Life with My Sister Madonna

by Christopher Ciccone

  “Really cool,” he says. “Traded them for my jeans.”

  In the morning, we pile into a bus for the four-hour drive to Ouarzazate in south-central Morocco, in the Saharan desert, where we’ll be shooting the video. Lawrence of Arabia and, later, Gladiator were shot in Ouarzazate, but it seems to me a long way to go just to make a short video.

  Freddy, who has gone ahead by plane, is meeting us there. By now, Madonna has acquired another traveling companion, a personal trainer. She is American, with short, curly hair and far too much energy, and she irritates all of us.

  Once we leave Marrakech and drive toward the Atlas Mountains, the landscape changes dramatically. No trees, just bare mountains with tiny specks of sheep climbing around. After two hours, we realize we are hungry and ask the driver where we can stop and eat. The answer is nowhere. It’s Ramadan and Muslims aren’t permitted to eat or drink until sundown. We are about to protest when there is an almighty bang. The bus has broken down.

  We are on a deserted mountain road. There are no cell phones, no restrooms. Our driver can’t start the bus. He tries radioing for help, but discovers that we are out of range. So he gets out and starts messing with the engine. By now, it’s one in the afternoon. We are all hot and sweaty, and it looks as if we’re going to be stuck here for hours.

  Madonna has a major meltdown. “We’re in the middle of the fucking desert. Where the fuck is Freddy? What the fuck are we doing here? I can’t believe he did this to me. I’m going to kill him. Christopher, do something!”

  I ignore her because I know that if I don’t, she’ll start yelling at me as well. And if she does, I know it will be impossible for me to stop myself from cracking, “Wonder if Freddy ever sent Michael Jackson through the desert in a bus?”

  More bitching and screaming. Her trainer, a touchy-feely girl, strokes her arm. “Stay cool, Madonna. Everything is going to be fine. Let’s meditate,” she croons.

  Madonna slams her hand away. “Get the fuck away from me, it’s too hot!”

  Madonna may be big in the States and in Europe, but here in Africa she is a complete unknown. So to any outsiders, we are just a bedraggled little group of stranded American tourists, dumb enough to take a bus across the desert.

  Finally a tiny, putt-putt three-wheel truck appears. We flag it down. Our driver talks to the truck driver and his friend, and although they speak little English, in a stroke of luck they are driving in the right direction. Money changes hands, and we all get into the truck and discover that it doesn’t have any seats. Undeterred, we pile the luggage into the back, along with Marty, Erika, and the trainer. Madonna and I squeeze between the two men in front and sit on the floor with the hot, rusty, and dirty stick shift digging into us. It’s now extremely hot and our drivers smell.

  We drive for thirty minutes, and as the sun sets, we arrive at a little town just perched at the end of a hill. The town consists only of a café, a gas station, and two small houses. The truck grinds to a halt.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Madonna screeches.

  The drivers ignore her. They just get out of the truck and go into the café. As an afterthought, they tell us, “At sunset, we eat.”

  We end up joining them in the café and have some soup, no doubt made out of one of the goats’ heads hanging nearby. Madonna is so hungry that she jettisons her vegetarian principles and eats some goat soup as well. The drivers also just keep on eating. When they’ve finished, we all pile into the truck again and drive on.

  It’s nighttime and cold now. One of the drivers turns on the radio, and a pop song blares through the speakers.

  He smiles at Madonna and says, “You heard of Michael Jackson?”

  “Just shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up,” she shrieks.

  I put my hand over her mouth. “Madonna, just be quiet. We need them to drive us to our destination.”

  For once, she listens to me and shuts up.

  We are out of the mountains now and in the heart of the desert. The sky is pitch-black and a multitude of stars twinkle brightly above us. Just as I begin to enjoy the journey, the truck stops dead.

  Somehow, our drivers make us understand that they can’t drive any farther, as their license doesn’t allow them to drive into the next province. Luckily, a second truck pulls up, and the driver agrees to take us to Ouarzazate.

  An hour later, we arrive at Club Med. Freddy is standing outside waiting for us.

  Madonna flips out completely. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Freddy? How can you do this to me? I’m not performing for any fucking French television, fuck this shit. I want to be on a plane right now. I want to go back to New York.”

  Freddy remains calm. “You’re here now; just do the TV thing tomorrow. In any case, there aren’t any planes flying out of here tonight.”

  Madonna stamps her feet. “I’m not doing it, I’m not doing it, and that’s fucking that.”

  She goes on for a good three hours, while Freddy all but turns cartwheels trying to persuade her to give in and do the show anyway.

