What You Give Me Is Already Enough
I enjoy the world of entertainment when it does what it does best: entertains me. A film that keeps me glued to my seat, a series whose next episode I cannot wait to see, an athlete who does something I would never have imagined possible. Through their work, some people make a few hours of our lives more enjoyable. That is no small thing. In fact, it is reason enough to appreciate them and feel grateful.
I can admire an actor, remember his performances, seek out a film because he is in it. I can get caught up in a match and recognise the talent, preparation and discipline behind a result. What interests me is what that person can do and what they can convey to me. But I do not feel that this needs to turn into a desire to know who they sleep with, where they spend their holidays or why their marriage ended.
When I say, “I love your work, not your private life,” I do not mean that your life has no value. It has just as much value as mine, with the same dignity and the same right to privacy. I mean that I do not need to follow it to appreciate you. The feeling you gave me is not incomplete because I have no idea what you did after leaving the film set or the stadium.
A Ticket Does Not Open Your Front Door
For me, this is where the pleasure of entertainment ends and something I do not want begins. News of a new film gives way to photographs of a new partner. An account of a victory drifts towards an alleged affair. A separation becomes a serial drama, with commentators ready to decide who is right and who is wrong about people they know mainly through what has been published.
There is an enormous supply of these stories, but I do not want to see them as a natural continuation of the film I have watched. I am not missing a piece of the actor because I know nothing about his love life. And I do not understand why I should have an opinion about a holiday, a dinner or a stolen photograph of someone who never invited me into their private world.
The ticket I buy entitles me to a performance, not to a person. I can judge a performance, criticise it, decide I did not enjoy it. That does not mean I have bought the right to enter someone’s home, follow their children or demand explanations for every private choice. Fame makes a person recognisable; it does not make them available to satisfy every curiosity.
Of course, some people choose to share their lives. They may do so sincerely, for pleasure, for work or for reasons I do not know. Even then, I remain free not to follow their story. I need not be outraged by everything other people publish: I can simply choose not to give it my time. Someone’s right to put themselves on display does not oblige the rest of us to take an interest.
A Crowd Outside a Window
An episode from many years ago has stayed with me: the news about Sophia Loren in prison and the people gathering outside. In May 1982, during her imprisonment in Caserta, a UPI report dated 20 May described a crowd singing and dancing; according to one witness, they continued until one in the morning. I do not mention this to revisit her personal circumstances. What interests me is the question that scene raised about how we distribute our attention.
What makes us spend hours beneath the window of someone famous? Affection, gratitude, the desire to be there: perhaps a different reason for each person. I do not know the people who were present, and I cannot decide that they were uncaring children, absent parents or inattentive partners. It would be unfair to turn a question of mine into a verdict on their lives.
Yet the question remains, and it applies to me too: are we just as willing to be there when the person behind a window is our mother? When a friend who is unwell is waiting for us? When someone we know needs not a crowd, but a visit from us? I do not know how those people would have answered. I do know that examining our priorities seems more important to me than being curious about a celebrity.
We can feel affection for a public figure and care for our families: the two do not exclude each other. The problem arises when our willingness to make time seems endless for people far away and always inadequate for those close to us. Distance alone does not make our attention misplaced. Sometimes it is the absence we leave elsewhere in order to give it.
The Effort We Do Not Mind Making
Another memory concerns football supporters who would leave Sicily for another European country to attend a European Cup final, even without a ticket. Long journeys, nights sleeping out in the open, discomfort, money spent with no guarantee of getting into the stadium. A passion strong enough to make all of this acceptable.
I do not deny that such an experience can leave someone with a wonderful memory. I understand the friendship of travelling together, the sense of belonging, the desire to be close to your team. I do not believe every euro or every day must be devoted to a duty. But I am struck by the strength we can find when something draws us in, especially when we compare it with how quickly, on other occasions, we say we cannot manage.
“It is too far.” “I have work tomorrow.” “I do not know where I would sleep.” These are real obstacles. Yet when a final is at stake, some people manage to overcome them all. I wonder, then, whether the same willingness is there when a loved one needs someone to take them to an appointment, when someone going through a difficult time needs company, or when a commitment promises no extraordinary excitement. I do not know those supporters’ answer: I would like each of us to try to find our own.
Not every effort is an act of generosity: we can work very hard to obtain something we enjoy. There is nothing wrong with admitting that. The problem is using the sacrifices we make for a passion as proof of a willingness to give that we never actually place at anyone else’s service. An uncomfortable night spent trying to see a final and a night beside someone who is frightened can both cost us sleep; they do not, however, reflect the same choice.
