The film premiere of Jane Eyre in West Hollywood starring Emily Rivens was to be the gold-plated medallion that defined her otherwise mediocre career.

When she stepped out from a black stretch Cadillac limo taking the breadbox hand of her body guard; when her red Hermes heel clicked on the pavement and she rose into the flooded photographic light with her limp and lucid Gaultier dress, her brown, tightly woven hair and her eyes sparkling with sobriety she sent a ripple of gasps followed by an echo of digital flash and the imitation click-n-whir tones of digital cameras.
Forever after that Thursday evening; in trivia, on game shows, or hair salon small talk, she was known as “that actress who wore the beard”. Or, more simply… The Beard.

Emily Rivens grinned in spite of the uncomfortable glue and crinkle of faux skin, a beard perfectly manicured and curiously attractive on her high cheeked and china bone skin. She smiled virgin white teeth and regally waved towards that inhale of documentarian breath which was exhaled in an onslaught of questions.
“Is divorce pending?” “Are the rumors true?” “What will happen to baby Ganymede?”
In fact, Baby Ganymede did follow in the arms of Ursula, Emily Rivens’ personal assistant and rumored cocaine addict, friends of Mary-Kate. His one and a half-year old cherubic face was alight with confusion and curiosity at the adults that paid him and his mother so much attention.

Rivens’ moment was a triumph, though personal in every way. To the dismay of her distributor and Jane Eyre’s producers, her stunt did nothing for critic satisfaction or audience turn-out. What her guerilla performance did initiate was a crack in the nauseous veneer of new millennia celebrity. Once it was established that Rivens was neither drunk nor mentally fatigued; that all her faculties were in as much of a row as ducks crossing the street to Boston Common; that her publicist was taking a backseat neither denying nor confirming that she assisted in this dramatic metaphorical press release; the weekly glossy magazine purchasers revolted and demanded more from their starlets. The bar had been raised. They wanted more guts. Suddenly, any boring, dull and playing-it-safe celebrity went under with the red carpet tide while those with the personalities of fireworks, cheetahs, and jalapeños took center stage. But in any uprising there has to be a sacrifice.

Emily Rivens was married to one of the most powerful men in Hollywood and two year consecutive winner of Sexiest Man Alive as told by Vogue 2007 and 2008. Every year, for the past ten, he starred in an action/sci-fi/thriller flick that internationally grossed more millions than China had people. He consistently brought home the goal of blockbuster. Some would say it had to do with his talents as an actor, his ability to bring human life and morality to roles intended to be gritty, action oriented, and militaristic. Others would say that his ability to adapt and then to quickly be forgotten saves him from viewer fatigue, that every year he’s like a new puppy because we inevitably forget that he already came around once before. Either way, he was huge. And his name was Winston Graham.

Strangely enough, as years weather The Beard’s story into legend, when people discuss her they often fail to know the reason for her facial growth. Little did Emily realize that her gesture would blind too well, get her point across too clearly, that her ripple would overshadow even the circumstances they were representing. The persona of Winston Graham made it out of the foxhole alive and well, reputation intact only after fifty years of gestation. Two years post-The Beard his career tried to hurdle the mass deception with a Christmas feel-good, track coach teaches the handicapped high school flick but fell flat with a face full of white marking chalk.

by David Morini
Hokkaido, Japan

The Beard (Part 2)
The Beard (Part 3)