The Nigella Effect
I was recently chatting on a podcast (soon to come out) about mythology and the impact of storytelling, particularly when it comes to capitalism. I’ve mentioned it several times before, most notably when discussing He-Man and the Masters of the Universe in a previous blog post. When focusing as much as I do about pop culture and mythology, the inevitable constant question is the role of capitalism in all this: can a story be meaningful and impactful when its crafted solely for the purposes of making money? When we talked about Masters of the Universe, we focused on the idea that humans, even children, are inherently particular about the stories we gravitate to. We don’t pick up only what is put in front of us, but rather we think about it, and only hold onto the toys and objects for stories we love. This week, I want to focus on a different aspect of this capitalism question, one that speaks to the role of replication, cliché and all things money-grab feeling: what I have come to call The Nigella Effect.
The Nigella Effect starts with UK celebrity chef Nigella Lawson. I say UK celebrity chef, but Nigella has really reached far farther. Nigella’s show is famous for how she delivers her information, saying words with a husky emphasis and slow sensual camera shots on food. She’s famous for being a sexy woman, whose way of speaking, cooking and filming reflects this.
Several years ago, I was sat in an academic conference room where a speaker was talking about the online phenomoneon of “food porn”. In this, they made an off-handed comment about Nigella Lawson, commenting that the only reason Nigella has done well is because she’s an attractive woman who capitilises on her sexuality. To which I would respond, yes and no. Yes, Nigella has capitilised on her own looks and our society’s obsession with sex. However, there’s something more to Nigella.
And this is where the Nigella Effect comes in. Nigella has been around on UK and world televisions, and in the world’s cookbook collection, since the late 1990s. Since she found wild success, many have tried to replicate her success, from the way her shows were filmed to the way she dressed. However, none of them have ever been able to replace Nigella. She stands alone as the prime example of sexualised cooking shows, even now, over twenty years later.
This is because there’s something else to the special sauce that is Nigella. Replicating the surface level elements of the show, which are also all important, can only go so far. There’s another element which is less readily available, something that comes through in the close soft focus lens and the husky voice. There’s something that is inherently Nigella about Nigella, and it’s that element we cling to, as much as we also cling to her sexuality.
This is the Nigella Effect. Nigella found commercial success, which means others who want to also have financial success may try to mimic it. But when they don’t find that kernel of beauty, they fail.
That’s not to say that everything that tries to replicate fails. Some have found success replicating while understanding what that secret kernel is. Take Stranger Things for example. Stranger Things mimics many elements of 80s sci-fi horror, including replicating shots from E.T. However, there is something beautiful within Stranger Things that goes beyond this replication - it understands something inherent in the original source material, as well as finding its own place and its own special something that others will seek (and perhaps fail at) replicating in themselves.
What I think the Nigella Effect teaches us that is surface level narrative structure can only go so far. A lot can be said about the narrative structures like the Hero’s Journey, or even something as basic as the three act structure. But replicating structures is only a partial element. Replicating characters is only a partial element. Replicating camera shots or colour elements is only a partial element. The most important element, one that is far more difficult to replicate, is the soul of a piece - the thing that makes Nigella Nigella, and not someone else. And we, an audience, can typically tell when something is soulless.
