There is a story splashed across every headline that maybe you’ve seen. Amalia Granata is pregnant. She is pregnant and the father of her child has very publicly cheated on her. Who is she? Amalia Granata is famous, famous for being famous. Famous the way Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton are famous. The sort of fame that people look down their noses at, all the while admitting to having seen the sex tapes, but just once, just for a few minutes, just because their friend showed them and they wanted to know what all the fuss was about. That sort of famous.
Ms. Granata first got her 15 minutes for sleeping with Robbie Williams during a tour stop in Buenos Aires more than a decade ago. Robbie Williams is famous for being a popstar, a fame so similar but so different, grounded in the veneer of ghostwritten tunes, strengthened by that mighty Y chromosome.
Unoriginal perhaps, a woman famous for being famous, for the man she fucked. It’s an old story, from Kim Kardashian to Helen of Troy. Playing into that age old, Cinderella-esque problem driven into girls from a young age: you’re only as worthy as the most eligible man who wants you. That standard female metric: be the best trophy you can be.
Some could argue that this is exactly what Amalia has done. She was the best trophy she could be. She has been slammed for it. Called a whore. My personal thoughts on her character and a deep history of her well-documented life are besides the point—I’m attempting to make here. It’s a trend much larger than her arc of fame.
Granata, like others, sold her persona as a sex bomb and, like others, has received avalanches of criticism for it (among other things). Exactly the same sort of criticism that one might receive as a women who had decided to trade on solely her intellect, like a woman running for president. A woman too cold, too aloof, too frigid. The inverse yes, but the exact same.
Because it is always too something, isn’t it? Here in the world of adults, where limits and boundaries instruct us on how to live, where we must be one thing or another. You are a Madonna or you are a whore. You’re a polo player. You’re bus driver. You belong here and not there. You behave this way and not that way. You misbehave on public television or you are a feminist, but not both. Never both. The mercy of nuance never granted.
Too slutty and too ratchet, too cold and too withdrawn. The same old story. The criticism for being too much something as a woman, any woman, a celebrity any celebrity in the public eye.
So now Amalia Granata has broken her silent contract with the world that she was meant to ascribe to as a sex object which meant she had value her worth by her man. She’s broken it with shocking and unexpected honesty about her situation. Sure, she says. I was cheated on, but you know these things happen. He is guilty, but he is also the father of my child. She has stepped out of her trophy role — which by its nature dictates that she should be silent about such things — and decided to publicly stand by him. Redefining what it means to be a woman by saying that her womanhood, her trophy-dom, whether or not she could keep a man and keep him faithful, is not only not her problem, but not a reflection of her worth.
Is Amalia Granata still the same woman who has publicly bashed other women in the media? The same one who is famous for being famous? Certainly. Say what you like about Amalia Granata. Big Brother participant. Celebrity. Nobody. Z list. Not worthy of writing about. I’d say that as of this news cycle, this un-ending celebrity news cycle, for perhaps only these 15 seconds, she’s a revolution.