#48 The slap you won't forget

On domestic violence, toxic masculinity, and sickening perfectionism.

It was the slap everyone will remember.

It was the slap that reverberated across the globe, with millions witnessing it during the live telecast.

It was the slap that brought back the same, old, attention-seeking “protection” narrative.

The 94th Academy Awards will remain in history as the time when Will Smith walked on stage and slapped comedian Chris Rock.

In hindsight, it’s easy to argue what Smith should have said or how he should have reacted in response to Rock’s alleged joke on Jada Pinkett Smith and her autoimmune disorder.

Of course, resorting to violence instead of utilising the power of words is silly and, frankly, unpardonable.

I wanted to give Smith the benefit of the doubt before forming an opinion about his episode at the Oscars, so I turned to his memoir, written in collaboration with the self-help American guru, Mark Manson. (You’ve probably heard of his bestselling book  – 15 million copies sold worldwide – “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.”)

“There is no wall. There are only bricks. Your job is to lay this brick perfectly. Then move on to the next brick. Then lay that brick perfectly. Then the next one. Don’t be worrying about no wall. Your only concern is one brick.”

Smith’s childhood was shaped by his dad, a former air force veteran in charge of an ice store whose military mindset and tough love instilled the “I-Am-Not-Good-Enough” fear for what would become Willard Carroll Smith II, the actor, comedian and rapper. Young Will was never praised unless a task was completed with the utmost perfection. Everything was a mission, regardless of whether it was scrubbing the floor, helping his father to build a wall for his shop, or completing homework. According to his dad, 99 per cent equalled zero.

From there on, it was clear to Smith that self-discipline and hard work were the key to achieving his goal: becoming the biggest movie star in the world. And whilst these qualities are displayed throughout the book on numerous occasions, I couldn’t help but notice how ambition turned into an obsession for validation. (Is this a late consequence of a harsh parenting style?)

“When I was nine years old, I watched my father punch my mother in the side of the head so hard that she collapsed.I saw her spit blood. That moment in that bedroom, probably more than any other moment in my life, has defined who I am.”

One of Smith’s most formative childhood memories was witnessing the physical abuse suffered by his mother at the hands of his father, a trauma that keeps haunting Smith well into his adulthood and depicts a different vision of what love is all about.

In his head, the failure to protect his mother at the time makes him think that he must be the saviour in every relationship that follows. And this is how Smith enters toxic masculinity territory. He cultivates a deep sense of protectionism which lashes out every now and again. Perhaps it is not that difficult to understand where Smith’s violent response at the Oscars emerged from. He feels compelled to go into bar fight mode because his wife was insluted. This was his chance to play the Big Man and he made sure no one’s missed it. (Again, do you sense the attention-seeking, validation trope?)

“To me, love was a performance, so if you weren’t clapping, I was failing.”

The more you dive into this memoir, the more you realise everything is a performance. In fact, Smith doesn’t shy away and admits in order to be the biggest movie star in the world, he must market himself as “the product.” And we get a lot of that throughout his Hollywood chapters, so much so that it becomes not only self-indulgent, but sickening.

For instance, after listing the box office receipts for the opening weekend of his movies, Smith observes: “What you’re looking at is arguably the greatest individual streak in the history of Hollywood (Note: My editor forced me, against my will, to add ‘arguably.’).” Normally, I would have chuckled and moved on, but it is rare Smith indulges us a respite from his success.

When we do get a chance to meet, albeit briefly, Smith the father and the husband, there is this retelling of a therapy session where together with his wife, they are asked to make a list of priorities. If his wife goes for “children” as top of the list, Smith puts himself first, a revelation which hurts Jada. Smith tries to defend his apparent narcissism by using the the airplane analogy:

“It’s like the airlines. You have to put your mask on first before attempting to assist others. Of course I will take care of y’all, but by taking care of me.”

Eventually, Smith will spend time travelling solo to heal himself through shamanic psychedelic journeys and Jungian psychotherapy.

I’m afraid this is not quite the “Eat Pray Love” Smith-edition one might expect, just an utterly undewhelming and hugely dissapointing celebrity mirage that doesn’t solve the heart of the matter: the insatiable desire to be The Man.

The blurb reads that this memoir is about “how one person mastered his own emotions, written in a way that can help everyone else do the same.” Not sure that’s quite right.

In the meantime, the Academy has decided to ban Will Smith from attending the Oscars for ten years.

What do you make of that? Is this enough? I’d like to hear your thoughts on this.

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