I had to stop watching Love Story, the new FX series about the relationship between John F. Kennedy Jr. and his wife, Carolyn Bessette. I was feeling a bit sick to my stomach. And I had to really think about the reaction I was having.
I lived in NYC in the ’90s. While I was peripherally aware of the existence of JFK Jr., I could never understand the hype. To be sure, Mr. Kennedy had been genetically blessed physically. But I always thought of him as a hapless, lack-lustre sort, afflicted with an average IQ in the shadow of giants. Much was expected of him and he never seemed able to deliver. On the rare occasions when Mr. Kennedy entered my thoughts, I had a dual dialogue of sympathy and mockery for him.
I hated the cover of George magazine. The thinking behind it was so blatantly obvious. I tell you what, John Jr, if you wanted to sell sexy, why not put yourself on the cover in a skin-tight George Washington costume? At least that would have had a bit of irony and intention.
As for Carolyn Bessette, I think she will remain a mystery to most. For someone who claimed to hate the limelight, she certainly had a habit of placing herself in it. If you crave privacy, try not to wear a white thong while boating with the world’s most famous bachelor. I knew she had spent her formative years in the rare air of Greenwich, Connecticut, the uber-wealthy enclave of “old money” just north of NYC. And that she had risen to the ranks of “publicist” for Calvin Klein.
I found it exceedingly difficult to watch the depiction of these two adventitious historical figures, using the luxurious locations of pre-9/11 NYC for their game of cat and mouse. In the intoxicating early days of any brand new relationship, we can all be guilty of self-involvement. But this depiction of Mr. Kennedy and his wife never leaves that space. We are all aware, as the series progresses, what the final chapter of their story is. Along the way, we see depictions of the Kennedy clan by formidable actors: Naomi Watts, Grace Gummer, Allesandro Nivola. In any bio-pic, all of the dialogue is a supposition of what may have been discussed. But these performances had the depth of a scratch and sniff, including one cringeworthy scene wherein Watts portrays Jackie in her last days, flailing around her impossibly elegant 5th Avenue apartment to a recording of Camelot.
The Kennedy family, for better or worse, always seems to be deified or demonized depending on the hi-jinx of whichever one of its members appears in the foreground of the American consciousness. Why tell this story and why now?
The world is currently on fire. Inhabitants of the wealthiest country in the world can’t afford food, housing, healthcare, child care or elder care. They’re drowning while the rich get richer. I don’t think anyone is relishing the thought of watching two impossibly wealthy, entitled, selfish individuals complain about privacy.
And now I understand why I feel sick to my stomach.
The writer lives in White River Junction.