowledging some of its innovations in the field, notes Paltrow’s energetic but sometimes counterproductive approach, and meticulously documents a number of dubious if not actively harmful and potentially fatal claims made by Paltrow’s ‘gurus’ and the ad copy for the products sold on the site.
While Odell’s careful writing, citing of sources, and neutral tone certainly give the biography a sense of authority, it’s almost too cool to be fully engaging or interesting, however–or maybe that’s just a reflection of the subject, as Paltrow’s public persona itself is beige and patrician and all smoothly flat-ironed hair and carefully honed surface. Even Paltrow’s veers into raunchiness–the candle named ‘This Smells Like My Vagina’, the luxe sex toys on the Christmas list, are embalmed in money and aspiration, squeezed dry of all juice, glossed to the point of being unsexy.
What I would like is more analysis and context and texture; Odell’s writing is smooth, and she is sensitive about the sad events in Paltrow’s life, but often descriptive and brief–a point of view emerges if you look for it but I don’t think it would hurt the depth and documentation if there was more of a thesis all along. There’s an assumption of common knowledge; she comparatively mentions media backlash against Blake Lively, e.g., and I would be interested in some more in-depth discussion of this and the Hollywood women of Paltrow’s generation and its aftermath. She skips through Paltrow’s filmography, although I can see how a focus on the backstage gossip and production issues might be more interesting for a number of readers. But again, I would like more analysis; of making of The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), for instance, Odell details some on-set gossip about Paltrow and Luke Wilson, then notes:
“I hate dates,’ Paltrow said around this time. “They make me sick and make me feel nauseous. … No, it’s just that I hate first dates. But I like dating and getting to know people. If you get past the first date, then your time is running out.” Marriage, she added, was a long way off for her. “I’m lucky if I get past six weeks. The make-or-break is six weeks.”
The Royal Tenenbaums premiered at the New York Film Festival in late 2001 as its “hottest ticket”, per the New York Post. Reviews were generally good, for the film and for Gwyneth, whose character was described in Variety as “a woman who has everything–looks, talent, and money anyway–except a properly functioning heart. (178)
I don’t really know what to make of this juxtaposition; the chapter ends on the bit about ‘properly functioning heart’–is the suggestion that Paltrow’s dating woes mean that she lacks such a heart (because honestly her comments there are pretty fair, dating is hell and people are the worst)–is an explicit parallel between Paltrow and Margot Tenenbaum being drawn here, and if so what does the author mean by it and how can it be supported?
If you want the juicy stuff about Paltrow’s romantic life (Brad Pitt, Ben Affleck, Chris Martin–that lady pulled, though of course a number of late 1990s/early 2000s leading men have not aged well in many senses), then a lot of it has already been excerpted and reported on by cultural commentary sites. I do recommend Gwyneth: A Biography if you’re interested in how privilege shaped Paltrow and also the nepotism of Hollywood, or Goop as a root of pseudoscientific evil, but if you’re interested in Paltrow as a celebrity persona, or indeed a film star/actor herself, there’s not a lot here. There would be a lot more to say about Paltrow’s blondness and New Englandness and artistic perspective and Sylvia (2003), for instance, and her attempt at playing against that type (and singing) in Country Strong (2010) and how that worked out. There’s also a lot more to be said about the version of femininity if not feminism crafted and embodied by Paltrow, and its shifts (or not) over the 30-odd years of Paltrow’s career that Odell frustratingly gestures towards but never fully unpacks.
Title quote from Taylor Swift’s ‘Gold Rush’ (2020)