The Princess and the Playmate

The court hearing on what to do about Anna Nicole's body -- I was home sick, wallowing in the cable coverage -- was the most mindlessly compelling television since the O.J. car chase. And, like that drama on an L.A. freeway, it was a quintessentially American spectacle, presided over by a Bronx-taxi-driver-turned-probate-judge who made Lance Ito look like Felix Frankfurter.

For all the British proclivity for public toe-sucking, embarrassing endearments (one of Diana's lovers called her "Squidgy") and bizarre sex scandals, only America could produce an Anna Nicole Smith.

If Diana was England's rose, Anna Nicole was America's daisy -- or Daisy Mae. Like the L'il Abner character, she embodied the "White Trash Nation." New York Magazine illustrated a cover story of that title with a pouty photo of Smith wearing a tight halter top and white cowboy boots and with a bag of Cheez Doodles positioned strategically in front of her crotch. In true American fashion, she sued for defamation.

By the time of her death, Diana's life had veered far from the storybook princess plotline. She'd had her share of noble causes -- AIDS, land mines -- but also her share of ignoble cads, starting with the not-so-handsome prince who cheated on her (and vice versa).

Anna Nicole was, of course, a pathetic case, addled by drugs, surrounded by users who feasted off her largess, enveloped by tragedy. A self-styled knock-off Marilyn, she was destined to suffer Marilyn's fate, but more as laughingstock than legend.

Happily ever after was never in the cards, for the princess or the Playmate. Celebrity ever after -- well, in an "Entertainment Tonight" culture, that may be more easily achieved.

marcusr@washpost.com