Lourdes and Maddox and Miley, oh my! In this brand-obsessed time, a famous last name is a ticket to fame and fortune and nepotism is no longer a dirty word

This article is from the May/June issue of Radar Magazine. For a risk-free issue, click here.

At Gucci's $11 million party at the UN in February, the A-list—including Tom and Katie, Ashton and Demi, Gwyneth, and a very pregnant J. Lo—turned out in force. But it was a sixth grader, albeit one with an unimpeachable pop pedigree, who stole the show. Clad in a modest black Gucci dress with sensible tights, black Mary Janes, and hip black nail polish, Madonna's 11-year-old daughter, Lourdes Ciccone Leon, strode the red carpet, thrusting her elbow out to give the paps a studied quarter turn. During the post-dinner charity auction, Lourdes put her considerable allowance to work, raising a paddle to bid thousands on a first-edition Harry Potter book. The next day, the tabs judged her debut a success, and with that, a new Aristo-brat was born.

After spending a decade observing the antics of George W. Bush, the Hiltons, and the Osbournes, one might have thought we'd had our fill of nepotistas. No such luckThey're everywhere these days, privileged offspring with fresh faces and familiar surnames, chasing the limelight while the rest of us look on. When two-year-old Cruz Beckham took the stage this winter at the Spice Girls' Madison Square Garden show, break dancing live for an audience of 15,000, the crowd went wild. At the Oscars, a freakishly poised 15-year-old Miley Cyrus (who recently added Ray to her name to match Dad's) presented an award, wearing a jarringly adult Valentino gown. Around the same time, Frances Bean Cobain was modeling Dior in Harper's Bazaar, and Bindi Irwin, the nine-year-old daughter of the late "Crocodile Hunter," was touring America, charming Larry King, rapping (yes, rapping) on the Today Show, and yukking it up with Ellen. Over in Milan, Pier Silvio Berlusconi (the dashing 39-year-old son of the Italian media mogul) was hosting James Murdoch (the dashing 35-year-old son of the Australian media mogul) at his estate, presumably to discuss how they'll divvy up control of the world when their old men kick off. Several weeks after the Gucci gala, Jennifer Lopez welcomed her twins, Max and Emme Anthony, into the world with a People cover. A few decades down the road, they're doubtlessly destined to become, say, noted painters like Ally Hilfiger, the subject of a recent gallery show at the Chelsea Art Museum; radio talk-show hosts like Luke (son of Tim) Russert; or real estate magnates like Ivanka Trump.

Meanwhile, MTV, which previously hit Aristo-brat pay dirt with The Osbournes, Run's House, and My Super Sweet 16, recently premiered Rock the Cradle, an American Idol–style competition show starring the children of famous musicians, including Lil Al (son of Al) B Sure, Landon (son of Bobby) Brown, Jesse (son of Eddie) Money, Crosby (son of Kenny) Loggins, and Lucy Walsh, platinum-haired spawn of Eagles guitarist Joe Walsh. "This show is not about nepotism," insists MTV development exec Maira Suro. "These kids really have a right to be up there on the stage."

After spending a decade observing the antics of George W. Bush, the Hiltons, and the Osbournes, one might have thought we'd had our fill of nepotistas. No such luck. Forget America's long-standing image as a great meritocracy; these days, an aristocratic chill is gripping the nation as never before. Fame, the chief commodity of our era, is now being passed from generation to generation.

As a result, we're destined to endure an unrelenting stream of celebu-spawn. We'll watch Maddox Jolie-Pitt grow up to be the next Sofia Coppola, and we'll swoon over the dilettantish dabblings of a teenage Suri Cruise. Even if they seriously underachieve (and they will, they will), attention will be paid. Which is why, at this very moment, there are countless bloggers scribbling about the social ascendance of 19-year-old Rumer "Potato Head" Willis; teams of tabloid journalists dutifully reporting the details of Peaches, Pixie, or Fifi Trixibelle Geldof's latest internship; and hordes of teens inexplicably entranced by Brody Jenner's every move.

Given our national obsession with corporate branding, the phenomenon of second-generation celebrity should come as no surprise. Increasingly, children are just brand extensions in person formGiven our national obsession with corporate branding, the phenomenon of second-generation celebrity should come as no surprise. Increasingly, children are just brand extensions in person form—human sequels, easier to green-light than untested projects. Their familiarity captures our attention in an endless, choppy ocean of white noise. Need a new president? Try a Clinton! (Not just Hillary, but Chelsea, too, whose political viability was recently heralded in a New York Magazine cover story.) Need a morning show host? Try Good Morning America's Chris Cuomo, the hunky son of New York's former governor. Or MSNBC's Mika Brzezinski, the daughter of the former national security advisor. Looking for a kid to star in your monster movie? Perhaps Elle Fanning, who's just like Dakota, only younger!

But the phenomenon isn't limited to the high-gloss, low-substance worlds of entertainment and presidential politics. Last fall, when the neocon writer John Podhoretz was named editor in chief of the journal Commentary (a post held by his father, Norman Podhoretz, for 35 years), some critics moaned that he was underqualified for the job. "I am who I am," Pod, Jr., fired back in the New York Times. "I have millions of words that you can read on Nexis." Besides, he added, Daddy had nothing to do with it. "I didn't want him to be involved in any way, shape, or form."

