Life with My Sister Madonna (21 page)

T
HE DAY BEFORE
the opening of the
Blond Ambition
world tour, Marine Stadium, Makuhari, Tokyo, Japan, April 12, 1990, Madonna marches onstage bitching about the sound system, stomping around and yelling “You motherfuckers,” all classic Madonna, all captured on camera by Alek Keshishian for his documentary
Truth or Dare
. I hesitate, though, to apply the word
documentary
to my sister's performance in
Truth or Dare
because it really is a performance, comprising the best acting of her whole career. And anyone who thinks that
Truth or Dare
reveals the real Madonna is on the wrong track—just as she always intended them to be.

The title,
Truth or Dare
, is a grave misnomer, because anyone seeking the truth about the real person behind my sister's artfully constructed facade won't find it in this “documentary,” except in the Marine Stadium scene and in a second authentic Madonna moment, which comes when she is having breakfast with Sandra Bernhard. Dressed in a silk kimono, she is relaxed and natural. Sandra asks her about her childhood after our mother died, and Madonna tells her how—for five years after our mother's death—she used to have nightmares that someone was strangling her, broke out in sweats, and fled to our father's bed for comfort. Sandra asks how she slept in her father's bed, and Madonna cracks, “Fine. I went right to sleep after he fucked me.” Then she laughs at her own “joke” and adds, “No, I'm just kidding.”

The scene perfectly illustrates Madonna in one of her more aberrational moments when—in her head—she is so above everything and everyone that she thinks she can say whatever she wants. I never mention it to her again. I am far too angry with her.

As to the rest of
Truth or Dare
—which in Britain is retitled as
Bedtime with Madonna
—this travesty of reality starts with Madonna bemoaning that the end of the tour is nigh. “I'm just getting rid of the depression of what I feel when the tour's over with…. I know I'm going to feel something later.”

Consequently, she says, she is becoming emotional. In reality—and this is an exact quote from Madonna, as she told me when the tour ended—her primary emotion was “Thank God it's over.”

In general the end of a tour is never remotely emotional for Madonna, just for the tour dancers, who have been harboring the fantasy that they have been growing closer to her daily—and will always remain so. However, during these last days of the tour, they are slowly starting to realize that once the tour is over, they will never see her again face-to-face.

In this first scene of
Truth or Dare,
Madonna appears to be extremely thoughtful and weighing her words. In reality, she is far more likely to blurt things out, without giving them any thought at all. Yet here she is obviously calculating what to say next and is clearly reciting her words, as if she has memorized them from a script.

The phone call to my father, inviting him to the show—which begins, “Listen, I realize I haven't talked to you in a while. You know I hope everything's okay and everything, but I have no idea what night you guys are coming to the show, what night…. Well, who wants to come and when?”—is also a setup, filmed with my father's permission. In real life, Madonna's assistant Melissa would have made that call, not Madonna.

When she pulls the petals off a daisy and wistfully poses the question about Warren—“He loves me, he loves me not”—that moment is contrived for the camera. At this stage in their relationship, Madonna doesn't care much about Warren at all anymore. Nor would she ever berate him the way she does on camera or call him “pussy man.” In real life, she would be far more polite, far more respectful. As for Warren, he makes it clear from the start that he hates the concept of
Truth or Dare
. He definitely is not himself in the few scenes in which he consented to take part. After Madonna secretly tapes one of their more intimate phone calls and later tells him she plans to include it in the documentary, he sends in his lawyers and the call is cut.

During the scene in Toronto, when we play the SkyDome on May 27 and 28 and her manager, Freddy DeMann, and I learn that the police might arrest Madonna for obscenity, I am seen giving her the news. The scene is staged from start to finish. The director urged me to tell Madonna on camera, and despite my better instincts, I agreed. In reality, I would never have mentioned the police threat to her until after the show, and would have dealt with the situation myself.

The backstage scenes in the Palace, Michigan, when Madonna plays there from May 30 to June 2, are also contrived. In my experience, Madonna would not have allowed Marty backstage, or her childhood friend Moira McPharlin. Nor would she have socialized with the dancers' families. She's too focused on the tour to be even remotely interested in anyone's family when she's on the road.

During the second show in Detroit, she announces, “There's no place like home. There's nobody like this man. There's nobody like my father. I worship the ground that he walks on.” Our father comes onstage, she bows down to him, and she gets the audience to join her in singing “Happy Birthday” to him, and in that she is sincere.

The poem Madonna recites in praise of her assistant Melissa Crowe, which plays extremely well in the movie, may be heartfelt, but not long afterward, Melissa quit working for her because she'd had enough.

After Melissa stopped working for Madonna, I wanted to stay in touch with her as we were good friends, but Madonna decreed that I couldn't. As far as she is concerned, once employees are out of the loop, they are banished for all time. And anyone who has the temerity to talk to them is branded a betrayer.

 

H
ERE IS THE
full truth about
Blond Ambition
from my perspective.

Madonna calls and says, “I'm going on tour, and of course I want you to dress me, but I think you ought to design the stage and art-direct the show as well.”

Stunned silence from me.

“You designed my New York apartment and the Oriole Way house, so you should be able to design my show as well.”

I am really pleased, but mildly disappointed that I still have to be her dresser. But at least I can now tell my friends that I am art-directing Madonna's show. And the pay is now $100,000—much more than I've been paid for the other two tours.

My responsibilities now include overseeing and supervising the costumes, the tour book, the look of the stage, and, of course, dressing Madonna. By now, her team are all aware that I have a great deal of influence over her, so if they want to tell Madonna something they're afraid to say to her face, they ask me to be their intermediary. I end up carrying a great many messages between her and everyone else.

