Who Cares What They Call You

Thoughts from a Liebeskind: Andrew McCarthy, Hollywood Brats and glorified bastards. How labels can define, limit, and change us (if we let them)

Rob Lowe, Judd Nelson and Emilio Estevez

Brat Pack. Two words devised by the journalist David Blum for a 1985 cover story in New York Magazine, a snappy soundbite labeling a group of young Hollywood actors that caught the zeitgeist of the time.

One name briefly mentioned at the end of Blum’s article, which did not even appear in the headline alongside names as big as Sean Penn and Tom Cruise, was Andrew McCarthy, the brooding heartthrob from St Elmo’s Fire, Pretty In Pink, and a few other coming-of-age 80s movies. Almost four decades later, McCarthy had beef with Blum, and I don’t mean they shared a steak together. For Brits who might not be familiar with that turn of phrase, the actor had a bone to pick with the writer he effectively blames for ruining his life.

McCarthy considered himself a serious thespian, not just destined but entitled to reach the stratospheric heights of some of his contemporaries. McCarthy has held a grudge towards Blum since 1985, obsessing over what could have been if only he hadn’t relegated him to that label. What better way to work through these long-held woes than to call up the other brats, most of whom he hadn’t spoken to in decades, and make a documentary.

McCarthy, who self-produced and directed the film, manages to rally three members of the core group—Emilio Estevez, Demi Moore, and Rob Lowe. He travels across the country on a quest to find out if they feel as victimized as he does about the bratdom. Estevez reluctantly welcomes him into his ranch-style Malibu home but does not offer him a seat. They conduct their interview standing stiffly, a kitchen counter between them as McCarthy expounds on how massively and profoundly the label affected his business, how others perceived him, and how he perceived himself. He even suggests to a wide-eyed Estevez that Scorcese and Spielberg might have come calling had it not been for the label. McCarthy is clearly conflicted: “It’s just a name… who cares… what does it matter? But it did matter.”

OK, dude. That’s only because you let it.

Brats is a fascinating watch. I was struck by how much importance McCarthy has given the label, how much time he has spent thinking and talking about one magazine article (in which he is mentioned once), and how much he still cares about two words he allowed to define him. He saw it as catastrophic to his film career, derailing it to nowhere while having to watch the careers of his brat brethren, including Nicolas Cage and Matt Dillon, soar.

McCarthy continues to chew the fat about being a brat with various people associated with the films of that era. Moore, the most philosophical of the group, is full of therapy jargon as they get into the nitty gritty of McCarthy’s demons. Happy-go-lucky Lowe seems the least affected, calling it a fun, exciting time and a good name (Brat Pack). Notably absent are Molly Ringwald and Judd Nelson. Perhaps they care so little about the label, they declined to participate.

The documentary's denouement is an interview with the perpetrator, the one McCarthy points his finger at for causing all the carnage—the big bad Blum. In their first-ever face-to-face meeting, he finally gets his chance to confront the writer on camera. Blum was trying to be funny when he wrote the article and meant no harm. He doesn’t get why it’s such a big deal—the label was a riff on the legendary Rat Pack and made good copy. Face burning, McCarthy grills him with steam almost visible from his ears, while Blum is nonplussed and says he has no regrets.

Now that McCarthy has hashed it out with him on film, perhaps he can finally swallow that beef and bury that bone, though I fear he may have calcified his legacy by calling his documentary the very name he’s been trying to run from all these decades. The film was even based on his 2021 memoir called—you guessed it—Brat.

Andrew McCarthy and Molly Ringwald: “Don’t you dare call me the B word!”

My firsthand experience with labels began in 1998 when I slipped into the public eye via my parents. I have been described as many things by the media, amongst them: ‘It Girl’, ‘party girl’, ‘socialite’, ‘poor little rich girl’, ‘petro dolly’ and ‘billion-heiress’, but there was a label that really stuck, which ended up being the catalyst of a significant life change: ‘love child’.

I can’t remember which journalist first bestowed it on me, possibly the notorious Nigel Dempster (who also once described me as ‘Pert Petrina’), but many a scribe followed. In my case, ‘love child’ is literally inaccurate and borderline offensive. I was definitely not born out of love, and as lovely as ‘love child’ may sound in a novel set in the 1800s, it’s an archaic euphemism and a glorified word for ‘bastard’. To be called a love child attempts to set me apart from what society deems normal, a pointed reminder that I am illegitimate, born under illicit, immoral circumstances rather than acceptable standards and rules. The fact this tone-deaf label still holds fast in the woke 2020s is amazing. I mean, seriously, who cares?

