Madonnarama.

Madonna is coming to Nastyville. Seventeen year-old me's mind just imploded.

At the movies: Sherlock Holmes.

I’ve never been a fan of Director Guy Ritchie. The last time I’d subjected myself to one of his efforts, it was Swept Away, his 2002 collaboration with then-wife Madonna, and it wasn’t so much a film as a violation of the social contract (Actually, the one thing GR had done that I quite liked was the video for Madonna's "What It Feels Like For a Girl," with its amped-up Above & Beyond Remix and bad behavior. But that's not a film). So the idea of him taking on as beloved and intriguing a pair of icons as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson seemed like a particularly sick joke.

So color me surprised; Ritchie’s Holmes is kind of delightful.

It’s certainly made to bring in things that modern audiences will respond to (martial arts, explosions, homoeroticism, the battles between science and religion, sedition, and the limitless palette that computer imaging can give), but it feels kind of right. Robert Downey Jr. isn’t quite the cocaine aficionado of Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories, but he’s a maladjusted and brilliant mind in the body of a troubled individual- a lonely man prone to benders between cases, a detail-oriented scientist who terrifies London’s more devious minds simply because his precision is both merciless and relentless.

When a bloodthirsty madman is hanged in the first reel, vowing that he would return and our heroes would be entwined within his masterful taking of power, you would correctly assume that this particular story isn’t quite as wrapped up as it appears to be.

Secret orders, chemical warfare, French giants, and a masterful (final bridge battle excepted, sadly) recreation of the filth and bookish mesh of late nineteenth century London are all in order, and the two-plus hours simply flew by.

There’s a lot to like about a big budget blockbuster that emphasizes knowledge over weapons, and as my colleague Sean Burns points out, this film ‘works overtime to present intelligence as another form of badassery,’ which is right on the money and makes me wish I’d thought of it first.

I guess the old saying is true, and this film, The Indian Runner, The Crossing Guard, The Pledge, and Into The Wild would certainly bear it out… “Divorce Madonna, become a good director.”

At the movies: Filth and Wisdom.

Dear Madonna;

Seriously, what's up? Your directorial debut is kind of a mess, and moreso, it's a really dull and sitcommy mess that feels like it could have been made by anyone. You've made art that I've loved, and you've made art that I have not loved, but you've never before made art that I found dull and impersonal, so I'm concerned.

Eugene Hutz is a dynamic screen presence (he pretty much owned Everything is Illuminated), so I'm intrigued to see him as one of the leads. But by building so much of not only his character but much of the film's narrative engine around the music of his band Gogol Bordello, I felt like as a viewer I was going to be stymied, and indeed I was. I get that each of the three main flatmates have their own sets of issues and obstacles, and that all of their peripheral associates in turn react to that.

Ostensibly, it's a bit of naughtiness added to everyone's lives that improve their respective situation, except for the severe girl from This is England, who has a deus ex machina Indian boss who makes her noble dreams come true, subbing for the rich, sexually abusive father she's been fleeing from. And ballet girl who makes a great stripper when she's sad and drunk and the DJ plays a Britney Spears record.

And on that front, what's the deal? Are you and Britney still friends, or are you still enemies, or what? It's hard to keep things straightened out on that front, and because I don't even know how you feel about Britney these days, it's impossible to understand what the subtext of the scene is supposed to be.

And that's the big problem with your movie- I don't know what it's supposed to mean. There's an endless series of platitudes and cliches about dualities and the universality of humanness, but it's sort of empty. There's no fun here (and that's okay, because I haven't expected you to be any fun since Truth or Dare; it's okay, things got serious soon after, and that's where you are, I get it), and by the end of it I realized that I was only still watching the film because I wanted to be able to talk about seeing a film that you made.

I wanted something raw and unfiltered and straight from your id. I mean, you're Madonna. I know you've got some things to say. You've done Jean-Michel Basquiat, Sean Penn, Prince, and Warren Beatty; you've got tales to tell. Give us a roman a clef. Give us something that only Madonna could have made, and not this bland indie foolishness.

But keep making movies, because I like the idea of a woman who knows both sides of a camera who has enough money and ambition to be able to put their own vision up there onscreen. Just don't react to your (unfortunate) husband's (unfortunate) films, and serve up something unique. And please don't think I'm in the business of hating, because "Heartbeat" is one of the best songs you've ever recorded and I'm always willing to take a chance on you.

Family Entropy: The Ciccones.

It's just hard to even know what to think of Madonna these days. She just is- she's Madonna. She remains a fascinating businessperson and icon, even if she hasn't been much fun for the past fifteen or so years.

But the news that her brother Christopher has a tell-all book coming out has me interested, I'll not lie. I love sleazy celebrity biographies (the best one so far being J. Randy Taraborelli's Michael Jackson: The Magic and The Madness), and I derive a sick satisfaction from watching family relationships collapse amidst a flurry of faxes, press releases, and publishers' contracts.



So this new one has some excerpts in the Daily Mail today, and it's mildly juicy. While I do think Christopher Ciccone has an ax to grind, it's nice to have some evidence that the combination of Guy Ritchie and Kabbalah proved a one-two punch in the diminishing of Madonna's, well, Madonnitude.

I'll read the book, certainly. But I still think "Heartbeat," off the otherwise lackluster new record, is among the best things she's ever recorded.

And who really wins in this kind of situation, because here I am, talking about Madonna again.