Before the tour begins, we meet with Gaultier and look at design concepts, including the iconic bustier. He sends us a number of designs for it, and Madonna and I make the final selections. Next, the bustier, and everything else we pick, has to be made in triplicate. Everything has to be double-sewn with elastic threads and supports in various places, including for her chest. Her shoulder straps are strengthened, and all snaps are replaced with hooks or zippers, so none of the clothes come apart onstage.

I suggest that we set this version of the song “Like a Virgin” in a harem. However, the costume for the scene proves to be a problem, as the thread is really heavy gold metal, and the costume is hard for her to wear. All six versions we have made eventually corrode beyond recognition.

Madonna sings “Like a Virgin” on a red velvet bed with two dancers on either side, and the song ends with her simulating masturbation. My feelings about the scene alter from night to night. Either I laugh uncontrollably or have to turn away in disgust. I may have seen the scene at least fifty times, but it remains difficult for me to watch. I may be my sister's art director, but she is still my sister.

 

I
AM WITH
her while she conducts the dancer auditions. Although I have learned to keep my mouth shut, at intervals Madonna does question me about the stage and in particular dancers. Oliver Crumes is her pick, her straight man for the tour. In
Truth or Dare,
she treats him like a child. They spend a great deal of time together each night after the show, but I don't know whether their relationship went any further.

 

A
FEW DAYS
before opening night, director Alek Keshishian comes to Tokyo to start filming
Truth or Dare,
but initially he has a rough time, because Madonna will only let him shoot certain things and is wary of strangers. So he ends up pumping me for advice on how to handle her.

A short summary of what I told him: “You can't just bounce into the room and do your thing. You have to enter the room carefully and first check Madonna's mood. Check her face. Say hello and see in what tone of voice she answers.

“If she says ‘Hi, how are you?' that's a better sign than if she just says ‘Hi.' If she doesn't look at you or doesn't even say hi, you know it isn't a good day. You must never get in her face. You must make her feel as if all your ideas, in actuality, came from her.”

He takes my advice; she relaxes with him and gives him almost total access. Now he is shooting everything. Far more than I think he should be.

On the road, Madonna makes a stab at treating the dancers as if they are her family and even calls it “mothering”—but it isn't really conventional mothering. She keeps them close enough and devoted enough to remain loyal to her, and useful, but isn't genuinely loving and nurturing. At times, she reminds me of Joan, keeping her brood in order.

When we play Detroit and Alek shoots backstage, I hover around her, but I don't pick anything up or wipe the sweat off her body. Alek asks me to do all of that, but I refuse point-blank to either dress or undress her on camera. Now that I am art director, more than ever I don't want my friends or family to think of me in the role of her dresser.

For Madonna, one of the most embarrassing and incriminating moments during
Truth or Dare
is Moira McPharlin's backstage visit in Detroit. Moira is invited specifically so that Alek can film her face-to-face meeting with Madonna. If he hadn't wanted to film it, the meeting would never have taken place, as Madonna always avoids that kind of one-on-one interaction, particularly when she is in the midst of a show.

Before she meets Moira, whom she hasn't seen since tenth grade, Madonna reminisces on camera about their childhood, claiming that Moira taught her how to use tampons and how to make out. Moira vehemently denies both claims. Madonna launches into a whole riff about experimenting sexually with Moira, and Moira denies it.

Madonna grants Moira a brief one-on-one audience. Clearly uncomfortable with the cameras, Moira asks Madonna to sit down, but Madonna says, “I can't now, I'm really sorry.” Moira tells her that four years ago she wrote her a letter asking her if she would be her unborn son's godmother. Madonna hastily says that she remembers, but that she got the letter a long time after the fact. Moira tells her that she has unexpectedly gotten pregnant again and asks Madonna point-blank to be her unborn child's godmother. Madonna visibly squirms.

Moira tells her she wants to name the child after Madonna and asks Madonna to bless the child in advance, and Madonna is momentarily speechless. Normally, handling awkward situations is my role, and Madonna would just issue the order, “Deal with it,” and I would. Until now, she has never had to dirty her hands, but with Moira she has no choice.

Madonna escapes from Moira as quickly as possible, promises to call her, but is clearly put out. After all, Moira has overstepped the mark—she has put Madonna on the spot, which Madonna hates, and the camera has recorded it. Her focus on the film has made her impervious to Moira's feelings, and I find that depressing.

 

W
HILE WE ARE
in Pontiac, Melissa calls me and tells me that Madonna is going to visit our mother's grave the next morning and asks if I want to go. I say I do. She tells me to be in the lobby at eleven. She gives me no clue that our visit to our mother's grave will be recorded on film. If she had, I never would have gone.

Instead, at eleven, I get into the limo. My sister, in black leggings and top, and extra-dark glasses, is already in it waiting for me. She's extremely quiet. I assume she is merely tired after last night's performance. In fact, she is either planning her next scene for
Truth or Dare
or anticipating it and feeling slightly guilty. Or perhaps both.

We drive for one and a half hours to Calvary Cemetery in Bay City. The limo pulls off a lonely paved highway and onto a bumpy dirt road that seems to lead to nowhere. I have a vague memory of traveling down this same road when I was a small child, but neither Madonna nor I have been back to the cemetery in years.

We drive through the graveyard gates, one of which is swinging off its hinges in the light breeze, and arrive at the small cemetery, which, to me, seems overgrown and unkempt. Headstones are arranged in no particular order, and it takes Madonna and me half an hour to finally find our mother's grave. Just as we do, Alek and the crew pull up in the film van.