NEYMAR V JAMES RODRÍGUEZ – THE FIRST CLASH OF THE GLAMOUR BOY NO10S Shortly before the start of Brazil and Chile’s World Cup last-16 match in Belo Horizonte there was a sudden kerfuffle in the Estádio Mineirão media centre. Voices were raised, chairs overturned, necks craned anxiously. Was this another riot? A security threat? A Western-style brawl between Peruvian TV and Norwegian state radio? As it turned out the calm centre of this storm was Miss Chile, present in her official capacity – and a very small pair of shorts – to be snapped and vox-popped and camera-phoned and generally gaped at by a throng of suddenly very animated journalists. Not that Miss Chile seemed uncomfortable with the process, bouncing around with practised ease and, in a dramatic finale, hoisting up her T-shirt to reveal (a) her brassiere; and (b) a preview of tomorrow’s inside back pages. With kick-off approaching, the media types soon trouped off to redirect their attention towards the people on the pitch, frothing instead over Neymar and Alexis Sánchez. And then later as evening fell turning that lasciviously piqued gaze to Colombia against Uruguay at the Maracanã and the impossible slow-motion beauty of James Rodríguez’s wonderful smile. Not smile. Wonderful first-half goal. After which a considerable chunk of the last few days has been spent emoting hungrily over the prospect of Brazil against Colombia in Fortaleza this Friday and the first real clash of the glamour boy No10s at this World Cup: Neymar versus Rodríguez, photogenic cover boy No1 versus photogenic cover boy No2; not to mention a million pre-hystericised internet fan sites, twitter feeds and Facebook tributes versus a million more exactly the same. It has just been that kind of World Cup week, the transition from group to knockout matches providing, along with many other things, further evidence of an insistent new note in the way certain star players have been projected and consumed during this tournament. Here they come, the glory boys of Brazil 2014: Neymar. Leo. J-Rod. CR (yes, still him). Not just headline stars, but objects of reverence, desire and at times a profound sense of yearning that seems to go beyond football and into some other realm of fandom altogether. The prominence of a small group of wonderfully refined attacking players has been one of the delights of this World Cup and it is only natural the creative names are given due acclaim. But it is the wider reaction, with its elements of aggressively territorial pop star-ish zeal that seems like something new in international football. Just as on Twitter millions of young (hopefully) people are engaged in an impassioned daily dual existence as Directioners or Beliebers or Sheeranators, in World Cup world the internet is awash with fan shrines, tenderly curated galleries and scrawled belles lettres of incoherent support from the scattered global Neymaristas, J-Rodders and Messimaniacs. There have always been stars in football and celebrity culture has been working away at the fringes ever since the 1970s, but there is little evidence of any significant Grzegorz Lato v Teófilo Cubillas global fan feuds at Argentina 1978, or lovingly-tended semi-priapic Enzo Francescoli picture tributes at Mexico 86. Rodríguez in particular continues to attract a startlingly sensual pitch of attention, a broader echo of the now-standard James I love you/James marry me match-day banners. One Japanese website has been trailing an incredibly detailed cartoon portrait depicting him as a kind of mega-handsome samurai superhero. “My name’s Bond, James Rodríguez!” read one candidate this week for, if not worst headline ever, then perhaps worst headline yet. “Forget Lionel Messi and Neymar, here’s why James Rodríguez is the star of the World Cup!” was another widely echoed web effort. No thanks! I don’t want to forget Messi! I like him, too. This, though, is the way of these things now. It seems to be impossible, within this World Cup pop-fetish nexus, to admire all of these wonderful footballers at the same time. Offer a favourable opinion on any one of the World Cup’s glamorous-star players and the instant response is sure to include a slew of angry messages expressing a scathing preference for somebody else. Messi playing well? Ridiculous. Cristiano won the Ballon d’Or. Neymar? Are you even watching? Rodríguez rules. The terms of modern celebrity fandom demand exclusive loyalty, a ranking of preference, a hit parade. Where did all this come from? And is it ever going to stop? There is perhaps a purely sporting angle to all this, another side-effect of the collapse of Spain’s supremacy at this tournament. That great team were above all a force for tactical collectivism, a team in which – despite their high-grade talents – the ball was always the star. In its absence there is naturally a sense of bracing contrast at the sight of thrillingly expressive individuals driving on a clutch of often rather flawed teams. It is, in part, Spain’s gift to this tournament. The grown-ups have now left the building. In their absence we can enjoy the ragged edges, games decided by moments not method, the rebirth of the lone star. Plus international sport is itself an oddly outmoded thing, insisting relentlessly on its own retrograde importance even as borders dissolve and nationalism looks oddly fragile and diffuse in other areas. Among the urbane citizens of the virtual world the distinction between geographical spaces seems to matter less and less. It is so much easier, and indeed more logical in many ways, to reach out and attach yourself to a player, a theme, a style. Let’s face it, I support Messi makes more sense than I support England if England leaves you cold and Messi makes your pulse race. Beyond all this it is likely television is the real driver here. There is just something about the coverage at this World Cup, a startling degree of intimacy in the direction and camera angles, swooping in for a full-face close-up, panning down into the post-goal huddle, with all those super-slow replays showing every twitch, every sweat drip, every crag of muscle tone. It is an unavoidably involving, oddly sensual, spectacle – and entirely different in tone and texture to those relatively recent times when sport on television was a long-distance affair of featureless shapes arranged on a grainy rectangle. Now the process is geared towards celebrating individuals, with the slant always on incidents, turning points, moments of solo skill in breathtaking cinematic detail. It is a way of looking, a Miss Chilefication of the individual footballer, that is reflected even in the player’s outfits, which are more expertly styled, more figure-hugging than ever before, designed to present to the world not just an athlete’s team colours but his physique. It’s basically a piece of marketing – the bus stop poster, the highlights montage, the TV ad break, ab-tight pec-hugging jersey shot – but people have always been susceptible to these forces. It is little wonder this process should inspire an oddly impassioned response. For all that, it is still hard to avoid the sense of something genuinely heartfelt at the bottom of all this star-attachment. There is a real warmth and passion here, even a distant kind of digital love in the shared veneration of these brilliantly talented athletes. Football has always been about bringing people together, those shared moments of tedium, rage, consolation and, occasionally, glory. Perhaps the same process is in train here, narrowed-down and zoomed-in, focused instead on the individual, and present at the pop World Cup Brazil 2014 in an intriguing late-stage collision of the icons of the fan shrine. If you feel funny Click to Like and Share digitalpace.net/beta/neymar-app/
Posted on: Fri, 04 Jul 2014 09:36:38 +0000
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