A List Of Things Thrown Five Minutes Ago

WE ACCIDENTALLY REPLACED YOUR HEART WITH A BAKED POTATO. YOU HAVE ABOUT THREE SECONDS TO LIVE: Among the truths this blog holds to be self-evident is that the world misses Fametracker.com -- misses, misses, misses deeply its savvy analysis of celebrity in the modern world. So I'm thrilled to see Fametracker vet Adam Sternbergh use his New York magazine perch today to perform what we can only call a Fame Audit on George Clooney, last audited by Tara Ariano in January 2001.

Ariano, then:

[W]hat we don't get is his whole career. Never mind the recent years, in which, following an initial run of notably inauspicious films (From Dusk Till Dawn, One Fine Day, Batman and Robin, The Peacemaker) Clooney somehow managed, just like that, as easy as pie, as though anyone could do it if they put their mind to it, to reel off an improbable run of notably auspicious films (Out of Sight, The Thin Red Line, Three Kings, O Brother, Where Art Thou?). Either he fired his agent, sold his soul to the devil, or both. Sure, he's offhandedly mentioned in interviews that, after the Batman débacle, he decided to do projects that really meant something to him and not worry so much about the paycheque, but come on -- we seem to recall Val Kilmer saying something similar after his own private Batman débacle, and last we heard he was in The Saint, At First Sight, and Red Planet.

.... Consider he nabbed the Golden Globe for his very charming turn in O Brother, and he has enticing future projects like Charlie Kaufman's Chuck Barris bio, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, and Steven Soderbergh's Ocean's Eleven remake loaded in the torpedo tubes, we think he'll be just fine. As such, we aren't so much calling for Clooney to receive more fame as we are sounding the klaxons and unleashing a great Aaah-ooo-gah! Aaah-ooo-gah! to warn the citizenry: hug your loved ones, stock your pantries, and find shelter in doorways and under desks, because Clooney is about to start sucking up all the fame in a hundred-mile radius like the great, huge fame-sucking vacuum he has become.

(Emphasis mine.) Sternbergh, today:

The question is not "Does George Clooney guarantee a blockbuster?" (he doesn't, and he doesn't try to); the question is, "Does it matter?" Apparently the answer is no. Up In The Air was a moderate success, grossing $83 million domestically, but Leatherheads tallied only $31 million, falling short of recouping its budget. (Fantastic Mr. Fox also faltered, but we chalk that up to America's aversion to deadpan foxes and puppets, not Clooney.) Yet talking about numbers when it comes to Clooney seems not only irrelevant, but vaguely crass. After all, if he gave up the "I'll wear a cape and leotard for $10 million" game, shouldn't we?

Clooney remade himself into something more heroic: He is, if you'll pardon the allusion, the perfect storm of celebrity. He does charity. (Think Haiti.) He does playful. (Think his recent Emmy cameo.) He wins Oscars (for Syriana) and makes Capital-1 Important issue films (like Good Night and Good Luck). He shrugs off flops(The Man Who Stares At Goats) and runs with the Coen brothers posse. And he's the only current male star you can envision standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Cary Grant and Gary Cooper, largely because he's the only current male star who seems to enjoy wearing a tie.