Last year, in an attempt to avoid a similar backlash, a young author published the novel Heart-Shaped Box under the name Joe Hill. After achieving a certain degree of success, he owned up to his real name, Joseph Hillstrom King, and that of his father, Stephen King. Joseph's younger brother, Owen King, showed less reluctance to cling to Dad's cargo shorts when he released We're All In This Together, a dark collection of short stories set in Maine, in 2005. A Washington Post critic declared the book a mini-masterpiece, saying, "King possesses a rare understanding of the macabre side of our workaday lives." Then again, given that he grew up in a creepy Victorian house in darkest Maine with Stephen King, how could he not?

Having a literary parent is highly fashionable these days, and some Aristo-brats aren't embarrassed to flaunt it. Rebecca Walker, daughter of Pulitzer-winning author and feminist Alice Walker, had few qualms about dropping her Dad's clunky "Leventhal" and adopting Mom's surname when she decided to pick up a pen. And there's little doubt that both Molly Jong-Fast, daughter of best-selling author Erica Jong and granddaughter of novelist Howard Fast, and Simon Rich, son of New York Times columnist Frank Rich, both scored their multi-book deals before even graduating college at least in part because of their parents' renown.

Some Aristo-brats have been handed a genetic advantage—those gifted athletes and great beauties who embody the phrase, "It runs in the family." Not Brody Jenner, alasOf course, some Aristo-brats have been handed a genetic advantage—those gifted athletes and great beauties who smugly embody the adage, "It runs in the family." This creed has had a breakout year: Consider the success of NFL champion quarterback Eli Manning, brother of equally accomplished Peyton, but also the son of ringless NFL veteran Archie. Surely his quickness on the field can be partially attributed to some enviable strand of  DNA elusive to most mortals. The same can be said for the model Aristo-brats stalking the runway these days (and there are plenty).

Lydia Hearst, the blonde daughter of actress and kidnappee Patty Hearst and great-granddaughter of eccentric newspaper baron William Randolph Hearst, is slated to receive a Michael Award—the Oscar of the fashion industry—for Model of the Year in May. Like Rebecca Walker and Missoni heiress Margherita Missoni (née Maccapani), Lydia falls into the category of shameless name changers. She makes no bones about why she ditched her father's name, Shaw, in favor of her mother's, Hearst. It was her agent's idea. The name will sell, he told her. He was right.

Attractive though she may be, it's unlikely that the 5'7" heiress would be in contention for the top-model prize without the Hearst value-add. Same goes for Keith Richards' daughters Theodora and Alexandra, whose lineage has given them a leg up in modeling. Indeed, with each new fashion season, another genetically advantaged Aristo-brat elbows some anonymous Lithuanian bombshell out of the way. A few years back at the European shows, it was Riley Keough, Elvis' teenage granddaughter. This past February at New York Fashion Week, it was Kiera Chaplin, the granddaughter of Charlie Chaplin and great-granddaughter of Eugene O'Neill. And Elettra Rossellini-Weidemann, daughter of Isabella Rossellini, herself the Aristo-brat daughter of Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini and the onetime face of Lancôme, recently shot her own campaign for the skin-care company. Man, that must piss off the other models!

Thankfully, there are still those few lonely celebrity sprouts who, for whatever reason, reject the gaudy pedestal that is their birthright. Like Ozzy and Sharon's eldest child, Aimee Osbourne, who declined to appear on her family's TV show for fear that it would forever label her, as it has her siblings, a train wreck. Or Starbucks' musical darling Norah Jones, who prefers not to talk about her father, renowned sitar player Ravi Shankar. When her album Come Away With Me debuted in 2002, she explained her reticence to reporters, saying, "I just want to make my music, and I want it to stand on its own." How quaint!

A few celebrity sprouts reject the gaudy pedestal that is their birthright. Ozzy's eldest child, Aimee Osbourne, steered clear of her family's TV show for fear of being labeled as a train wreckOn the other side of the spectrum is Cisco Adler—the 29-year-old son of legendary music producer Lou Adler—who recently landed his own label at Interscope. One night in January, Adler is sitting in the back room of Doolan's, a sports bar-cum-nightclub in Park City, Utah, at a party for the Sundance Film Festival. Adler, formerly the lead singer of the Aristo-brat-heavy band Whitestarr—Duane (son of Dickey) Betts on guitar! Alex (son of Roy) Orbison on drums!—admits the species seems to be multiplying. "It's a funny club," he says. "The Lucky Sperm Club, or whatever you want to call it."

He gestures around the room. Seated a few tables down is Paris Hilton and her harem of hangers-on. One table over sits her sister, Nicky, with her boyfriend, David Katzenberg, son of DreamWorks CEO Jeffrey, and their third wheel Jon Alagem, heir to the Packard Bell fortune. Somewhere in our midst is Kim Kardashian, the bootylicious stepdaughter of effete Olympian Bruce Jenner, who's currently appearing on the reality show Keeping Up With the Kardashians. None of these people have films in the festival (though Jackie Chan's son, Jaycee, does). Actually, these Aristo-brats look a little bored. Another night, another photograph, another free bottle of booze. Yawn.

Adler is asked if he or his cohorts feel ashamed about capitalizing on their patrimony. "Nah," he says, hoisting a beer. "Sometimes you gotta work it."

This article is from the May/June issue of Radar Magazine. For a risk-free issue, click here.
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