Greedy, vulgar, tacky Beckham is narcissism made flesh... an icon for an age in which fame and fortune is all
Lying seductively back on white silk sheets, legs akimbo, wearing naught but his skimpy undies, David Beckham's new poster ad is not so much "Hello Boys" as "Hello Sailors". But unlike Eva Herzigova, who, to the delight of both men and women, launched a generation of wonderfully enhanced cleavages, Beckham looks, well, just tacky. Quite an achievement for a man with his undeniable good looks.
While many people will simply dismiss this image as little more than gay erotica - it is clearly, and cynically, designed to appeal as much to gay men as to women - I would suggest that this is a new low point in the vulgerisation of so much of modern life. But then what else should we expect from the man who, along with his wife, has done as much as any modern celebrity to destroy the value placed by our society on self-respect and self-restraint. Why should Beckham's private parts - for this is what it is really all about - be shoved into the nation's face for cheap commercial gain?
I'm no prude. I like the male figure as much as the next woman, but there is something grossly unsubtle and unsexy about this advert and Beckham's need for exposure. It betrays such an absence of imagination to think the only way you can be attractive to the opposite sex - or, indeed, your own - is to parade yourself like a goodtime girl (or, in this case, guy) in an Amsterdam shop front.And what hypocrisy for Giorgio Armani to say the reason he chose David Beckham was because he "represents a notion of modern masculinity: as a sports hero, husband and father". As a sportsman, Beckham was always narcissistic, as famous for his hairstyles as his goals; more tantrums than talent. As a husband, his wandering eye is legendary. The only person in denial over that is his wife Victoria, because she knows just how much adverse publicity can damage the earning capacity of Brand Beckham.
As a father, despite his protestations of devotion, he is away from his kids more than he's with them, pursuing his fame and his millions. And what kind of a father - of three boys - exposes himself draped across the world's billboards in his posing pouch, looking like the male equivalent of a Page Three tart? It's one thing when these images are of anonymous metrosexual models; quite another when they're your dad. And there's the rub. Beckham didn't have to do this advert. He doesn't need the money, or the exposure (no pun intended). But - like his wife - he loves the fame. He loves to be talked about and desired. And he doesn't care by whom. Now, it would be easy to blame the sublimely superficial Posh - the woman who put the "ick" into acrylic - for turning a good boy bad.
But Beckham's vanity was always greater than his not inconsiderable talents as a footballer. Posh was merely the Miracle Grow poured on his ego. They truly were soulmates: greedy, ambitious and desperate to be noticed. That's one of the saddest things about these posters. We'd become accustomed to his wife desperately seeking publicity. The biggest decisions in her life are not how to bring up the boys, or what kind of wife she should be, or how to develop her talents, but how to keep in the media spotlight. Every day a new frock, a new look. Her character has become as thin as those stick legs, her personality as fake as those silicone breasts.
And now Mr Beckham is revealed as being just as shallow. Perhaps if this was just Becks being Becks and grinning for the camera once again, like some cheesy catalogue model, I wouldn't care so much. But this image does matter, because Beckham is the figurehead for a modern culture that increasingly embraces crudeness and vulgarity. Vulgarity is spending £50,000 on a single watch. Or shouting and swearing in the face of a referee. Or, in the case of his wife, strutting around in tiny dresses which would make a streetwalker blush. All of these things matter because they are witnessed by a younger generation for whom the Beckhams are icons of consumerism and fame.
The couple are the torchbearers of the New Vulgarians - people for whom brains, wit, education, goodness and hard work mean nothing. All they want is a short cut to fame and fortune. And there is no shorter cut to burnishing that fame and fortune than for a fading sports star and father of three young boys to prostrate himself, nearly naked, on the altar of tawdry celebrity, for a few more millions and a few more moments in the limelight. The awful thing is you can see that Beckham truly loves it, just as he truly loves himself. This is narcissism made flesh.
But that's what you are left with, at the end of your career, when all that has ever really mattered is how things look. Self-love thrives when superficiality is supreme. Can you imagine for a moment sporting stars such as Lewis Hamilton or Jonny Wilkinson - never mind the giants of the past such as Denis Compton, Bobby Moore or Bobby Charlton - posing in a pouch like this, with their legs thrust apart, however many millions they were offered to demean themselves? Not on your life. Their talent speaks for itself.
You can't help but wonder what Beckham's new heavyweight Hollywood friends will make of his new status as poster pants icon. Tom Cruise, for all his faults, and Will Smith are serious movers and shakers, powerful men in one of the richest and most cut-throat businesses in the world. It is inconceivable that either of them would strip off and pose like some gay teenage wannabe desperate to break into acting. And that is what's really sad about all this. At this point in Beckham's career (he's only 32) and having acquired huge wealth, it's time to be making the right decisions for his and his family's future. To grow into an elder statesmen for his sport.
Lots of sportsmen do that - especially ones like Beckham who have had a place in the nation's heart. Instead, he poses almost naked, more Jordan than Samson. Heaven knows what the tough guys at LA Galaxy, the football team he signed up with for a reported £128 million (and for whom he has played only a handful of times), will make of their pouting soft porn star. Beckham's dwindling band of footie fans can at least be happy to know that if they want a glimpse of what their hero is made of, they can drive downtown and see the British boy wonder in all his glory, 20 feet high on a billboard.
Airbrushed and two-dimensional, it is truly an image that reflects the man.
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