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Ines Shennan untangles Miley Cyrus’ Video Music Awards performance and considers the awkward transition from child star to adult. Why do some survive it, whereas others are considered impure “bad girls” when they shed their childlike image?

We have a sick relationship with celebrities. We look to them for inspiration when they’re at their best, and at them as a source of comfort and self-affirmation when they’re at their worst. They are celebrities because of society’s unrelenting demand for details of others’ lives, whether salacious or mundane. Invasive documentation of their every move is disseminated with cool ease by every conceivable media outlet and is readily consumed by a drooling public. Image is everything, and the masses are hungry.

There is a certain kind of celebrity that is no less immune to this treatment: the child star. I grew up eagerly watching the Olsen twins in Full House, I watched a young Britney Spears’ slick music videos and I was in awe of Lindsay Lohan’s great handshake in The Parent Trap. In the years following, I then watched as these stars grew into adults under the public’s watchful eye. Aside from trying to prove my “90s-kid” credentials, I mention these examples as a way of illustrating the central point: the awkward transition from child to adult is hard enough to deal with in private; trying to accomplish it whilst constantly subject to volatile social scrutiny is another thing entirely.

Ironically, despite out constant monitoring of child stars – and our unashamed sexualisation of their bodies, in particular – the pictures we have of them are hardly representative of reality. What we see are artificially constructed versions of these individuals, designed to be held up as either inspirations or warnings.

What really spurred this article was my horror at the discourse following Miley Cyrus’ VMA performance last month. Wildly provocative (though nothing new in its overt sexuality), the video went viral and sparked intense online debate. Numerous “WTF”-style comments took over my newsfeed, the stunt became a trending topic on Twitter, a host of new memes emerged overnight and coverage of the event ranged from the superficial to the overly-comprehensive.

It is fair to say that people are more interested in Miley 2.0 because of who and what she used to be than because of who and what she is today. The difference is phenomenal: we have witnessed, seemingly overnight, Miley’s transformation from blond-haried, rosy-cheeked “Hannah Montana” to shaven-haired, semi-nude “Queen of Twerk.” Both her public image and her target audience have undergone a radical evolution.

This brings us to the first problem associated with today’s vapid celebrity culture: commodification. When a 15-year-old Miley appeared on the cover of Vanity Fair draped only in a silk sheet, public outrage ensued, and Miley herself issued an apology. Parents of her tween fanbase were aghast, and others expressed similar dismay. Miley’s “wholesome” image was shattered by the suggestive photo, although outwardly it seemed not to tarnish her commercial success. Fast-forward to the VMAs and, despite Miley’s repeated assertions that she has “grown up” in recent years, public reaction barely differed. Phrases such as “why would her mother let her do that?” and “how inappropriate” were once again on everybody’s lips.

Miley’s brand equity is determined purely by public perception, itself influenced by media coverage. When she appeals to a target audience, she is a marketable commodity; when she is the source of controvery, she is a liability, and the question becomes one of her “suitability” or “appropriateness.” But “appropriateness” for what, and according to whose standards? What the media – and the general public – seem to like to forget is that the trade-off for fame and wealth is invariably the sacrifice of one’s right to privacy.

Like any 20-year-old, Miley is going to act in ways that occassionally challenge social niceties and preconceived notions of how “young women” should behave, notions that are themselves underscored by hypocritical normative standards. Unlike most 20-year-olds, however, Miley’s every move is instantaneously reproduced in all its full-colour, high-resolution glory. Labelled as “innocent” by virture of her rise to fame at a pre-sexualised age, her deviation from this idealistic image has prompted a vindictive response. I’m certainly not claiming that Miley is no longer a popular, bankable star; she earns millions every year, has a committed fan base, and continues to enjoy extensive media attention. My point is that the social commentary accompanying her transition from child star to young adult is flawed, and based on overly-simplistic pigeon-holing.

When celebrities “act out,” judgement comes thick and fast. Sweet, virginal images are carefully constucted for the likes of Cyrus, Spears and Lohan by publicists and managers only too aware of what is needed to successfully sell to their young and impressionable target market (via, of course, the wallets of protective parents). While the stars themselves grow up, our perceptions of them don’t. When they act in ways that are all but expected of the average teenager today, we claim that they are “playing up” and heading “off the rails.” More disturbingly, as they mature physically they become sexualised objects as well as commercial commodities. This confuses people. Consequently, as soon as these young women no longer fit the inoocent, “good girl” typology, we dismiss their actions as misguided and their expressions of sexuality as dangerous.

