5 Early Paris Hilton Vines, And What They Actually Mean


Though only 6 seconds long, Paris Hilton’s vines are dense with meaning and evocative imagery ripe for interpretation. In this first—and possibly last—installment, I will examine 5 of the earliest ones.

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There’s a glimpse of the Puppy Mansion, a miniature mansion for her countless tiny dogs. Then a shot of American Dad on a television—‘I watch the same TV shows as you. I too have an irreverent sense of humor. I am one of you. You can relate to me.’ In the next shot, Paris leans back, dips her head forward, and turns her hips slightly as she looks into the mirror, hand curled in a dainty wave. Her t-shirt has a pink heart on it. This will be a recurring motif. Already, she’s crafting her image, her all-important “brand”, while still conveying so much beyond it. Behind her, we see an enormous stuffed bear, a pillow made to look like lips, and an extravagant chandelier. Stuffed animals, dogs, cats—means of fulfilling her need for uncomplicated, unconditional love. Next, we see a heart sticker that reads “I Love You”, but it’s placed on a mirror, signifying the message isn’t directed at us, but at herself via us. “I love you,” she says into this mirror each morning, though it has no effect. Next, a few shots of the dogs, all toy breeds genetically selected to resemble stuffed animals like the ones on the couch. And then in wild climactic ecstasy, she allows the dogs to crawl onto her and lick her face. ‘Saturate my every molecule with your love,’ she thinks. ‘Please fill the void.’

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In a dimly lit biodome, we start with a POV shot of a crowd of fans and curious onlookers. For a moment, we see the world as Paris sees it, the unhinged worship/appalled fascination by the public, cameras flashing like strobe lights. Next, she turns the camera on herself to show her reaction to the attention: pure glee, comfortable in her element. Once again, she thrusts her hips out, rotates her body 45 degrees away from the camera, and tilts her head slightly forward. She also gives an open mouthed smile to convey: ‘having my image scorched into the public consciousness is a never ending delight.’ Next, we see shots of a giant screen showing stylishly edited footage of Paris surrounded by paparazzi. So Paris, while surrounded by paparazzi, vines a TV showing another time Paris was surrounded by paparazzi. These paparazzi are photographing Paris filming the paparazzi photographing Paris. Images within images. Reflections reflecting reflections. Vine-ception. The mind recoils in horror.

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Still in the Harrah’s biodome, the crowd now has light-up sticks, which they wave enthusiastically while also looking totally bored. Several film Paris with perfunctory interest, while one man near the front only stares down at his phone, the thrill of celebrity proximity having long since worn off. Next, Paris turns the camera back on herself revealing that since the previous vine, she’s put on sunglasses, even though it’s nighttime and also pretty dark. Cut back to the giant screen: it now shows a dour black-and-white Paris with her arms crossed in front of her as if to say, “What the hell do YOU want?” Her eyes are blackened with makeup, and her goofy pigtails contradict the obstinate facial expression. A shot of nothing, then the crowd again, and then Paris, grinning now, with her arm posed jauntily behind her head. The crowd nearby continues taking photographs of her vining herself, heedless of how close they are to inciting a total universal implosion.

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A dog sits on its custom-made puppy-sized leather chair, gazing haughtily at the camera. Like so much associated with Paris, the walls are a pepto-bismol pink. As the dog hops off its thrones, we cut to another dog hurtling in from a balcony through a puppy-sized sliding glass door, and then, in a series of quick edits, Paris hugs two dogs, then one, then three, then is surrounded by dogs, swarmed by dogs. Seeing a giant Paris Hiton sitting in a miniature dog mansion like Alice in Wonderland is a vision of purest, darkest madness. As you watch the scene play out a couple times, you realize, with rising horror, someone actually assisted in the filmmaking process.

“Follow me to my tiny puppy mansion and vine me hugging the puppies,” she must have told someone with a grave facial expression.

“But it’s 3AM, Paris. Can’t we do it tomorrow?”

“No. It has to be now.”

“But why?”

“Shut up and put the puppy in this tiny chair.”

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A few vines in, Paris experiments with a more comedic style, using the always hilarious technique of narrating her pets’ inner thoughts. Of course, by this point, having seen the puppy mansion and her frequent references to “my babies”, we know she’s prone to anthropomorphizing. But her fascination with self-image and reflection also seems connected to her love of animals, these creatures in which we can’t help but perceive “personalities” but which are actually only reflections of our own inner psyches. Their inability to express themselves invites interpretation by the owners, and thus, like a Ouija board, they’re molded by our subconscious.

And not to be pedantic, but her editing is pretty sloppy. The transition from can opening to “this is delicious” is way too jarring. Another observation: she feeds her pets expensive canned food. This is a recurring motif, her lavish treatment of the pets; e.g., beggin strips, fancy food, toys, etc. And although she varies her vocal pitch to differentiate the different animals, she only has two voices: high pitched cute voice and low pitched raspy voice. Worse still, one cat has the same raspy voice as the dogs, which makes no sense whatsoever. All the cats should have high pitched cute voice to contrast with the dogs’ low pitched raspy voice. That just makes more sense in terms of scene construction.