CLASSICS OF CINEMA
IN BED WITH MADONNA
IN BED WITH MADONNA
Anyone familiar with the antics of popular singer-type Madonna
Ciconne will know that, a while back, there were some rather
alarming rumours circulating about the place. You probably said
something along the lines of that can’t possibly be true, no way
such shit ever occurred, but let The Duke be the first to confirm
this unbelievable turn of events;
Madonna, honest to God, once made a really good film. I’d tell you
it was brilliant if I didn’t think you might die to fuck right now
with the shock.
After you’re done reading this here article concerning said flick
(an article which, in the words of some very respected and highly
knowledgeable members of MENSA I met outside a whorehouse, “will
probably be the most significant contribution to humanity since
monkeys starting shaving”), you can go back and not watch Swept
Away and Dick Tracey and all those other pieces of rancid garbage
she got involved with, and the equilibrium will be restored. But
for now, let us journey though the midsts of time and all that,
back to the heady days of 1991, accompanied on our journey by the
pleasing sounds of some hit song from the time, re-recorded by
session musicians on account of The Duke couldn’t get the rights.
Fuck you Bryan Adams. I prefer the Sexy Dave And Friends version
anyway.
In Bed With Madonna (or Truth Or Dare as it is also known),
concerns itself with being a documentary account of the ever-so-
controversial Blonde Ambition tour of 1990, i.e., the one where
she pretended to do a finger-sex during Like A Virgin, and also
had bits where a priest whips her. The Pope didn’t like it, is
what happened. “I preferred her early shit”, I think he said.
What we get, then, is lots and lots of backstage footage shot in
grainy black and white, and also some amazing concert performances
which, The Duke feels confident in announcing, are among the best
examples of such ever to have been committed to film. We get to go
ooh and aah and so on, as Madonna does kooky, demented shit like
swear a whole lot and expose her breasts and fellate a wine bottle
and date Warren Beatty. It’s all very candid with the camera, is
what, like that show what used to be on television. Prisoner Cell
Block H, I think it was.
Although the director credit goes to Alek Keshishian, one imagines
that the subject, who also serves as executive producer, is behind
every editorial decision. The camera may be on hand to capture
every sneeze (something Madonna seems infinitely at ease with, but
which annoys Beatty no end), but it would be no great stretch to
assume that the all-encompassing hold Madonna has over her career
includes calling the shots here.
What this means is that all the potty-talk and sexual shenanigans
and “emotional” moments seem rather calculated. There’s nothing in
In Bed With Madonna that would make a fella think the star were
anything less than wonderful. When she’s rude, like when, in a
particularly sour moment, she mocks Kevin Costner’s lack of street-
cred, it’s because shit, man, Madonna is so cool. When she has all
her dancers share a bed with her one at a time for a bit of the
old discussion, it’s because shit, man, Madonna is so caring. When
she visits her mother’s grave it's because shit, man, Madonna is
so sensitive.
We certainly, on occasion, get a glimpse past the persona, but not
that far. Like, a couple inches, tops. Thankfully, the persona is
as captivating as all hell. A vanity project this may be, but damn
The Duke if it isn’t engrossing, deliriously entertaining and
packed to the right nut with some of the finest pop music ever
written.
The backstage stuff recalls nothing less than D.A Pennebaker’s
Don't Look Back, another flick following a musician around on
tour, and another concerning a performer who never really stops
performing.
Alek Keshishian’s roots are in music video, ie, a fistful of Bobby
Brown promos, but his Madonna flick is a world away from the kinds
of consumer-friendly, glossy PR exercises such a CV might suggest.
Like all great rockumentaries, it is captivating as a work of
cinema, first and foremost.
Interestingly, David Fincher, who had crafted the promo for Vogue,
amongst others, was initially scheduled to direct the film, but
eventually pulled out. Fincher went on to make Se7en and Fight
Club. His replacement on In Bed With Madonna has offered only
1994's With Honours. There’s a lesson in there somewhere. Maybe
something about mathematics. Fucked if I know.
