By now at least 30 million people worldwide (roughly the same number who view the Oscars, or the Super Bowl) have watched an extraordinary clip from a popular UK show called “Britain’s Got Talent.” A dowdy, 47-year-old virgin named Susan Boyle takes the stage, wearing her low heels and her Sunday best. The crowd laughs at her, and Boyle – how devastating – laughs along. She says she wants to be a professional singer; people laugh harder and louder. They point. It’s grammar school and the Roman coliseum combined. Simon Cowell – panelist and show creator – rolls his eyes. And then Susan Boyle sings.

In the past five days, Susan Boyle has been invited to appear on Oprah, interviewed on all three network morning shows and covered by news outlets all over the world – many of which have descended on her hamlet, where she lives alone with her cat, Pebbles. She is the favorite to win the competition and it’s likely she’ll sing for the Queen. Cowell will probably sign her to his record label.

But there is something disturbing about the collective rejection-embrace-elevation of Susan Boyle. There is the element of self-congratulation in the viral spread of this link around the Web, the idea that we, the secondary viewers, the judges of those who are judging, are far more evolved. There is the clip itself, suspiciously ready-made for online consumption: A 7-minute movie, slick and pithy in its perfect execution of the underdog narrative. (That something like “Rocky” took two hours to tell now seems antediluvian.) There is the classic David vs. Goliath subplot, the primal satisfaction of seeing the bully (Cowell) slain by such a seemingly inferior force. And there is the profound desire for this entire thing to be authentic, which in and of itself suggests that it probably isn’t. Not since P.T. Barnum has there been a show business master of the trompe l’oeil like Simon Cowell.

This isn’t to suggest that Boyle herself is a hoax (though she does seem a bit too comfortable on that stage, parrying with Cowell, to be a complete naif). But the notion that Cowell was unaware of Boyle’s existence, let alone discordant looks and talent level, before she ever took the stage, is flatly ridiculous. And the song Boyle chose – if she, in fact, chose it – so seamlessly provides the meta-narrative that it’s easy to miss how calculated it is. From “Les Misérables” (“the miserable,” the way we are meant to perceive Boyle), she sings “I Dreamed a Dream.” Boyle opens on the second stanza: “I dreamed a dream in time gone by/When hope was high/And life worth living.” In “Les Misérables,” it’s sung by a lonely, unemployed character on the fringes – just like Boyle, who sang with the undignified descriptor “unemployed, 47” slung across the bottom of the screen.

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In a week that saw a good chunk of the nation losing its mind for days over the presidential puppy (just how bad are things?), it seems cynical, churlish even, to speculate about the machinations behind this phenomenon. But it remains true that this clip, and Boyle’s rendition, would not be so compelling without the contradictions: the beautiful voice possessed by this defiantly unglamorous woman, who can somehow fully inhabit and interpret a love song without ever having been in love.

Most disturbing of all, perhaps, is that not since Saturday has Susan Boyle been Susan Boyle. It’s a permutation of the Heisenberg principle: That 30 million people have heard her, seen her, embraced her has already changed who she is. The shy churchgoer who said that her recently deceased mother encouraged her to “take the risk,” who admitted in her audition that she has never been kissed, who has forever lived as something of an accidental outcast – she now seems too much of this world. “I’ve been for a meeting with Sony BMG, but I can’t say much about it,” she said this week. “It’s early days.” Susan Boyle is now one of us. And that is really a shame.