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Immaterial girlMadonnaAndrew MortonOMara Books? 18, pp 256 A very odd and lovely little book I own, called I Dream Of Madonna, collects womens accounts of the nights the all-singing all-dancing all-provoking cultural beacon set up camp in their deepest subconscious. Heady stuff, but I can beat it. A man I know, not even a journalist, recently had a nightmare about Madonna. Hed be interviewing her, think hed finished, and put away his dictaphone, only for another Madonna to turn up and the whole process start up again.
By his account, however many times hed thought hed done her, Madonna just kept coming back, like some many-headed MTV hydra. Having interviewed Madonna myself, my friends mare made me giggle. (We should all be so lucky to have all the Madonnas show up. ) However, reading Andrew Morton's new biography on La Ciccone, I couldnt help but speculate how much better it might have been if the author had had the same nightmare as my friend. At least then Morton might have been able to give some original insight into The Little Woman Who Could (And Did) instead of this astonishingly bland literary ticker-tape parade of yellowing National Enquirer clippings, interspersed with grumpy asides from side-lined friends and colleagues, not to mention ex-lovers scurrying over with their poisoned Valentines. If she were a painting, she would be an abstract by Picasso.
She has so many faces, drones ex-beau Vanilla Ice (FYI, a white-rapping failed Eminem). She was so tight she squeaked, complains another lover, Jim Albright (who started out as Madonnas bodyguard). Like so many of Morton's informants, these two end up saying far more about themselves, their ulterior motives and bitter disappointments, than they do about Madonna. Which could explain why the book fails.
With Morton's best known work, his Diana book, one at least came away the impression that Di herself was lurking and whispering in the shadows Cherchez La Femme with bulimia and tiaras. With Morton's Madonna book, a tome which manages to be more thorough but less entertaining than a second-on-the-bill Vanity Fair interview, it is more a case of Cherchez La Point. We begin with Morton taking a ride from JFK airport into Manhattan, just as his subject did so many years ago. The striking skyline glitters, alight with promises, dripping with possibilities, Morton growls dreamily, like a pulp fiction writer with a heavy deadline. New York sorted, its time to hear all about Morton! : A biographer is a personality detective, he muses.
A literary gumshoe searching for clues, testing alibis, and gathering evidence that will help illuminate a character who has made an impression on our world. Finally, we arrive at Madonna, but far from the subject being illuminated, its as if lights that have always been on are being clicked off one by one. Its not that its not all here it, droning, exhausting, is. The Catholic childhood, the mother who died young from breast cancer, the dance training, the switch to music, the struggle, the success, the Sex book, the sex talk, the backlash, the tears. The men, the women, the marriages, the abortions. The ambition, the audacity, the bad decisions, the worst movies.
The children, the comeback, the abduction by aliens. I made that last one up, because I thought you might be getting bored. Thats the point really. With Madonna, Morton achieves the implausible. He takes an interesting woman and an astonishing life and manages to make both seem incredibly boring.
Once you get used to Morton's pace (dull plod, with occasional snooze), it becomes quite amusing joining him on the journey, a bit like watching someone dragging a dead body around, trying to find some place to hide it. Even luminaries such as Madonna exes Sean Penn and Warren Beatty are reduced to flailing around like disenfranchised phantoms in the shallows of Morton's blandly automatic insights. Elsewhere, in this unauthorised expos&execute; , the revelations wash over the reader like a vast dirty condom-strewn tide, all the more ugly for their banality. Madonna has had lots of sex. She has had abortions. She has been known to be insecure, pestering her menfolk with telephone calls.
Morton might as well have told us that Madonna has been known to menstruate, so routine, so feminine, so human, are all of these experiences. Meanwhile, Madonna herself is smothered in gamey autograph-hunting flattery (An artistic alchemist who was able to blend creativity and controversy in equal measure, and so create commercial gold) which does little more than reveal that Morton would rather deal in abstract tosh-prose than get up close to his subject. Similarly, Morton's take on her music hints that he might be the only human being alive never to have heard any of it. Rather painfully, he doggedly describes her songs like someone listening through a cup pressed up against an outside wall.
Ultimately, all you learn from this book is that Madonna has a lot of friends with big nasty mouths. Only once did I catch my breath and really feel what was being written, and that was when Morton describes Madonna looking into her mothers open casket. To the five-year-old Madonna, her mothers mouth looked funny, and she only realised later that that was because it had been sewn up. We could have done with more of this, more Madonna the real, hurting person, less Madonna the strutting famous monster thing. For, whatever she is or isnt, for all the monster fication of her that has gone on over the years if nothing else, Madonna remains one of the sanest mega-celebrities the world has ever seen, and a biographer has a duty to illuminate that. With Morton's Madonna, the problem is not that hes never met his subject, but that he clearly has no special feel for her legend or her life.
Maybe Morton didnt need to have the same nightmare as my friend, but it might have helped if he had dreamt of her at all.
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