Writes Dargis,

An autograph and collectibles convention, the Hollywood Show takes place four times a year at the Marriott across from the Bob Hope Airport, some 10 miles from downtown Los Angeles. (The most recent ran Oct. 9 to 11.) For three days the show fills an L-shaped foyer and adjacent ballroom, 15,000 square feet of the hotel's convention center. As the event's title suggests, collectibles - vintage movie posters, lobby cards and the ephemeral like - are part of the draw.

And, of course there are the stars, from Debbie Reynolds to Deep Roy (Dargis' husband is right, he was indeed in Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) in full costume, to former child stars, to Twilight Zone cast members. One of the bigger stars was Mickey Rooney.

Deep Roy was in one of the busiest corners because he was near Sean Astin, who tagged after Frodo through the "Lord of the Rings" movies. A second-generation Hollywood actor, Mr. Astin is the son of Patty Duke. William Schallert, who played her father on "The Patty Duke Show," was in the foyer.

To someone like me, who doesn't even want to find out actors' real ages on IMDB lest it impact on my suspension of disbelief, this sounds like about the most unappealing thing imaginable. But, hey, if people enjoy it, get a thrill out of seeing a familiar face, and an older star can receive some accolades and make a little money, why not? And people's reasons must vary; someone who grew up on Andy Hardy probably is reminded of his youth when he meets Mickey. And a rabid Lord of the Rings fan, even if he's not there to meet Sam himself, is still talking to someone who lived the film experience, was directed by the master, can explain the technicalities of the shoot. At least, in theory.

Concludes Dargis,

The truth is that movie love is itself a form of collecting, and to live with the movies, to write and watch and read about them day after day, year after year, is a form of intense worship. The word fan is thought to come from the word fanatic, which derives from the Latin word fanaticus, "of a temple." Hollywood was built on such adoration, with ornate movie palaces that were shrines, and stars whose ethereal beauty made them virtual gods and goddesses.

The contrast with today's celebrity culture - between respectful studio portraits and paparazzi crotch shots - is striking. In a world that's increasingly torn between deifying and degrading our stars, something as straightforward as paying for a picture seems almost quaint. A little weird, perhaps. But it's a safe space - and how often can you say that?

A Fan's Signature Moment [NY Times]

Says a piece in Obit on the afterlife of glam props, "Slumdog Millionaire is up for an impressive 10 statuettes, but whatever happens, the computer screen on which Jamal Malik considered his answers on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? could swiftly be booked for a world tour."

Computer screens are, of course, a far cry from Charles Foster Kane's iconic symbol of lost innocence, but nowadays, smart collectors don't take a chance. After all, there's someone who loves every crappy movie, and in the age of eBay, they're not hard to find. The rationale for owning a prop is evident: it's taking something universal, available to everyone, and making it particular to you. Says the article,

We line up to view these treasures because they are touchstones from our own stories – a film that helped us through a difficult time or was the first movie we saw with a spouse or starred the most gorgeous man or woman ever to land on the planet – but we also line up because the majority of us can't afford to add these gems to the sets of our lives. Pay a hefty sum for a mere overnight with them (reserve a suite at the Las Vegas Planet Hollywood, and you can rest your feet on a coffee table holding the glove Ray Liotta used when he portrayed Shoeless Joe Jackson in 1989's Field of Dreams) – or megabucks for a lifetime of enjoyment.

What I wonder is, are people...satisfied when they get this stuff? Spielberg bought Rosebud, according to the piece, in the hopes that hanging it above his desk would get his creative juices flowing. Unless they're the sort of avid collector who thrives on quantity and acquisition, when folks get a shoe from Sex and the City or a stone from a Biblical epic, do they feel obscurely disappointed that the magic and glamour isn't instantly transmitted to their own lives? Or, on the contrary, do they feel like it is?

The Afterlife Of Glamorous Things [Obit]