Interestingly, in what appears to be an attempt to shed their childish images, the Lohans and Spears and Cyruses of the day often seem to go too far towards the other end of the spectrum. It’s like the Madonna-whore complex, but exacerbated by the cruel effects of social media: we respect the innocent child star, but then casually dismiss her as insufficiently desirable. Should she try to become so, though, we immediately slut-shame her.

A number of female child stars who have “fallen from grace” have managed to navigate this good girl/ bad girl divide by way of reformation and subsequent comeback. Drew Barrymore’s stints in rehab were overshadowed by her later professional successes, returning her to the “good girl” fold. University of Otago’s Hilary Radner notes that many child stars – including Barrymore and Jodie Foster – do successfully transition, and their ability to overcome hardship is just as intoxicating as their failure to do so: after all, “everyone loves a comeback.” The Olsen twins progressed from Full House to the DVD market, bypassing theatrical releases, before starting their own fashion labels. Sure, they’ve been dogged by the usual cloud of celebrity gossip, but their transition has been in marked contrast to the likes of Miley. Clearly, they seem to fit more within a good girl/ good girl narrative than the expected good girl/ bad girl one.

Radner is astutely able to unravel such celebrity images, including from a historical perspective. She highlights the shift from the controlled flow of information to complete dissemination. In the mid-twentieth century, “morals clauses” in stars’ contracts with studios meant that tales of sex and drugs were often swept under the carpet. By controlling what information went to the press, studios were able to manufacture a certain kind of image for their media darlings. Control was tightened still further by the use of pre-digital photographic technology that was far more constraining than that used by today’s snap-happy, DSLR-clad paparazzi.

Until now, this article has been somewhat Hollywood-centric. In terms of a local example, Lorde is the first to come to mind, although the young Aucklander has so far managed to escape the sort of media-driven dissection to which young stars such as Miley have been subjected. Lorde exploded onto the international music scene with the release of her debut EP “The Love Club” in late 2012. At 16, it’s a touch condescending to label her a child, but her talent was first discovered at the tender age of 12. Rather than milking her for all she was worth, her scrupulous management team kept her carefully under wraps. As such, she has remained an elusive enigma, an image that has only added to her image and appeal.

When photos of Lorde (born Ella Yelich-O’Connor) finally surfaced, the Internet erupted with excitement. There was finally a face to the sound. In an image-saturated world, this was backwards, but damn was it refreshing. It’s certainly worth keeping in mind that this sense of unknown was instrumental in Lorde’s dizzying ascent to fame – alongside her sheer talent, of course. Clearly, limiting access to her physical image did nothing to hinder the public’s appreciation of her work.

Now that she is very much in the public sphere, it will be interesting to whether this careful image-management can be maintained. It is also worth pondering how different things may have been if we had first been introduced to her age 12, rather than four years later. By skipping the “child” phase while still toying with “teendom,” Lorde has managed to simultaneously wow us with her innate talent while demonstrating a level of maturity.

It’s worth considering whether this “intermediary facelessness” is a model that should be more readily adopted. We can’t deny that a neatly crafted image of Lorde exists, but it’s one that actively challenges our usual conceptions of “celebrity.” In a world in which image is everything, keeping certain elements under wraps is a progressive twist on an otherwise superficial celebrity culture.

These stories of success, reformation or “disaster” all share one central theme, according to Radner. Perhaps, she suggests, everything we have been talking about is a “manifestation of cultural anxiety with women’s sexuality.” Celebrities live in an paradoxically ordinary-yet-extraordinary world; they live (mostly) ordinary lives (aside, of course, from their immense wealth and often-unattainable beauty) that just happen to be documented in extraordinary ways. Consequently, they become reference points for our own lives. Some may be role-models; some certainly are not. Their talent, whether actual or perceived, may serve as inspiration, whereas their downfalls serve as a reminder of who (or what) we do not want to be.

So, when Miley “plays up,” we find it easier to condemn her than to deal with the reasons why her behaviour makes us uncomfortable. Robin Thicke happily exploits feminine sexuality in his “Blurred Lines” video, and yet his role in the VMA performace caused far less offence, confusion and technological hype than Miley’s. This is a double standard. Rather than simply dismissing Miley as a disgrace, why not enagage in a more intelligent discourse about the challenges facing female twenty-somethings in today’s world, especially as they begin to experiement with their sexuality and the way they wish to express it?

On a final note, the outcry spurred by Miley’s VMA performance and her recently released “Wrecking Ball” video highlights inconsistencies in the way we perceive sexuality. While they may seem like obvious examples, they are important ones. Our society seems fundamentally unable to cope with women who push the boundaries on what we see as “safe” sexuality, and the media space is equally polarising. The “good girl”/ “bad girl” narrative doles out praise and criticism in a superficial manner, dictated less by reality than by the public’s hunger for a good old story.