Martha, Madonna and brand new incarnations
by Kate Zimmerman for the North Shore News
THERE’S an old pop culture game that postulates that the actor Kevin Bacon is the centre of the universe, the point from which every actor -- maybe even every person -- is separated by six degrees. People still bring it up now and again. This Bacon game may be delicious, but I think that in the modern world, all roads lead to Martha.
Like the very Phoenix that might someday inspire a whole line of Martha Stewart paints, the American phenom has once again risen from the ashes. I stumbled upon her new show the other morning and found myself, unexpectedly, riveted.
Of course she does it better than anyone; she does everything better than anyone. She’s probably the only person in history who came out of jail looking 60 percent better than when she went in.
The difference between this show and her previous TV forays is that this time, Stewart has a live audience. This is not The Apprentice, a la Martha, which I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch because of its association with the repulsive Donald Trump. It’s Stewart’s new cooking program, called Martha. It seems to come on the Life Network at the handy hour of 7:30 a.m., when one is bustling about making breakfast.
It’s startling to see Stewart, who has always seemed to operate in a weird, airless kind of vacuum, charming a crowd. Yet she seems like an old hand. Not only does she speak to her official guests as easily as Oprah Winfrey does, but she addresses the audience from time to time, and there’s a twinkle in her eye that she has rarely made public previously. On the morning I watched the show, two women in the audience had been selected as tasters and they and their husbands got the benefit of Martha’s banter. “When are we going to play cards?” she called out to the unseen husbands in a jaw-droppingly friendly (if patently insincere) fashion.
On the second episode I watched, the theme was “Redhead Day.” Martha not only uncharacteristically promoted a book about redheads written by the sister of her magazine’s editor-in-chief, but sported an auburn wig throughout the show. Guests included redheads Conan O’Brien and Mario Batali, and the audience was composed of enthused carrot tops.
A hint of the famous Stewart steel flashed when the author of the book, Roots of Desire: The Myth, Meaning and Sexual Power of Red Hair, told the host she thought Stewart was a redhead at heart because of her temperament. Stewart’s no fool: she asked for no specifics. She gave a whiz-bang book promotion and then moved swiftly on to the makeover of a blonde into a redhead.
Makeovers of people, not peony patches? On a Martha Stewart show? Evidently Stewart has studied the successes, and maybe the failures, too, of the Oprahs, the Ellens and the Rosies and come up with her own new approach. Suddenly, people matter. (Maybe it’s a trend. George Bush, take note.)
The first episode of Martha that I saw featured a handsome firefighter who had just triumphed on Survivor. This spry grey-haired fellow was in the Paul Newman mold and it was clear that Stewart was not past noticing. He was on the show to make his firehall jambalaya, which he and Stewart did expertly, and then she showed him and the audience how to make her special cornbread to go with.
Unlike Oprah Winfrey, Stewart didn’t seem interested in dredging up the nobility of firefighters generally, conjuring up 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. Refreshingly, there was no tear-jerking component to the show. The truly startling moment happened at the end of the firefighter’s segment, when Stewart was dividing up the cornbread so she and her guest could taste it. She called out to a couple of assistants and lo, they trotted out of a back room bearing cornbread muffins for the whole audience. The muffins were tiny, but even I appreciated the gesture. Martha is a renowned tightwad. Any sign of generosity is relished by her sycophants and critics alike.
And the move is a sign of her noting, and improving on, the failures of others. How many times have I watched an Emeril Legasse show and wondered what was in it for audience members tortured by the smells of melted butter, sizzling prawns, bubbling cream and the whole Legasse over-the-top scene? A handful of lucky audience members gets to sample what the chef is bam-ing out of his oven. The rest, one presumes, simply suffer. Maybe they get a discount coupon for his restaurant after the show.
So how ’bout that Martha? The way she can reinvent herself is a wonder. Madonna could take tips.
Mrs. Ritchie is now promenading about as a country lady. I, for one, am not convinced that little Rocco and Lola will soon be joining 4-H and entering pigs in the country fair. Madge appeared in her new disguise in September’s Vogue, claiming that she now wears sensible shoes around her 1,000 acre estate, formerly the home of fashion and society photographer Cecil Beaton. She shoots and rides horses, too, says the noted vegetarian.
While in Scotland last month, I read a column about raising chickens (don’t ask me why) that drew attention to the fact that Mrs. Ritchie is also now a chicken farmer. I find this a hilarious image since I know that chickens are supposed to be nasty, smelly creatures. The idea that Madge, possibly clad in giant manure-stained overalls, starts her days by shoving hens out of the way so she can grab their eggs is so preposterous that it’s funny.
I can’t wait for this children’s book author and Super-Mom to launch a cooking show. I think you’ll agree that the idea of her baking cookies with youngsters, perhaps in shapes inspired by her notorious past, is a good one.
When will Madonna’s halo arrive from Jean-Paul Gaultier, I wonder? And will it have matching Wellington boots?
I know Martha Stewart’s will. A former fur-wearer, she recently became a supporter of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) and even an anti-fur spokesperson on its behalf.
What next, donating apiaries to the homeless? Martha, we hardly knew ye.
Writing > Humour
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