As befits such a cinematic enterprise, the film is filled with
great actors, some of whom actually do it for a living. Antonio
Banderas makes an appearance, as do Al Pacino and Sandra Bernhard,
star of King Of Comedy and 1997's Plump Fiction. She also lent her
vocal talents to Shogun Assassin once upon a time.
Pedro Almadovar shows up too, the “genius” responsible for such
treats as rape-comedy Pepi Luci Bon. To be fair, though, that film
also had one of the few scenes in legitimate cinema about a woman
raises her leg and pisses over another woman’s face.
In Bed With Madonna also offers us the chance to spend a minute or
two with the dancers from the tour, who emerge as a bunch of the
most unlovable motherfuckers ever to have touched Madonna’s
breasts, no small feat since she’s married to Guy Richie. Oliver,
a ludicrously camp homophobe, gets the most screentime, allowing
us to absorb plenty of his nauseating whining about folks think
he's “a fag”.
These dancers are Madonna’s “children”, and we see her nurse them
through any number of torments. We also see Madonna’s own father,
as well as her brother, a fella just out of rehab and eager to
hook up with some of those lady dancers swanning about the place.
One of those dancers, incidentally, went on to be in Snap, the
group responsible for such hits as Rhythm Is A Dancer.
“I’m as serious as cancer, when I say rhythm is a dancer.”
Much hoopla was thrown about at the time of release regarding the
“controversial” nature of all this tomfoolery. Needless to say, it
looks rather tame nowadays. Given the subject, the film would have
proved much more shocking had Madonna kept her clothes on. It does
seem to offer insight at times, but you find yourself wondering
just how authentic some of this stuff is.
In Bed With Madonna is vain, pretentious, laughable and trashy,
and yet, probably because of all that, it’s nothing less than a
work of motherfucking genius. It’s a portrait of a smart,
prodigiously talented, business minded extrovert, and even if the
hand of the artist was guided by the subject, it’s still just,
like, a couple notches below, say, the Mona Lisa, so long as we’re
talking portraits.
The film is fifteen minutes too long, but for the most part
remains utterly compelling. And honest to God, that concert
footage is mesmerising. Even the occasional flaunting of Madonna’s
gut-bothering “cockney” accent can't keep it from being genuinely
brilliant.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
Ciconne will know that, a while back, there were some rather
alarming rumours circulating about the place. You probably said
something along the lines of that can’t possibly be true, no way
such shit ever occurred, but let The Duke be the first to confirm
this unbelievable turn of events;
Madonna, honest to God, once made a really good film. I’d tell you
it was brilliant if I didn’t think you might die to fuck right now
with the shock.
After you’re done reading this here article concerning said flick
(an article which, in the words of some very respected and highly
knowledgeable members of MENSA I met outside a whorehouse, “will
probably be the most significant contribution to humanity since
monkeys starting shaving”), you can go back and not watch Swept
Away and Dick Tracey and all those other pieces of rancid garbage
she got involved with, and the equilibrium will be restored. But
for now, let us journey though the midsts of time and all that,
back to the heady days of 1991, accompanied on our journey by the
pleasing sounds of some hit song from the time, re-recorded by
session musicians on account of The Duke couldn’t get the rights.
Fuck you Bryan Adams. I prefer the Sexy Dave And Friends version
anyway.
In Bed With Madonna (or Truth Or Dare as it is also known),
concerns itself with being a documentary account of the ever-so-
controversial Blonde Ambition tour of 1990, i.e., the one where
she pretended to do a finger-sex during Like A Virgin, and also
had bits where a priest whips her. The Pope didn’t like it, is
what happened. “I preferred her early shit”, I think he said.
What we get, then, is lots and lots of backstage footage shot in
grainy black and white, and also some amazing concert performances
which, The Duke feels confident in announcing, are among the best
examples of such ever to have been committed to film. We get to go
ooh and aah and so on, as Madonna does kooky, demented shit like
swear a whole lot and expose her breasts and fellate a wine bottle
and date Warren Beatty. It’s all very candid with the camera, is
what, like that show what used to be on television. Prisoner Cell
Block H, I think it was.
