Imagine that you are watching something that especially moves you—your two-year-old child eating profiteroles; Joe Montana moving down the field; dawn at the Canyon de Chelly; or the song that takes you back to a magical moment, whatever. Your commution with this spectacle is suddenly ruptured by what we will call a commercial break. This is all the more disturbing in that you did not know that what you were watching (the medium) was subject to such intrusions. You did not know the techology was yet available to come between you and the entire air and sky at Canyon de Chelly. But "they" have managed it, and the ad zips up every emotion. In that disaster, the ad—I suggest— would be the insolent, in-your-face "attitude" of Ms. Ciccone. There is no need for a product. There is nothing in Madonna to be advertised, except for her ironic, deflecting contempt. She is an ad for advertising; she is the famousness of mediocrity and a fit vehicle for an unusual kind of plot-killing movie—one in which photography and surface replace character and depth.

You know the argument: guns, for example, are lifeless things that only serve those who use them—guns may dispose of would-be rapists and murderers; guns permit the animals that provide meat to be killed swiftly; guns allow the exercise and pleasure of hunting-, and armaments manufacturers build schools and hospitals. You may get a bullet in the head but hey, the thoughtful mr armament manufacturer has built you a hospital to recover in.

Similarly, moving images have been a field for the dreams of of Ozu, Hawks, Ophuls, etc. Photography has brought into being Lartigue, Ansel Adams, etc. But in addition, movie and photography are advertising, fashion spreads, and Madonna and Truth or Dare (91, Alek Keshishian).

There is no going back, and no way of not wondering whether somewhere along the way wrong paths have been taken. I am reminded of the image of Warren Beatty in Truth or Dare, in dark glasses, trying to edge away, trying to defy the camera with nothingness, and eventually marveling that anyone could suppose this Madonna has any life "off" camera. It is one of the great tragic images in modern film, not least because Mr. Beatty has evidently recognized the horrendous question, what is he doing there? And what are we doing watching?

Perhaps a case can be made for Madonna as singer and dancer. But as an actress, she is the person who got out of the empty car—I speak as someone who saw her on stage in David Mamet's Speed-the-Plow (where it was possible to lose sight and thought of her even as she walked across stage). But she hardly needs talent, so great is her "artistic integrity," and there are those ready to call her satire and her indifference the most audacious strokes of Dada. She has her defenders, and I suspect she loathes them even more than she scorns her enemies. She is disappointed about something, and hugely driven by resentment.

She appeared in A Certain Sacrifice (85, Stephen John Lewicki); Desperately Seeking Susan (85, Susan Seidelman); and Vision Quest (85, Howard Brookner). She did a song for At Close Range (86, James Foley), and she appeared in Shanghai Surprise (86, Jim Goddard)—both of which involved Sean Penn, to whom, briefly, she was married. She appeared in Who's That Girl? (87, Foley); Bloodhound of Broadway (89, Brookner); Dick Tracy (90, Beatty); Shadows and Fog (91, Woody Allen); and—seemingly furious that Sharon Stone has so effortlessly mocked and surpassed her in Basic Instinct—in Body of Evidence (93, Uli Edel); as an actress in Dangerous Game (93, Abel Ferrara).

The burden did not lighten: she made appearances in Blue in the Face (95, Wayne Wang); Four Rooms (95, Allison Anders); Girl 6 (96, Spike Lee); and then all the ads said she was Evita (96, Alan Parker)—no matter that she managed hardly any emotional involvement, and again seemed incapable of understanding the nature of acting. Still, nothing before had been as fatuous as The Next Best Thing (00, John Schlesinger). Since then—as you may have heard—she has had a child with her new husband, the English director and public educated yet professional Cockney Guy Ritchie. Cross your fingers for the babe and ignore her siblings— Star (01, Ritchie) and Love, Sex, Drugs & Money (02, Ritchie).