One of the neologisms of 2022 was the phrase ‘nepo baby’. Short for ‘nepotism baby’, it was coined by younger people, the so-called Gen Z, to describe the syndrome of the increased attention and opportunity afforded to the children of celebrities – in practice giving them a leg-up into a career in modelling, acting or singing.
A curious aspect of the trend is that these newly cynical youths are only belatedly realising that many of the young stars in their firmament have famous parents: Lily Collins of Emily in Paris, for example, is the daughter of the rather-better-known-to-their-parents Phil.
But it’s only the term itself that is new. The syndrome has been around, and growing, for decades: celebrities are the modern aristocracy and this strange alternative honours system is becoming increasingly hereditary.
The second half of the 20th century saw the old great aristocratic families going into steep decline. Hereditary peerages stopped being doled out. Stately homes were taken over by the National Trust, demolished, turned into flats or reinvented as safari parks while their owners drifted into relative destitution, heroin addiction or reality TV stardom.
This demise of the aristocracy was intended to herald a levelling, a new egalitarianism, a more meritocratic age. But instead of being fascinated by high-society dating, marriages and – better yet – divorces, the gossip columns merely became obsessed with footballers, pop stars and models as their successors.
We used to revere the scions of our great houses – and gossip about them too. Now we do the same about the actors that play them
We used to revere the scions of our great houses – and gossip about them too. Now we do the same about the actors that play them. We’ve gone from whispering ‘I’ve heard that Lady Mary Crawley was enjoying congress with a Turk who died in her bedchamber’ to ‘Apparently that mystery actor who wanted Wayne Rooney’s hooker to xxxx his xxxxx is actually Xxxx Xxxxxx’.
And just as the antics of the children of those high-society names – the Mitford sisters and their like – once filled column inches, so too the children of these footballers, pop stars and models began to garner media attention.
The forerunners of today’s nepo babies were those acting families which became dynastic – Fondas, Garland-Minnellis, Douglases in the US, Redgraves, Foxes and Cusacks here. But soon the idea of second-generation celebrity became increasingly normalised across any field.
The nepo baby’s media profile can now begin before they are even born, with a ‘gender reveal’ announcement. And it’s onwards and upwards from there in growing their profile. North West, daughter of Kim Kardashian and Kanye ‘Ye’ West, has five million TikTok followers; she’s nine years old.
These second-generation celebs started as a trickle but are becoming a flood. Their struggles are chronicled across the media landscape, from Tatler and Vogue, through Mail Online and Hello, to Heat and the Sun. And in an echo of this the nepo babies themselves cover the class spectrum, from the daughters of actor Danny Dyer and footballer Michael Owen, Dani and Gemma respectively, who have both graced Love Island, to the sons of Bryan Ferry, Otis, Merlin, Tara and Isaac, whose image is rather more Debrett’s than Daily Star; heirs and graces, as it were.
While it may be only the – and B-list who are eligible to induct their children into the hereditary system for now, I foresee a future in which it will be open to all celebs of even the lowest grade. Just as generations of Durham lads followed their fathers down the pit, the love children of the cast of Geordie Shore are surely only a few years and a spray tan away from appearing in season 35 of the show themselves.
Kate Moss’s eponymous modelling agency actually specialises in employing the children of her celebrity friends: actress Samantha Morton’s daughter Esmé Creed-Miles; designer Luella Bartley’s daughter Stevie Sims; singer Bobby Gillespie’s son Wolf; model Rosemary Ferguson’s daughter Elfie Reigate. Anyone fancy a selfie with Elfie and Wolfie? Moss’s own daughter Lila is modelling too, naturally.
The nepo babies seem to avoid the rules that might stymie the ambitions of non-celebrity offspring: Stevie Sims, for example, is two inches shorter than her mentor Moss, herself at the diminutive end of the scale for models by height. But what’s a few inches between friends?
A particularly egregious sub-category in this modelling world concerns former punks. The raison d’être of punk was its iconoclasm: kick down the statues, spit in the face of the establishment. Yet nepo culture has superseded this mindset: another model on Ms Moss’s books is Stella Jones, daughter of The Clash’s Mick Jones, whose bandmate Paul Simonon has also seen his two children, Louis and Claude, take to the catwalk; a case of London-Paris-Milan calling.
Are there enough modelling jobs in the world for all these offspring of famous people? Apparently there are. And it mainly is modelling that calls them – which can also be an entrée into acting – but anything ‘creative’ will do.
Brooklyn Beckham – arguably the crown prince of all nepo babies – purchased his first car at 17, a £37,000 Mercedes. But before you leap to the conclusion that he was a spoiled teenager, on the contrary: it wasn’t given to him by his wealthy parents but was earned by the lad himself, sweat pouring from his brow, from his Saturday job… as a fashion photographer for Burberry. Which led to a coffee table book of his photography work – featuring his infamous ‘elephant in shade’ picture. But, being the renaissance man that he is, Brooklyn has reinvented himself once again as a son-of-celebrity chef, cooking groundbreaking dishes like ‘a sandwich’ in a series of YouTube videos while neatly bypassing that gruelling long-hours-as-a-sous-chef developmental phase.
Singing is also a popular field. Lola Lennox opted for a singing career, to the delight of mother Annie but perhaps fewer music-lovers. Steven Spielberg selected a record by his own daughter Sasha, aka Buzzy Lee, on Desert Island Discs last month and it was his standout track – in the sense of being noticeably worse than the other seven. Lily Allen was goaded into publicly conceding the opportunities her association with a famous parent – partying comic Keith – had afforded her, even if he was, she implied, otherwise not much of a parent.
Nepos often discuss the struggle of growing up in public with frequently absent (or high-on-coke) parents. And in Peaches Geldof these second-generationers found their own martyr, a reminder that when they tell us things are tougher for them than the rest of us they aren’t necessarily being disingenuous.
Some nepo babies complicate matters by actually being demonstrably good in their chosen field. Bruce Springsteen’s daughter Jessica won an Olympic silver medal as a showjumper. TV presenter Fred Sirieix’s daughter Andrea won a Commonwealth gold in diving. Kate Winslet’s daughter Mia Threapleton was astonishing in the recent I Am Ruth alongside mum.
Others buck the trend by refusing to play. Jamie Oliver’s daughter Daisy is leaving the son-of-celeb chef field clear for Brooklyn – by training to be a nurse. But for most there is only one path: high-profile mediocrity.
Perhaps once day soon Brooklyn will have children himself, which will herald the arrival of third-generation celebocracy. I look forward to the day when I’m asked to move tables in a restaurant to accommodate a grandchild of David and Victoria Beckham who has arrived without reservation, reducing the entire room to hushed awe. It’s only a matter of time.
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