While Jennifer’s Body continues to be vindicated as time wears on and people suddenly realize how on-trend a boy-eating bisexual cheerleader is, it appears as though, once again, Diablo Cody has captured a zeitgeist with her signature sardonic tone (still intact despite having sold out by becoming a mother). One that has attracted the attention of, of all people, Madonna. Yet for those who think it’s an odd pairing, the similarities between them are fundamentally there, namely both being daughters of the Midwest raised with a religious upbringing that ultimately turned them hypersexual. With such an inherent bond, who else could really be trusted to understand that Madonna’s origins are a key part of what shaped her into the ambitious, fame-seeking, indefatigable force she would become upon arriving in New York in 1978 (at the height of its “Fear City” era)?
Although the biopic seems to be about many different parts of Madonna’s life, it’s clear there is an especial emphasis on the early years (which were also deftly explored in Guy Guido’s Madonna and the Breakfast Club, with Jamie Auld playing M–and to be honest, they should cast her again). Arguably the era when Madonna could be her most outrageous of all because it wasn’t going to be in the news the next day. Case in point, the legend of Madonna and then best friend and occasional backup dancer, Erica Bell (alas, only Debi Mazar would persist as “the best friend” from this epoch), trolling the Lower East Side in a limo and picking up young Puerto Rican boys (what with Madonna having always had a fetish for all things Latino). One could somehow see this most of all fitting in with the stylistic voice of Cody, as well as being rife for playing off the concept of Jennifer’s Body, with Madonna instead playing the Jennifer part in her sexually cannibalistic appetites. In short, she is a succubus barreling down the streets with her head and tits out the window as Bell (fulfilling the role of Amanda Seyfried’s Needy) sits somewhat uncomfortably at her side, just hoping that no one gets hurt.
They lure a boy in–sometimes even two or three–and Madonna starts tearing their clothes off, getting them really hot and bothered, allowing them to believe that a woman could be this sexual without some kind of “catch.” She starts to inch her head down to his groin area, looking up at him all the while to see his aroused reaction. She continues to make him believe until the very last possible second that this isn’t going to end in bloodshed. She sucks for a bit on his dick before biting down on it and eating it like it’s a goddamn hot dog. Blood starts to spew everywhere as she goes for the jugular, the chest, the stomach. Her mouth is nothing but a sea of red, with the whites of her teeth not even visible.
Erica watches in mild horror, somewhat used to the scene by now, though she still doesn’t understand how she became the responsible party for cleanup. She must really be in love with Madonna to put up with this shit, and that, as the script will underline, is everyone’s downfall on her rise to the top. For where others on the path to fame were foolish enough to feel remorse, Madonna knows better than to engage in such useless emotions. That in order to become a success in America, you have to be absolutely ruthless to the point of being a murderous nympho. Plus, it was the 80s–the absolute height of when capitalism was held up as a beacon of true greatness. So what kind of screenwriter would Cody be if she didn’t highlight that through the symbolism of Madonna’s state as a succubus targeting the type of people “nobody would miss”? Like Patrick Bateman killing the homeless to blow off steam, Madonna gets her orgasms from killing ethniques that no one will bother to look for. At least, no one of “importance” a.k.a. the all-encompassing authority that is the white man. This, in turn, will speak to the often flared up criticism about Madonna tending to graft minority culture for herself, rubbing it all over her like it’s La Mer.
