Scroll through TikTok or Instagram for five seconds and you’ll likely see Alix Earle. Between vlogs that flaunt her disheveled rooms, late nights, breakouts, “get ready with me” videos, and casually telling stories with friends, Earle has mastered the art of coming off as anything but a celebrity. You don’t just watch her content – you watch it with your friend Alix. She oozes “relatable.” Scroll a little longer and you’ll also see: private elevators, trips to luxury brand headquarters, walking around fancy apartments she probably doesn’t pay rent on, name-drop after-name-drop, and constant product reviews. Alix Earle is at the forefront of “relatable” influencer culture, and that tension between “normal girl” and millionaire is where I found the biggest takeaways this week.
Marx introduces commodity fetishism, where commodities are seen as something with magical powers that can grant us happiness, confidence, popularity, etc. rather than a product of labor and economic systems. Earle perpetuates commodity fetishism through a screenshot-worthy lifestyle. The makeup, skincare, clothing, water bottles, snacks, supplements, you name it. None of it is advertised as “This brand is selling you,” it’s advertised as “This is part of who I am.” The product becomes part of personality. When you buy that product, you don’t just buy something made by labor. You buy a piece of Alix Earle.
What’s so fascinating is how invisible the invisible hand truly is. Rarely do we see the team managers, contracts, editors, brand managers, tons of employees hanging off of a single influencers reach, or hereditary privilege that determined Earle would be more likely to be raney by the algorithm. No, instead we hear about how “she’s so authentic!” and how “I love her energy.” It reminds me of clips from films like Boiler Room or Glengarry Glen Ross. Put simply, charisma and motivation are centered while the larger capitalist machine fades into the background. The machine wins, but the individual takes all the glory.
Which brings me to Earle herself. Like her content, her personality has been commodified. Her face, her bedtime routine, her friendships, hobbies, interests, and god-forbid she even has a breakout or bad hair day- her entire being is a product. Like many social media celebrities before her, vulnerability isn’t treated as a wrench in the business model, it’s another commodity to sell. She humanizes the business model, which parallels Kendrick’s chapter on James Cameron’s films. Humans and their stories are consumed by larger corporate organizations and spit back out as “information to inspire us” or “ entertainment.”
The powerful part about influencers is they don’t just sell you a product. They sell you the potential to be them. Instead of telling you to go out and buy the same things they’re wearing, Alix Earle makes you want to go buy the same clothes she wears so you can take pictures for your own instagram. The focus shifts from “how did they get there?” to “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT FROM?””
Discussion Question: Does the relatability of influencers actually make celebrities more accessible to their audiences? Or does it normalize extreme wealth/income inequality?
I liked how you analyzed Alix Earle and her relatability/commodification tension. I also think her content shows how commodity fetishism functions in social media. Earle's products and lifestyle choices become part of her brand rather than being just products. I also found your point about the invisibility of the corporate machine as a system that profits from the exploitation of Earle to be the most interesting.
ReplyDeleteTo answer your question about Earle's relatability, in some ways, it creates the illusion of accessibility, but it also emphasizes extreme wealth and inequity. While Earle's lifestyle is unattainable to the majority, it allows audiences to feel close to Earle, and influencers normalize and even glamorize privilege. I wonder how this tension impacts young audiences' perceptions of success and consumer culture.