Hannah Rothschild made this film which amounted to following Nicky Haslam around for a year. Why? I don’t know. And having watched it, I still don’t know.
If I were in a generous mood, I might presuppose she made it to dig deeper than the very shallow level on which Mr Haslam lives – to reveal a ‘different’ side to him – but frankly, he’s a shallow swimmer in a shallow pool full of shallow sharks.
But they’re rich and famous these swimmers and if they’re not, they’re not in sight. So if you, like me, can’t air-kiss, can’t say “darling” every two seconds and don’t have a propensity to drink only the most expensive champagne – then eat a blini before throwing it up – you and I are not welcome in Haslam’s circles.
Which means Paris Hilton is. Not only is she welcome, Haslam affords her godlike adoration and seems to think there’s more to the woman than a love of shiny things and pink.
But there, for a man who thought it was “chic” to have a stalker, I guess Ms Hilton and her fluffheaded social intercourse are right up his street.
He described Paris as having a “pearlescent halo around her face.” I suspect he’s got cataracts and what he’s really seeing is the filmy substance that’s built up over his corneas. He added too that, “she sheds a glitter that sometimes settles on one, and one basks in it”. I suspect she probably sneezed and half her brain fell out then.
I think Haslam is trying to be a modern day Oscar Wilde; he’s flamboyant and camp and tries terribly hard to keep up the persona which, apparently, has made him the darling of London society.
But the cracks did show occasionally when Haslam revealed he wasn’t actually that fond of the partying lifestyle. Unsurprisingly, since he was the focus of the film, we got to hear an awful lot about Mr Haslam’s likes and dislikes actually. For instance, he doesn’t like scented candles and won’t lower himself to queuing. He thinks it’s plebeian to pronounce the ‘t’ at the end of ‘trait’ and isn’t fond of “Jewish tastes”.
So, by now I’d found out a really lot of trivia about Mr Haslam, but what for? In fact, “what’s this for?” was something I found myself asking throughout the film. I’m afraid I still don’t have an answer and suspect the whole thing was just an experiment in narcissism by proxy.
And much like the majority of the social swimmers I mentioned earlier, it served no purpose, was totally uninteresting and – worst of all – I think I lost way too many brain cells which were killed as they bravely fought against absorbing the unintelligent and vain.
It was a good fight guys, well done. And luckily, I don’t think too much shallow rubbed off.