As F. Scott Fitzgerald famously noted, there are no second acts in American lives. England, however, is a whole 'nother story

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

In a remote pocket of steamy Australian jungle last fall, Janice Dickinson was peering at a collection of wriggling bugs--silkworms, grubs, and cockroaches--moving before her on a makeshift conveyor belt. As TV presenter Declan Donnelly, Britain's answer to Ryan Seacrest, looked on intently, a grimacing Dickinson passed up the jungle fare. Soon after, an even more revolting second course rolled out before her. On viewing its contents, the self-anointed "world's first supermodel" let out an ear-piercing shriek: "My name may be Dickinson," she said, "but I'm not going to eat a croc dick!"
The unseemly meal had been cooked up for Dickinson by producers of I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! a popular British reality-TV show that has aired on ITV since 2002. "This is the sickest game in history," Dickinson huffed, sounding genuinely horrified at the turn the show, best described as a fusion of Survivor and Fear Factor, had taken. In the end, her refusal to choke down the reptilian member made for reality TV gold. America may have been burned out on the crazy-lady shtick of The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency, but oddly, her depleted stateside fame seemed only to enhance her appeal for Brits. Instead of hammering down the coffin lid on her career, the hype surrounding Dickinson's tropical cameo revitalized it, prompting America's Oxygen Network to pick up Janice & Abbey, a series in which Dickinson mentors a struggling British model hoping for a break in America.
At the moment, the UK is crawling with American B-listers--stumbling out of London's tony Groucho Club, padding ticket sales on the West End, angling for one last splash of limelight. Over the past few years, they've descended upon London like a biblical plague. But talk about an out-of-whack exchange rate: The Brits lend us Sir Laurence Olivier, Sir Anthony Hopkins, and Ricky Gervais. We return the favor by exporting the likes of Vanilla Ice, Dennis Rodman, Jennifer Love Hewitt, and Liza Minnelli's battered ex, David Gest. In England, they bask in the transformative powers of expat-hood, enjoying the attentions of a surprisingly tolerant, and occasionally admiring, public.

It's no surprise that a country prepared to forgive even the wildest indiscretions of Kate Moss and Amy Winehouse would hold a special appeal for those who've fallen from lesser heights. "It's like a warm bath for American stars," says Jonathan Gems, a British director and screenwriter who has collaborated with Tim Burton. Like so many trends, this modern cross-Atlantic migration of shopworn stars seems to have begun with Madonna, who in the late '90s--her pop megastar moment on the wane--moved full-time to Merry Olde England. Affectionately dubbed "Her Madgesty" by the London tabloids, the star purchased a rambling 1,200-acre estate known as Ashcombe, once home to posh society photographer Cecil Beaton. She took up horseback riding, honed a clipped transatlantic accent, and wore tweed for a spread in Vogue. Though a few local eyebrows were raised when she allowed Condé Nast set dressers to dye her sheep cotton-candy pink and baby blue, the umbrage quickly faded. She was, after all, an American.

Woody Allen, once such an icon in New York that he seemed a part of the Manhattan landscape itself, also found his feet again in the UK. While many Americans were seriously creeped out by his marriage to erstwhile stepdaughter Soon-Yi,in London the two could stroll hand in hand through Knightsbridge unmolested. And though a string of off films had tarnished the director's legacy back home, Woody's luck changed with the release of Match Point, a British thriller with a hint of class frisson, starring Jonathan Rhys Meyers and the pneumatic Scarlett Johansson. Suddenly, thanks to the Brits, Woody was relevant once again.