Although the director credit goes to Alek Keshishian, one imagines
that the subject, who also serves as executive producer, is behind
every editorial decision. The camera may be on hand to capture
every sneeze (something Madonna seems infinitely at ease with, but
which annoys Beatty no end), but it would be no great stretch to
assume that the all-encompassing hold Madonna has over her career
includes calling the shots here.
What this means is that all the potty-talk and sexual shenanigans
and “emotional” moments seem rather calculated. There’s nothing in
In Bed With Madonna that would make a fella think the star were
anything less than wonderful. When she’s rude, like when, in a
particularly sour moment, she mocks Kevin Costner’s lack of street-
cred, it’s because shit, man, Madonna is so cool. When she has all
her dancers share a bed with her one at a time for a bit of the
old discussion, it’s because shit, man, Madonna is so caring. When
she visits her mother’s grave it's because shit, man, Madonna is
so sensitive.
We certainly, on occasion, get a glimpse past the persona, but not
that far. Like, a couple inches, tops. Thankfully, the persona is
as captivating as all hell. A vanity project this may be, but damn
The Duke if it isn’t engrossing, deliriously entertaining and
packed to the right nut with some of the finest pop music ever
written.
The backstage stuff recalls nothing less than D.A Pennebaker’s
Don't Look Back, another flick following a musician around on
tour, and another concerning a performer who never really stops
performing.
Alek Keshishian’s roots are in music video, ie, a fistful of Bobby
Brown promos, but his Madonna flick is a world away from the kinds
of consumer-friendly, glossy PR exercises such a CV might suggest.
Like all great rockumentaries, it is captivating as a work of
cinema, first and foremost.
Interestingly, David Fincher, who had crafted the promo for Vogue,
amongst others, was initially scheduled to direct the film, but
eventually pulled out. Fincher went on to make Se7en and Fight
Club. His replacement on In Bed With Madonna has offered only
1994's With Honours. There’s a lesson in there somewhere. Maybe
something about mathematics. Fucked if I know.
As befits such a cinematic enterprise, the film is filled with
great actors, some of whom actually do it for a living. Antonio
Banderas makes an appearance, as do Al Pacino and Sandra Bernhard,
star of King Of Comedy and 1997's Plump Fiction. She also lent her
vocal talents to Shogun Assassin once upon a time.
Pedro Almadovar shows up too, the “genius” responsible for such
treats as rape-comedy Pepi Luci Bon. To be fair, though, that film
also had one of the few scenes in legitimate cinema about a woman
raises her leg and pisses over another woman’s face.
In Bed With Madonna also offers us the chance to spend a minute or
two with the dancers from the tour, who emerge as a bunch of the
most unlovable motherfuckers ever to have touched Madonna’s
breasts, no small feat since she’s married to Guy Richie. Oliver,
a ludicrously camp homophobe, gets the most screentime, allowing
us to absorb plenty of his nauseating whining about folks think
he's “a fag”.
These dancers are Madonna’s “children”, and we see her nurse them
through any number of torments. We also see Madonna’s own father,
as well as her brother, a fella just out of rehab and eager to
hook up with some of those lady dancers swanning about the place.
One of those dancers, incidentally, went on to be in Snap, the
group responsible for such hits as Rhythm Is A Dancer.
“I’m as serious as cancer, when I say rhythm is a dancer.”
Much hoopla was thrown about at the time of release regarding the
“controversial” nature of all this tomfoolery. Needless to say, it
looks rather tame nowadays. Given the subject, the film would have
proved much more shocking had Madonna kept her clothes on. It does
seem to offer insight at times, but you find yourself wondering
just how authentic some of this stuff is.
In Bed With Madonna is vain, pretentious, laughable and trashy,
and yet, probably because of all that, it’s nothing less than a
work of motherfucking genius. It’s a portrait of a smart,
prodigiously talented, business minded extrovert, and even if the
hand of the artist was guided by the subject, it’s still just,
like, a couple notches below, say, the Mona Lisa, so long as we’re
talking portraits.
The film is fifteen minutes too long, but for the most part
remains utterly compelling. And honest to God, that concert
footage is mesmerising. Even the occasional flaunting of Madonna’s
gut-bothering “cockney” accent can't keep it from being genuinely
brilliant.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
