I watched the entire four plus hours of the new Beckham documentary on Netflix, and enjoyed every minute, although let me be clear, I do not understand the intensity of fandom, be it for Beckham, The Spice Girls, Manchester United, Real Madrid, Taylor Swift, InSync (is that how it’s spelled?), Obama, Trump, or any other fan tribe. The hate, the love, the craziness of the devotion ~ it boggles my mind. That said, David Beckham is hot and in the 1990s and early 2000s he was especially so. Yum. During one of my visits to London over the past several decades, in 2000? 2001? Becks fever was at its height, and – I have to admit – I caught a bad case of it.
That visit, I was traveling with a dear friend who was five months pregnant, had developed gestational diabetes, and slept-in a lot. This meant I was on my own most mornings, when I ventured out to explore familiar and new spaces all over town. It had been several years since my previous visit to the capital city, and over twenty years since I lived and studied there as a Junior in college. It might be hard for most Americans to imagine that a highly populated, dense city like London – or any city – where daily papers are still a major feature of life; there are multiple newsstands on every corner, with competing news hawkers at all major hubs: train stations, intersections of main roads, business hubs, and more. You simply cannot ignore the cries of these (mostly) men, the photos, the headlines, the current crisis/cause/celebrity/scandal/outrage. Whatever ‘it’ is, it’s everywhere, around every corner, particularly in the center of the city, where we were staying and playing.
I was in London that visit for a week, after which we went on to Paris for a few days via the channel tunnel whiz-bang train, so much fun, such a privilege. My friend wanted to travel to these two favorite cities before becoming a mom; her husband at the time was a golf traveler, while she wanted to do museums and food, as did I (the marriage was doomed from the start, although not for those differences). After Paris, back we went to London for a few more days, then home, flying out of Heathrow into LaGuardia. At Heathrow, after more than ten days in the U.K., I was very tempted to buy one of a number of picture heavy Beckham books on offer in the brightly lit airport shops. I know I counted them; there were at least eight as I recall – at least. I leafed through them. Good gracious, he’s so gorgeous!! I need this. I might have been panting slightly. Would I be able to find these important, unique books in the U.S.? They were so over-priced it was ridiculous, but I was on vacation, FFS!
Ultimately, I decided I did not need or want any of the books. I just couldn’t see myself on the plane getting warm and fuzzy over a picture book, or unauthorized biography chock full of photos of the current hunk. I just couldn’t. Or having such a thing in my home – huh, what? Moj?!? Like a dress or heels in orange suede (those I definitely did) I’d bought on impulse and regretted from the moment I got it home – no, not this time. Plus, I remember thinking, what the fuck? How did I get here, crushed out on a British football hero? I hardly knew who this blond sports-dude was a month ago, two weeks ago! Deep breaths, move away from the display, Moj. How did I get there? It’s a one-word answer: saturation. My innocent eyeballs had been saturated by very hot images of a very hot guy. Yes, I was also in London vacationing, young-ish, single and had time on my hands, but mostly I was unable to avoid looking at photos of David Beckham – often partially clothed – every single time I stepped outside of our hotel. He really is fine, or was. He’s got so many tattoos now it’s a bit much, and in the series, other than in flashback, he keeps his clothes on all the time. Sigh. But does he look good in a suit? Fuck yeah, he does. Hubba-hubba.
Truth is, I feel for the guy and his ex-Spice wife. They were in the hot center of a media storm because they were young, famous, rich, attractive, and in love. Paparazzi in the U.K. and in Europe are dizzzzgusting. Beyond disgusting. They treat human beings like prey, and are relentless in the pursuit of any photos, anywhere, at any time. Beckham was signed play for to Manchester United when he was just fifteen years old; he was scouted by them at twelve. That’s bonkers. I inevitably feel for those who, as children, are absorbed or pushed into any organization or profession before they are capable of truly choosing for themselves. Many of these professions and institutions are simply not compatible with being a developing human being, a.k.a. a child, or with having a healthy, happy life – quite the contrary. That the two of them survived the crazy – she was drafted as a Spice Girl at twenty – is a testament to their savvy, their relationship, and their families, who come across in Beckham’s case (her family of origin is not covered in the doc) as a little crazily football mad, but loving and down-to-earth.
At the end of the day – and an overlong documentary that treats old footballers of note like famous gladiators of old: oh the glory, the swelling music, the hyperbole of the announcers and the ridiculous extreme close-ups FFS I don’t need to see their pores!! – what I came away with is that these two have learned how to control the narrative, using the media to get their needs met, and for that I say more power to them. Fisher Stevens directs, I guess – but – no one, no one is in charge of what the documentary has to reveal more than the Beckhams. Bend it like Beckham? You bet, boss. And the Boss is Becks.