Emily Nussbaum's meditation on Madonna in New York is amazing. Especially the lists:
She seemed to shoot out new selves every six months—from Jellybean Benitez Madonna to Madonna of the Boy Toy Belt, Unshaved Leaked Photos Madonna, Madonna masturbating on a wedding cake, bouncing beside the waves in “Cherish,” dancing with the little boy in “Open Your Heart,” Who’s That Girl Eyebrows Madonna, Ideal Brunette Madonna (my favorite) saving Black Jesus in that incredible slip, Banned by the Pope! Madonna, “Vogue” Madonna, Fritz Lang Madonna, Wrapped-Plastic Sex-Book Madonna, Shame-Free BDSM Madonna, Sandra Bernhard–BFF Madonna, Bratty Letterman-Taunting Madonna, Self-Mocking Wayne’s World Madonna, the Madonna Who Ate Your Exotic Culture (“Vogue,” “Rain,” “La Isla Bonita”), Abused Sean Penn Madonna of the Helicopters, Contrarian I’m Gonna Keep My Baby Teen-Slut Madonna, Secretly Pregnant While Filming Evita Madonna, Underappreciated Dick Tracy/Sondheim Madonna, Water-Bottle-Fellating Truth or Dare Madonna (with Warren Beatty accessory), Bad Actress Madonna (Wax-Coated/Mamet), Momma Madonna, Kabbalah Esther, British Madge, and on and on. For years, Madonna felt like a slippery, elegant key to all feminine mythologies, a shape-shifter inspiring to any young girl (or anyone) who felt her shape shifting.Talk about empathy and art! Nussbaum thinks her discomfort with Madonna comes in part from the evolution of the artist's body, her seemingly iron will to hold back time no matter the physical cost. It doesn't matter if you look terrifying as long as you don't look old.
My disenchantment with Madonna springs from a similar well, but flows in a very different direction. I remember my senior year of college, I was driving up to Northern Connecticut to interview a famous gay rights activist who I was very intimidated by. I'd rented a car for the first time under slightly shady circumstances, and I was terrified that I was going to crash it. I was afraid I was going to get lost and be late. And because of all of these things, I left New Haven in a nervous sweat, sticking the Immaculate Collection in the CD player to keep me company. It took a long time, but by the time I reached the top of a very steep, very bare hill overlooking a very cold New England lake with "Cherish" turned up very loud, I felt like I was going to be okay. How can you not listen to a declaration like "Give me faith / Give me joy / My boy / I will always cherish you" and not end up happy?
I feel like that optimism, or not just optimism, blazing joy is missing from Madonna's later work. Maybe that's inevitable. I've been told we don't love the same way once we get older. It's hard to believe the world has vastly more to offer when you're on the cover of Vanity Fair holding the entire world. There's a huge difference between holding onto your spot on the pinnacle of the entertainment industry and struggling to make it up there. The former task is a grim one. The latter might be hard, and scary, and mean there are, you know, choices and privations and risks. But I imagine it's a lot more fun. And it's certainly more fun to listen to.