The People Who Know Us Do Not Make the News
Taking an interest in the lives of people who do not know us has a particular ease to it. We can follow them whenever we want, stop when we are bored, feel outraged without having to talk anything through. Someone close to us, by contrast, does not offer only interesting episodes: they have repetitive days, inconvenient needs, words we have heard before. Sometimes they ask something of us at the very moment we would rather be doing something else.
Our feelings for an artist can be genuine. A song may have helped us through a difficult time; a film may have helped us understand something about ourselves. But familiarity is not always mutual. Knowing many details about someone does not mean we have a relationship with them: we can know everything about their day and remain a stranger in their life. There is nothing wrong with that. It is a distinction worth remembering, so that we do not confuse the intensity with which we follow a story with the presence we bring to a relationship.
I think of the contrast between how precisely we remember a public figure’s romantic history and how vaguely we answer when someone asks how a friend of ours is doing. We know about a stranger’s holiday, but have not found time to hear about our child’s trip. This does not necessarily happen to everyone who enjoys entertainment. When it happens to us, though, it is worth pausing: perhaps we are short not only of time, but of a decision about who deserves it.
I am not saying that being related to us gives someone a claim on every hour of our day, or that we should maintain relationships that harm us. I am talking about the people with whom we have a good bond, the commitments we have chosen, the affection we say we feel. Nobody will publish a story because we listened to our mother or accompanied a friend somewhere. Yet, for that person, we may have done the most important thing of the day.
Privacy Does Not Mean Impunity
We also need to make distinctions. Not everything involving a famous person is gossip. Behaviour that harms others, abuse, or responsibilities connected with someone’s role may deserve public attention. I would never say, “I am only interested in their acting,” to dismiss someone’s suffering or shield a public figure from the consequences of their actions. Admiring talent must not become a way of excusing everything.
For me, the useful question is this: does knowing this help us understand something that affects other people, or does it simply satisfy a desire to enter someone’s bedroom? A verified report about real harm is not the same as speculation about an affair built around a photograph. Defending privacy does not mean asking for silence about responsibility. It means refusing to treat intimacy itself as public property.
Likewise, talent does not make someone an authority on every aspect of life. I can learn a great deal from an athlete’s discipline without entrusting them with my judgement about relationships, raising children or what really matters. The ability to do one thing well deserves admiration for that thing. In other areas, famous people can have insights, limitations and contradictions, just as we do.
Taking Back Our Attention
I have no battle to wage against entertainment. I have a preference to defend: I would like a film to end without having to start monitoring the lives of the people who starred in it. I would like to applaud a performance and then return to my day, carrying with me the pleasure of having seen it, not the task of following every piece of news about its star.
I believe part of freedom lies precisely in being able to say: this does not interest me. Without contempt, without feeling superior to people who are curious, without having to turn every choice to step away into a lesson for others. I can close a news story, stop following a page, choose a different conversation. Our attention is not something we must automatically hand over to whoever can demand it most loudly.
And I can try a simple test: before spending another hour on the lives of people I do not know, I can ask whether there is someone I do know whom I keep putting off. Not to cancel out pleasure with guilt, but to put things back in order. Watching a match and calling a friend can both have a place in the same life. It becomes a problem when the first appointment is sacred and the second can always be dropped.
What I Would Like to Leave My Children
My children, I hope all three of you keep your capacity for enthusiasm. For a film, a team, music, an extraordinary achievement. I do not wish you a life that is suspicious of pleasure, nor do I ask you to measure every passion by its usefulness. The beautiful things someone can do may stay with us for years, and appreciating them is a way of being alive.
But I would like you to know when to stop before giving an idol the place that belongs to the real people in your lives. Admire a talent without claiming ownership of the person behind it. Acknowledge what they have given you, respect what is none of your business, and retain the freedom to judge even those you like. Applause must not become obedience.
When you find you are capable of crossing half of Europe for a passion, do not be ashamed of it. But remember that capacity when someone you love needs you. Not everything will be possible, and not every request will be reasonable. Still, do not always declare that you have nothing left to give the people you love if you can find the resources for what you want.
I would not want you to know everything about people who do not know you, and too little about those who love you. Ask how they are, listen to the answer, be there when it matters. You do not need to give up entertainment to do this. You only need to remember that while we follow other people’s lives, our own is happening too: partly in the people who are waiting for us.
Papy