The work of the publicists consists of two official jobs: everyday chaperoning—escorting Tom Cruise to an experience on David Letterman or overseeing a Rosie O’Donnell photo shoot—and crisis work, for example, when one publicist had to deliver a barrage of “no comments” after Matthew McConaughey was arrested for naked bongo playing. (Only later would doing everyday PR for Tom Cruise constitute crisis work.) Both roles serve the same purpose, though: to make the star distant and unreachable, which means to make them stars. In chaperoning, the publicists make sure the celebrities don’t have to do anything—handle arrangements, make clothing choices, talk to other human beings—that might reveal their humanity. Crisis work, on the other hand, seals up any cracks in this constructed image as swiftly and secretly as possible.
Receptionist, an excerpt
nonfiction by Christine Enos

Then there is the unofficial work, the acts of orchestrated magic which the public likes to think happen all the time. One publicist in my office was spoken of in awe after arranging to have a hugely famous and closeted gay actress attend a major event on the arm of an up-and-coming and very straight actor who wasn’t yet in the position to refuse a bit of free publicity. For weeks, the gossip magazines wondered if they were a new couple, and their publicists coyly refused to confirm or deny. Part of what made the feat so impressive for those in the industry was that the actor was represented by a different PR firm.

While all those machinations were going on in the back, I was stuck at my empty desk in the entry room of the office. I didn’t have drawers, folders, or calendars; I didn’t even get a computer, just a twenty-line phone that never, ever stopped ringing.