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As the dust settles in Venice, where some of the world’s richest gathered to bless the union of Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sánchez, I’m wondering what to make of the multi-day affair. Plenty has already been written about the blinding tackiness of each event; in terms of ostentatiousness, it met my expectations.
But even as someone who enjoys celebrity news, I was struck by how activated my ever-eager algorithm was by the events in Venice, and the relentlessness with which it churned out constant glimpses of these nuptials. It was a gluttonous buffet of the in-your-face aesthetics that define this political and cultural moment, and it has since left me with the feeling of a trashy hangover.
There were the Kardashian-Jenners, whose outfits seemed designed to send algorithms into overdrive. Sydney Sweeney and Oprah Winfrey. A newly single Orlando Bloom nearly chomping at the bit at the prospect of fresh skin. The over-the-top Vogue spread. The flood of reactions to the Vogue spread. Jerry Seinfeld, Gayle King, Usher. Many of these guests were seen waving to onlookers as they departed on little boats to the island of San Giorgio Maggiore, as though they had been unaware that the city hated their guts.
One guest who did not wave was Leonardo DiCaprio, who instead arrived with a black baseball cap pulled down to cover his face. Some speculated that DiCaprio, a self-fashioned environmentalist, did not want to be seen attending the environmentally noxious affair. (Nearly 100 private planes reportedly landed in Venice for the weekend.) But that’s a generous guess, one that presumes a capability for shame. The truth is that no one in attendance cares about what you and I will ever think.
I’m feeling icky, but they’re flying high on their jets back home. Meanwhile, thanks to the father of another guest, Ivanka Trump, they stand in spitting distance from even higher levels of wealth.
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