The Illusion of Access: How Early Mass Media Manufactured Closeness to Celebrities
By Virág Balasits
LIFESTYLE
Edited by Hannah Mae Webster
6/21/20263 min read
©Wikipedia
In the early twentieth century, mass media did more than circulate images and voices; it redefined how fame functioned by creating the illusion of access. For the first time in history, fame was not distant. Film stars smiled from magazine covers, radio hosts spoke into living rooms, and political leaders addressed citizens as if in intimate conversation. Yet this closeness was merely a ruse – a structured experience that transformed audiences into emotionally invested participants.
Radio played a crucial role in creating this sense of closeness and totally revolutionised public communication in the 1920s. When families gathered around their sets in the evenings, broadcasters spoke in warm, conversational tones that emulated an individual addressing. Programmes such as President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s “Fireside Chats” exemplified this strategy, reassuring millions during the Depression through tone rather than direct interaction. Listeners were slowly forming very one-sided relationships without the ability to successfully communicate. This emotional proximity subtly encouraged trust, loyalty, and identification – powerful forces in both politics and entertainment.
Hollywood reinforced this dynamic. Studios encouraged fanmail and regularly replied with pre-prepared photographs or messages, mimicking a close celebrity connection. Receiving signed portraits from beloved stars simulated recognition whilst maintaining strict control.
The effect was heightened during Old Hollywood scandals and feuds. When rumours circulated about tensions between Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, or when Gloria Swanson and Pola Negri fought for the spotlight, audiences felt involved. Scandals were absorbed as personal dramas instead of orchestrated publicity. The studio system used controversy very effectively, knowing that immersion into private conflict cultivated emotional attachment.
Early publicity stunts also reveal how powerfully the illusion of access functioned as a marketing tool. In 1929, Edward Bernays staged the “Torches of Freedom” march, presenting women smoking in public as a spontaneous feminist act, whilst covertly promoting cigarettes. Hollywood similarly orchestrated staged romances, like Jean Harlow and William Powell in the 1930s, encouraging audiences to feel present at supposedly authentic moments. These strategies worked because they simulated insider knowledge.
Gossip culture formed the infrastructure that sustained this relationship. Influential columnists such as Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons transformed rumour into fact, blurring the line between fiction and reality. Magazines promised backstage truths – romances, rivalries, and vulnerabilities – while studios tactfully filtered these narratives. Readers consumed these fragments as evidence of authenticity, despite the meticulous curation. It is safe to say that early twentieth-century gossip operated as a forerunner to today’s digital celebrity drama. The moral outrage that surrounded scandals was the equivalent of “cancel culture” today, in which audiences feel ethical authority over public figures. The key difference is how fast the information travels, rather than the emotional stakes.
The perfect example of early “cancel culture” was the scandal surrounding Roscoe 'Fatty' Arbuckle in 1921. Although he was acquitted after three trials, the media coverage destroyed his career and public reputation. Moral outrage – fuelled by gossip columns and the press – positioned audiences as judges, exiling him from Hollywood. The industry's distancing from Arbuckle shows how the same media structures that created intimacy could just as easily withdraw it. Access could elevate a star, but it could also be the demise of a career, a pattern that continues to define celebrity culture today.
Distant investment reshaped how young audiences imagined their futures. Hollywood’s crafted star images projected aspirational lifestyles – romantic love, wealth, talent, and beauty. For many, especially young women, celebrities represented increasingly attainable dreams. Because media exposure felt so personal, connections felt meaningful; beyond just admiration, fans felt as if they could become versions of these pedestalled stars.
Through these practices, early mass media fostered what we now call “parasocial relationships” – one-sided emotional bonds between audiences and public figures. The feelings were real, but the reciprocity was certainly not. As a result, audiences developed a sense of entitlement, believing emotional investment justified intense scrutiny.
However, a far darker reality was delicately concealed. The studio system controlled actors’ personal lives through strict contracts, morality clauses, and image management. Queer identities were suppressed, mental health struggles were hidden, exploitative working conditions were normalised, and addictions were quietly managed to protect profitability and corporate power.
The illusion of access functions because it satisfies a deeply human desire; everyone wants to feel seen, addressed, and connected. Early mass media never created true intimacy; it simply offered a fantasy in which mass communication felt individual, shifting the course of celebrity culture forever.
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