There are two charming stories about Roger Moore going around the internet right now. One, which I have to confess I believe has a few implausible bits, is a perfectly charming story about someone who once encountered him in an airport. The other is about Bono using him to get around a dress code so he can go hang out with Jay-Z. They’re lovely stories that indicate that Roger Moore was a lovely man, and that seems to be a better tribute than anything I would have written myself. Because I really don’t have much of an opinion about his work beyond a love for Maverick and a distaste for James Bond.
It can be hard, sometimes. Someone dies, and the entire internet seems to go into mourning about it, and I think, “Eh.” Honestly, if you don’t like James Bond, there’s not a lot in Moore’s career to get into. I guess you could be all about Simon Templar? Even The Muppet Show just went with the Bond thing. And while I knew no one else was going to write the obituary, I also knew I couldn’t really do it justice. So it didn’t get done. Once or twice, I’ve done it anyway, but I suspect you can tell when my heart isn’t in it, and it didn’t seem fair, somehow.
In the end, because I’m not getting paid, I have to choose. Goodness knows there are all sorts of reasons to do it; if someone significant had died the first full week of February this year, they would have died without my acknowledgement. I didn’t really have computer access, and there was no way I was going to write an obituary on a tablet. But the first thought I have, when I see the news of a celebrity’s death, is, “Is this someone I think I can get five paragraphs about?”
The fact is, we all connect to different people and for different reasons. I have been shattered by deaths that I know left other people cold, and I encountered one or two people who seemed to think David Bowie’s death was an opportunity to prove how cool they were, because they could be very vocal about not caring even a little. And an added implication that we were all rather lesser for the fact that we did. A lot.
Art is subjective. You love who you love; you mourn who you mourn. And that’s not just about art. A friend of mine had to put down her elderly cat this week, and she’s in mourning. (Less so because she knew it was coming, and not just because her cat was fifteen, but still.) Another friend lost his father recently. A certain writer of my acquaintance had his mother die and doesn’t feel a loss at all, for excellent reasons. There is no reason to expect us to all care about the same things, the same people, the same loss. I will say that my dislike for Bond should not be seen to colour my feelings for Roger Moore, who seems to have been a decent guy and will probably be missed as a person.