Many yearn and yearn for the Greater Manchester mayor to claim his Westminster crown. They should be careful what they wish for – as should he
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ince Andy Burnham’s will-he-won’t-he return to Westminster is back in the news, permit me to advance a theory. Andy Burnham is Johnny Depp. Stay with me! We somehow have to make this more fun than immersing ourselves in the remorselessly petty mathematical dynamics of Labour’s national executive committee (NEC).
So here goes: movie-wise, before Pirates of the Caribbean, Johnny Depp used to embody a desirable scarcity model. As a cultural asset he was high-prestige, low-supply, and every rudderless director thought that if only the mysterious Johnny was at the helm of their project, then everything would be rosy. He was different, he was cool, he was hyper-selective, he withheld himself, he didn’t dress like the others, he wasn’t your multiplex guy. And he was, crucially, not available. But Pirates of the Caribbean changed all that and it changed Johnny Depp. After the unexpected mega-success of that film, the actor made himself available, and his aura evaporated. He made the conscious leap to middle-of-the-road A-listery and his cultural premium collapsed. Johnny Depp and his basic eyeliner were in everything, from franchises to mass-market fantasies to a couple of grim court cases with his ex-wife (obviously, Andy hasn’t been involved in even the metaphorical version of the last one, though Burnham v Starmer could be quite the rubbernecking spectacle). And honestly, most of it was highly indifferent. There was suddenly a lot less to him than had met the eye. Availability torched his cachet.
