On Thursday, in a New York courtroom, Anna Sorokin was convicted of a litany of charges: four counts of theft of services, three of grand larceny and one of attempted grand larceny. The story of her brief, bright career as a scammer, when she floated around the city claiming to be an heiress called Anna Delvey, on a cycle of borrowing and defaulting, has proved so gripping that it is already being turned into competing projects. A New York magazine report from 2018 was optioned for Netflix; a Vanity Fair story, written by the photojournalist who had been swindled by Sorokin (and who testified against her), is being adapted for HBO by Lena Dunham.
Sorokin’s convictions, for which she faces a prison sentence and deportation to Germany, make her the latest in a line of high-level fakers elevated to celebrity status by our fascination. It’s no wonder that Netflix and HBO are involved in turning the saga into entertainment: from the Fyre festival to Elizabeth Holmes, the disgraced CEO of Theranos (not, in a week of Avengers overload, to be confused with Thanos), tales of people promising something they could never, or never intended to, deliver are everywhere.
It is surely just a matter of time before Netflix creates a “glamour scammers” category, on a par with “understated TV dramas featuring a strong female lead” or, as I found when scrolling last week, “sparking joy”, which perhaps reveals more about my algorithms than I should be comfortable with.
I used to think that the appeal of such stories was down to the unedifying pleasure of schadenfreude and the firm belief that we, the people watching, would never be conned like that. The Fyre festival fiasco thrived on this sentiment: people saw others paying for the pursuit of impossible glamour, only to find that it was actually impossible.
Now I think the appeal might lie somewhere else. We are all in a position where being tricked on some level is not unusual and seeing these grand scams unfold only highlights how much of the world is run on persuasion and image of no substance. Even Sorokin’s legal strategy emphasised the fakery around us. “Everyone’s life was perfectly curated for social media. People were fake. People were phoney. And money was made on hype alone,” her lawyer told the jury.
It’s little comfort to those damaged by Sorokin’s actions. But they expose a vulnerability in all of us and that might be what makes such stories so desperately, hopelessly thrilling.
Lena Dunham: perhaps she should meet Ian McKellen
Ian McKellen may not officially become an octogenarian until May, but he celebrated his 80th birthday slightly early last week, with an event so numerically satisfying that it should win a special badge from Countdown. He performed one night of his solo show – Shakespeare, Tolkien, Others and You – at the Norwich Playhouse, for free, to an audience of 80 people in their 80s and their guests. The show has been touring the UK and its non-free instalments have been raising money to support local live theatre. The fund has now reached – hold me – £800,000.
Aside from such deeply rewarding figures, this sounded like my ideal night out. I often worry that, in the city where I live, and in my social circle, at least, my interactions are largely confined to people roughly my own age. It isn’t the same in my much smaller home town and whenever I go back, I realise that I genuinely miss going out with people who are not in their 20s and 30s. Mixing it up is much more enjoyable.
Lena Dunham, presumably taking time out from writing about Anna Sorokin, has put her Brooklyn apartment up for sale, because she has moved to Manhattan. I know this because any time a story pops up about someone’s home with “see inside!” in the headline I will click on it. “I’m back amongst my tribe, which is like old people puttering around the health-food store,” she told People, then justified it with a slightly more inward-looking embellishment – “I just wanna live around old people who are not reminding me every day of my infertility and loneliness.”
Still, the sentiment was there and, health food store aside, I get it. I wonder if Sir Ian might give me special dispensation to come to his next big octogenarian rager.
Oh James Bond, do get on with it
At a ritzy, glitzy launch in Jamaica, in a departure from the usual Pinewood press conference, Rami Malek was confirmed as the latest villain to come up against Daniel Craig’s James Bond. Malek wasn’t there, because he was filming in New York, but Craig was, along with the new women he will do spy stuff with, Ana de Armas and Lashana Lynch.
Clearly, Bond’s 25th outing looks set to be a new, cooler iteration: over the past few months, Phoebe Waller-Bridge has joined the writing team, while True Detective and Maniac director Cary Fukunaga replaced Danny Boyle at the helm.
“Daniel is my favourite Bond. It’s definitely an honour; now I’m chomping at the bit to get started,” Fukunaga said.
This is all very celebratory, but it’s also worth remembering that the film, which has no title, has yet to be shot. They held a launch on this scale for something they haven’t even started.
The pre-production, the run-up, has been so dragged out that it makes George RR Martin’s work rate look hasty. It’s a bit like me having a party for my 80th birthday. Like this film, all being well, I suppose I will get there eventually.
• Rebecca Nicholson is an Observer columnist
