ONCE UPON AN ACTOR

Renee Zellweger's 4 month marriage on the rocks. Russell Crowe (pic) attempting to dodge the phone rage rap. Catherine Zeta Jones buying bottles of Welsh air.

If they're not the weirdos, then who is?

Pity the poor actor who gets the break. One day you're starting out, starry-eyed, full of hope and optimism. Your first love is the stage but the money sucks. Then you get a tiny part in someone's short. You get a break in a TV drama. Next you get a lead role in a low budget, indie feature. You get a better agent. You get bigger, more lucrative and higher-profile gigs until you get listed in the bible of actor's grosses so beloved by agents and casting directors. As your book price soars, so does your fee. You get an even better agent. You also acquire a manager, a PR person, a lawyer, an accountant, a trainer, a full-time stylist.

By now you need the machine to keep working because otherwise you're not working.

You do jobs you don't want to do because you need to maintain a profile, freeing you up to do the good stuff. Your agent makes demands on your behalf because they need to reinforce your worth. You get a rider, you get the biggest winnebago, the exclusive hair and makeup artists, the chef, the personal assistant. The only people you can be seen with are people like you. The only people who can 'relate'. You think about quitting. But you can't. You love and hate what you do, who you are in equal measure.

You no longer fit with what passes for normal. The good stuff never happens.

If you don't succumb to self-abuse, you abuse others. If you do, you still abuse others. But since no-one is prepared to tell you the truth, no-one will tell you what an asshole you've become. Your trappings become your only refuge because you can't trust anyone anymore - your celeb boy/girlfriend, your nail artist, your shrink, your guru. All your private stuff goes public, so you own nothing but your money and the right to say no a lot. Your abortive studio-lot production outfit went south, not because of you - it was never commercial enough. You put your trust in people you don't know - your fans, only because you don't know them. But soon you hate them - pushy people in malls and restaurants wanting autographs you know they'll sell on Ebay. You realise you are not a person, you're an icon - because you did that Vanity Fair cover in 2003.

And now you're scared.

And because you're scared you do strange things. In public you have spats in hotels with staff on minimum wage. In private you kick your lover out at 4.00am and she/he kisses and tells. Are you surprised? You have righteous anger, but you also have a 7.00 am call. You are getting into your role, which divides your self into other selves - those stock characters so beloved of the machine. All the time you're keeping it all in check. But all the while you worry - why you're not thinner or younger or intelligent or sensitive or beautiful.

No wonder you look in that mirror and worry about that person before you. You could blame yourself, but that would be unfair. Once upon a time, all you had was a little hope that you could do a job you thought you'd be good at. Make some cash, get by, fall in love. You succeeded. What you do is amazing.

It's not your fault. You're vulnerable. So what's the problem?

The problem is the executives who invest billions of dollars of other people's money into you. Which is where the real madness lies, since you - Renee, Russell, Catherine and your many co-workers - are evidently dysfunctional and ought to be getting serious treatment for what ails you. As long as you're in the machine, you're a serious risk. You're psychos. But you're our psychos.

Until we're told otherwise. Until you're toast.