Nowadays, in the United States (my country of birth), almost 50% of children are born out of wedlock, which makes it even more obsolete and ridiculous. In 2022, the year I got married, the label traveled overseas to appear in an American newspaper. Perhaps the New York Post liked the sound of it for the headline of this article, just as Blum liked the sound of ‘Brat Pack’ for his article. Incidentally, I was described as ‘the illegitimate daughter of…’ in New York Magazine this year.

In 2011, the year I left the UK and permanently moved to the US, I was contacted by a popular British weekly magazine. It had been revealed that Arnold Schwarzenegger had a secret love child and they wanted me to give an interview, which I declined. After twelve years of being described with that label, I was sick of the press contacting me whenever another love child of a famous person popped out of the woodwork. The magazine tried a different tactic by telling me that my half-sister had already spoken to them about me. Given that I had not been in contact with her for over six years, I felt compelled to talk to them. After all, I was the love child, not her. They were fishing and I took the bait.

When the article came out, there was no interview with my half-sister. The entire article was in my words—supposedly—words that in actual fact had been twisted and invented. Words I’ve never even used were in print to describe my father and sisters, and great emphasis was put on the whole love child thing, claiming I said I’d been ‘stigmatized’ and ‘branded for life’. I sounded like a whining, callous bitch.

The words ‘love child’ took on a messy war of ugly words that I had no control over. The magazine article provoked public revenge from that half-sister, who blindsided me by writing a huge newspaper article about how ungrateful and dreadful I was for daring to say such things (that I did not actually say). Both the original article and the subsequent retaliation played out in the tabloids. I vowed never to give an interview about my family again and less than three months later, I moved to America to restart my life, anonymously.

At the time, I cared about what others thought of me and how I was portrayed. Unfortunately, a lot of people believe what they read. I took the many negative comments online to heart and felt wounded about being called ‘pathetic’ by a cheerful reader called Jimmy from the Highlands of Scotland. When I looked it up as a reference for this post, I giggled at his words, imagining them in a thick Scottish accent:

Love child - branded for life? How pathetic can you get? Perhaps fifty years ago it would have been a stigma but certainly not in today's society, unless you want to make it one yourself. So she isn't best buddies with her half-siblings, well there's nothing particularly unusual with that either. So daddy turned out to be a disgraced politician and not somebody who was fabulously wealthy and admired by everyone, Tough, get over it, you are a thirty year old woman, not a fantasising little girl any longer so time to grow up. OK, so you haven't had the fairytale ending you desired, you and millions of others, get over it. You are obviously an attractive young woman and presumably fairly intelligent so make the most of what you already have and forget the dreams of what might have been. Draw a line under the past and make the most you can out of the rest of your life and the most of the advantages you do have instead of those you wished you had.

Sage advice, Jimmy. These would have been more fitting words for Andrew McCarthy, who unlike me, is still agonized by his label and actually did use the word ‘stigma’ to describe his inclusion in the Brat Pack, a club everyone wanted to be in back then.

As for the fairytale ending, I did have one, in a very non-traditional way. Two years ago, I eloped with the love of my life. Once the news was reported, I was asked to be interviewed for a British newspaper. It had been eleven years since the 2011 ‘love child’ article debacle. To avoid any new dramas, I agreed on the condition of copy approval, which was graciously granted. As the journalist observed, I chose my words carefully.

When the article came out online, I was happy to see that they were true to their word by being true to mine. The one thing I did not have approval over was the headline, which appeared differently online to the printed version. It is no longer possible to get a copy of a British newspaper at any newsstand in New York, so my brother in London sent me a photo. They had to slip the L word in somewhere…

Forever a love child?

At some point, the label is bound to get old. I mean, how much longer can I be called a love ‘child’ now that I’m a married woman in my forties?

The idea for this post came about after I saw how resentful McCarthy was (still is) about the Brat Pack label he has allowed to define him, bitter that he is a member of a club he never asked to join. I think he was lucky to be part of a cool moment in pop culture history alongside a group of actors who are still fondly remembered.

Mr. McCarthy, let it go and be grateful. It could have been worse. You could have been clean forgotten like millions of other actors who did not get your moment. You could also have been born unwanted.

I looked up the origin of ‘love child’ in the online etymology dictionary. Lucky me not to have been born illictly in the 17th century. It could have been worse. I could have been bestowed with the label that preceded ‘love child’. I wonder how Mr. McCarthy would have felt about that:

love-child (n.)

"child born out of wedlock, child of illicit love," 1798, from love (n.) + child. Compare German Liebeskind. Earlier was love brat (17c.).