Why Madonna Won’t (and Shouldn’t Have to) Act Her Age
Ever since Madonna became the hardworking, relentlessly ambitious pop star that she is, I assumed she’d one day age gracefully, transforming into elegant Old Hollywood royalty like Grace Kelly—one of many women who’ve influenced her myriad personae through the decades. I thought we’d be able to say, Wow, look how Madonna has let her face show its age and still be beautiful. Or, look how her body is still fierce yet dressed like a sophisticated adult.
The very opposite, of course, has happened. The 57-year-old Madonna is baring her bod, yes, but in tacky outfits that look pulled from the racks of Forever 21. Trying to insert herself into a music scene ruled by hip-hop, she’s even worn gold grills on her teeth. That’s why I’m still bothered by this summer’s New York Times article “Growing Older With Madonna.” In it, Jancee Dunn admits to watching with “queasy fascination [Madonna’s] attempts to navigate the undeniable fact that she is growing older before our eyes.” Yet she concedes, “Much of the hand-wringing around her age focuses on her lack of dignity. But she’s not a United Nations ambassador—she’s a pop star.”
Precisely. It’s this idea of “dignity,” and my own early desire to watch her age “gracefully,” that now grate on my notion of feminism. During Hollywood studio days, that might’ve been possible or preferable (e.g., Princess Grace, Katharine Hepburn). But now, during our Instagram age of Kardashian, TMZ, and Gawker, every gray hair and wrinkle—or ill-advised tweet—gets instantly relayed to our phones. And if you’re not playing along, there’s a chance you might not exist, which is death to a celeb.
Today this raises the question of what “graceful” even means, and according to whom? Dunn mentions the U.N.-ambassador path pioneered by Audrey Hepburn in the ’80s, lately followed by recovering bad girl Angelina Jolie. Noble, yes, but should it be the gold standard for women “past their prime?” Why force the do-gooder role onto a female star who has no interest in saving the world—or being any kind of role model, for that matter?
Hence the rude counterexample of Chrissie Hynde, whose new memoir, Reckless: My Life as a Pretender, describes a violent sexual encounter with a biker gang. She’s come under fire for defending herself thus: “If I’m walking around and I’m very modestly dressed and I’m keeping to myself and someone attacks me, then I’d say that’s his fault . . . But if I’m being very lairy and putting it about and being provocative, then you are enticing someone who’s already unhinged—don’t do that. Come on!”
Even fellow cool-rocker Lucinda Williams was incensed, but why should a ’70s punk like Hynde stop trying to offend, or apologize when she does? That’s like asking Madonna to dress modestly. Hynde never sought to be a feminist icon or a role model; as she recently told NPR, “I’m not here to embolden anyone.” Now that she’s older, why should we expect different of her? Both ageism and sexism are at work here. Keith Richards gets a pass, somehow, for his leering and drinking and smoking and flaunting his cadaverous wrinkles. And if his recent solo work consists of crooning insipid blues tunes in a Dylan-derivative voice, male critics will say he’s authentic, that he’s just being true to himself and his art. Nobody requires him to reinvent himself or age with dignity. (Hello, gold snakeskin jacket!) Meanwhile, very few women north of 40 (or 50, or 60 . . . ) are given such freedom by the media to show their miles of hard living. See: Hynde, Courtney Love, and even Williams—who, while aging seemingly without cosmetic assist or outlandish antics, sadly no longer fills big concert halls.
Ever since Madonna became the hardworking, relentlessly ambitious pop star that she is, I assumed she’d one day age gracefully, transforming into elegant Old Hollywood royalty like Grace Kelly—one of many women who’ve influenced her myriad personae through the decades. I thought we’d be able to say, Wow, look how Madonna has let her face show its age and still be beautiful. Or, look how her body is still fierce yet dressed like a sophisticated adult.
The very opposite, of course, has happened. The 57-year-old Madonna is baring her bod, yes, but in tacky outfits that look pulled from the racks of Forever 21. Trying to insert herself into a music scene ruled by hip-hop, she’s even worn gold grills on her teeth. That’s why I’m still bothered by this summer’s New York Times article “Growing Older With Madonna.” In it, Jancee Dunn admits to watching with “queasy fascination [Madonna’s] attempts to navigate the undeniable fact that she is growing older before our eyes.” Yet she concedes, “Much of the hand-wringing around her age focuses on her lack of dignity. But she’s not a United Nations ambassador—she’s a pop star.”
Precisely. It’s this idea of “dignity,” and my own early desire to watch her age “gracefully,” that now grate on my notion of feminism. During Hollywood studio days, that might’ve been possible or preferable (e.g., Princess Grace, Katharine Hepburn). But now, during our Instagram age of Kardashian, TMZ, and Gawker, every gray hair and wrinkle—or ill-advised tweet—gets instantly relayed to our phones. And if you’re not playing along, there’s a chance you might not exist, which is death to a celeb.
Today this raises the question of what “graceful” even means, and according to whom? Dunn mentions the U.N.-ambassador path pioneered by Audrey Hepburn in the ’80s, lately followed by recovering bad girl Angelina Jolie. Noble, yes, but should it be the gold standard for women “past their prime?” Why force the do-gooder role onto a female star who has no interest in saving the world—or being any kind of role model, for that matter?
Hence the rude counterexample of Chrissie Hynde, whose new memoir, Reckless: My Life as a Pretender, describes a violent sexual encounter with a biker gang. She’s come under fire for defending herself thus: “If I’m walking around and I’m very modestly dressed and I’m keeping to myself and someone attacks me, then I’d say that’s his fault . . . But if I’m being very lairy and putting it about and being provocative, then you are enticing someone who’s already unhinged—don’t do that. Come on!”
Even fellow cool-rocker Lucinda Williams was incensed, but why should a ’70s punk like Hynde stop trying to offend, or apologize when she does? That’s like asking Madonna to dress modestly. Hynde never sought to be a feminist icon or a role model; as she recently told NPR, “I’m not here to embolden anyone.” Now that she’s older, why should we expect different of her? Both ageism and sexism are at work here. Keith Richards gets a pass, somehow, for his leering and drinking and smoking and flaunting his cadaverous wrinkles. And if his recent solo work consists of crooning insipid blues tunes in a Dylan-derivative voice, male critics will say he’s authentic, that he’s just being true to himself and his art. Nobody requires him to reinvent himself or age with dignity. (Hello, gold snakeskin jacket!) Meanwhile, very few women north of 40 (or 50, or 60 . . . ) are given such freedom by the media to show their miles of hard living. See: Hynde, Courtney Love, and even Williams—who, while aging seemingly without cosmetic assist or outlandish antics, sadly no longer fills big concert halls.
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