Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford established the necessity of the star-no, the celebrity-as central not merely to their business, but to everyone's business. In particular, that was his doing. For it was he-not his wife, not his friend Chaplin, not any of the others-who cheerfully, perhaps unthinkingly, opened up his life, that rich good life, to the public, and invited them to participate in it, enjoy it with him. And it was he who then revolted against their endless intrusions, he who acted out, in the end, the archetypical career drama of the star, demonstrating that though it encompassed all the roles he played, it far transcended all of them. It was he who demonstrated-it was by far his most fabulous stunt, the more so since he never foresaw its full effects-that anyone of talent, or merely will, could play this larger, juicier role in any public walk of life. He found the machinery of the media there, waiting for him, like one of his sets, and he bounded daringly, childishly, wonderfully, about in it-a delight to the eye, an example to many, forgetting only to check his handholds, make sure there was an escape route, in the end perhaps dying because he could not find his way out.