After one session, Madonna is still not done with her search for another boy or four. But she does take a break in the limo, now wiped down thoroughly by Erica, to smoke a cigarette. It is one day during this smoking interlude that M confesses to Erica what the latter assumes is the true psychological catalyst for all of her homicidal rage tailored specifically to men. She confesses to Erica that she was attacked at knifepoint by two men when she first arrived in the city, forced to get down on her knees and perform fellatio on them. Erica, for the first time since knowing Madonna, sees her shed a tear as she admits, “It was a taste of my weakness, it showed me that I still could not save myself in spite of all the ‘strong girl’ show. I could never forget it.” Catching a glimpse of Erica’s sympathetic expression, she huffily wipes the tear and away and reasserts, “So now I’ve taken my power back. I say what goes. I’m in control. Understand?” Erica nods her head, hoping one day M will let her eat her out again. That’s the real reason she sticks around, hoping any moment Madonna will throw her a bone in exchange for all the love and devotion she’s given. Of course, that won’t be the case. As Madonna becomes more and more famous, trolling for “Ricans” becomes a thing of the “innocent” past when life wasn’t all about ensuring her accounts and investments were on the level. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t go out on her own at night, whenever she can steal away from the prying eyes of the public and the paparazzi.
She finds that while she’s in L.A., freshly moved there after hitting the big time, that it’s even easier to whet her specific brand of appetite. Plenty of Latino boys in L.A., for one thing. But also, it seemed as though when you disappeared in L.A. as a commoner, it went even more unacknowledged than it did elsewhere. She had the windows of all her cars tinted to make her cruising even more efficient, though part of her did miss having Erica as a wrangler and an extra pair of eyes in seeking them out. No matter, she was strong enough to do it on her own. To do everything on her own, now that she had finally made it. All she needed was the smoke and mirrors of seeming somewhat “normal” so as to undercuttingly placate. To still promise society (and her father) that she was its good little girl…
***
It seemed that after marrying Sean Penn, her need for this boy-eating release became even stronger so as to avoid outright biting the shit out of him and enjoying licking his blood up like an ice cream cone. She couldn’t really stand Sean, but he was dumb and blacked out enough to work for her particular lifestyle. She also knew that the tabloids were just as hungry as she was for the blood that could be splashed across pages in the form of scandalous headlines. So why not keep them satisfied while she did the same for herself? When Sean wasn’t beating the shit out of them, he was often passed out, leaving plenty of opportunity for Madonna to sneak away in the night. She had taken to going to the appropriately named Scream. Even though she wasn’t much for the whole hair metal thing, it was the perfect crowded and dark place to take a bite out of someone. Some man. She even thought about eating Axl Rose one night, but something told her it would become too public if she did. So she settled for the hangers-on, taking them back to her car in the parking lot, if not outright devouring them in the club (a little blood on the floor was to be expected in a place like that).
When she brought one back to Malibu while she assumed Sean was in his usual comatose state, she never would’ve imagined that he might get off on the whole thing, watching her from the bedroom without saying anything. At first, he thought it was a fever dream, but it became apparent that it was all too real as M proceeded to disembowel the headbanger with her nails. He walked out of the room after she was finished and said, “You really are a castrating bitch, aren’t you?” She sneered, “Yeah, and don’t you fucking forget it.” He did though, the night he tied her up and cut her hair off in a drunken stupor of anger. He was angry at everything. At the world, at not knowing how to channel his masculinity into something that wasn’t destructive. Madonna, on the other hand, had channeled her own masculinity into something perfectly healthy. Sean was lucky he got out with his life that night after she freed herself. She really did love him, and he was the only one who ever found out about her secret. Though JFK Jr. did come close one night when Madonna bit him a little too hard on his nipple. He, being the little bitch he was, shrieked in terror, calling her Ted Bundy.
As the 90s came on and the spotlight shining over M only magnified, she began to suppress her urges. She was also endlessly irritated by The Silence of the Lambs–just more macho bullshit that didn’t even do the act of cannibalism any graphic justice. Even toxic masculinity had managed to ruin eating others for her. This was the real reason she turned to Kabbalah. It had nothing to do with the perspective of motherhood. She rolled her eyes at how the press lapped up that line though–what a crock of shit, she thought. When she speaks of her early days with a fond wistfulness, it has more to do with thinking about the freedom she had to eat boys with abandon. Without having to worry about it somehow being caught on film. In many ways, despite all the taboos she broke down, she herself became a prisoner of societal constraints while under the microscope. But oh, in those pre-cameras everywhere glory days of the 80s, how she very literally had the patriarchy by the balls.
