Celebrity Interpreter: Reminiscences of an Interpreter to the Stars

Hello and welcome. My name is Mia Makarand. And this is my blog. It’s about how I worked for ten years as an interpreter to the superstars. Yes, I do mean superstars. The folks you only see on magazines and movie screens. Folks you wait for hours just to get a glimpse of (if you’re insane and pathetic enough to do that kind of thing). Yes I do mean them. I interpreted for them.

What’s an interpreter you ask? Well an interpreter is the kind of person you see at the United Nations (or in that movie starring Nicole Kidman) who wears a headset on her head and simultaneously translates for whichever guy is speaking at the lectern. I did that. But not at the United Nations. I worked in Paris, for a TV channel, and for superstar celebrities. I even went to the Cannes film festival. Yes indeed. Several times in fact. But this blog is about my first year there. Me in Cannes. Little ole me, toiling for folks like Sharon Crone, Naomi Stompbell, The Price Girls or Mariah Scary. Meeting some of them too. Being at close quarters. Which of course brings me to my next most important point.

I have changed their names. I mean the superstars’. Just so you won’t recognize them. I do this not only to guard against unbecoming libel suits but also to protect their precious privacy, those poor little things. I mean think about it. Would you want all the nasty details of your private life to be exposed before an unscrupulous public? No sir. When you go out of your house, you want to look good. You don’t want pictures of your snot hanging out? Or your unwashed underwear showing? You don’t want to be spotted hurling your gizzards out in some side-street or punching a nice old lady to get her cab? No sir. When you go out, you want to look superfabulous, sophisticated and smashing. You want to feel good. You want other people to see you looking and feeling fabulous so they’ll talk about it and you’ll feel even better about yourself.

Heck, when you’re a superstar, that stuff becomes vital. Superstars can never look bad. They can’t even look normal. They must always look absolutely incredible. Celestial. Unearthly. And they do by god. I always noticed how a superstar even at a casual interview looked way better than I did at my own wedding.

Yes sir, superstars must and always do look incredibly unnaturally gorgeous. Of course they look that way because they are made to look that way. They are made to seem like they always look that way with very little effort. This is because superstars are constantly surrounded by a buzz of people who ensure they look fabulous, who praise them endlessly and say they are not only fabulous but brilliant in every way, and funny and superlatively talented, original, smashing, and the best thing to walk on the earth since plant-eating dinosaurs.

So why would I go and break that delicate arrangement? Why would I soil that fragile idyll? No sir, it’s just not my style. In this blog I will with dignity, respect and discretion discuss all the details of every single star I worked for without you knowing who I’m talking about. I will also fictionalize the accounts. Most importantly, I will focus on myself. Since the superstars already have their names and stories splashed out in every magazine from here to Timbuktu. Voila.