  During Madonna’s tantrum, Erika, Marty, the trainer, and I just sit in the lobby, drinking bottled water. Erika, Marty, and the trainer all marvel at Madonna’s high-decibel diva performance. I don’t. I grew up with her. Finally, Freddy calms her down, and we all go to bed.

  The French TV company is expecting us to film in the desert, but Madonna flatly refuses. Instead, she insists that we shoot here on the pool deck at Club Med. We could be absolutely anywhere on the entire planet.

  Madonna declares, “I’m not talking to you, Freddy. I don’t want to talk to you for the next five days,” but we make the video anyway.

  The following day, we get driven back to Marrakech in a broken-down station wagon, with no delays or mishaps. At the Club Med there, we each check into rooms that are sort of tucked in underneath one another. So even though you are in your own room, you are still sleeping above somebody in the room below you, and you can hear everything.

  Later that night, everyone but Madonna and me is suffering aftereffects from the goat soup, and all we can hear is people moaning and then throwing up.

  By the next morning, the charm of Morocco has worn off.

  We fly back to Paris. As soon as we arrive back at the Meurice, Madonna and I get really sick. We drag ourselves to the airport, anxious to get home to America and recover there from our bizarre African adventure.

  BACK IN THE USA, Simon Fields, who produced the “Lucky Star” video, offers me a job as a production assistant in his company. I fly out to L.A., stay with Danny’s brother, and work for Simon fifteen hours a day, leaving me little time for partying or for hanging out with my sister, whose career is going great guns.

  I get my first taste of music videos from the production side. It is by far the worst job I have ever had. Up at dawn, in bed after midnight. Days filled with running errands, delivering props, cleaning up after people, and generally being everyone’s gofer. I can’t wait for the job to end. While I grow to like the medium, I vow that from now on I will either direct a video or have nothing else to do with it.

  In September, I go back to Manhattan and—because I am still painting and interested in art—get a receptionist job at the Diane Brown Gallery in SoHo.

  Madonna invites me to see her perform at the first annual MTV Video Music Awards at Radio City on September 14, 1984. She has been nominated for Best New Artist Video for “Border-line” and is also performing at the show.

  I meet her at Maripol’s loft. Maripol is styling and dressing her up as a kind of punk bride. When I arrive, she is fastening rubber bracelets to Madonna’s wrists, helping her into white tights, a tight white bustier and skirt, and clasping her BOY TOY belt round her waist. I take one look at the result and—though I don’t voice the sentiment—think she looks ridiculous but I know her fans will love the look.

  Way in one corner of the loft, a woman with black hair and a leather cap covering her face is sitting on the floor,
watching intently as my sister is getting dressed. The woman doesn’t say a word, but just gazes at Madonna, transfixed. Finally, after Madonna’s outfit is accessorized with a crucifix and a white tulle veil, the woman takes her eyes off Madonna and glances in my direction.

  “Cher, meet my brother Christopher,” Madonna says.

  I smile and, for the first time, take a good look at the woman. It really is Cher. She seems lonely, and I think it strange that she is just sitting there staring at Madonna while she is getting dressed. I haven’t got a clue why she’s in the room, or how she and Madonna met, and whether or not they are friends, but Madonna is far too busy preparing for her upcoming performance for me to ask.

  However, this moment marks the second of the intriguing encounters I have with celebrities I meet through my sister, or simply because I’m Madonna’s brother. Basquiat is the first. Cher, the second. The rest, in no particular order, will include Demi Moore, Courtney Love, Lisa Marie Presley, Bruce Willis, Donatella Versace, Kate Moss, Dolly Parton, Johnny Depp, Liza Minnelli, the Spice Girls, Farrah Fawcett, Naomi Campbell, Jack Nicholson, Luciano Pavarotti, Denzel Washington, Mark Wahlberg, Warren Beatty, Sean Penn, Sting, Trudie Styler, Gwyneth Paltrow, and more.

  Through all my encounters with celebrities I feel privileged to have access to so many people whom I admire. Often, I meet stars because I am Madonna’s date at an event, but she rarely gives any of them more than a cursory glance. Most of the time, she is really bored and wants to leave as quickly as possible. And she is hardly ever impressed by meeting other famous people, so when we do, I make a point of keeping in contact with them on her behalf and because I want to.

  That night at the MTV awards, my sister is the star, and after Bette Midler cattily introduces her as “the woman who pulled herself up by her bra straps,” Madonna upstages Bette resoundingly.

  The audience may be enthralled by Madonna, but I watch the greenroom TV, see her pop out of a wedding cake, and squirm. As she rolls around the stage, the thought flashes across my mind as to what our father and Grandma Elsie must both be thinking as they see her act on TV. I wonder if my sister is at all troubled at the possibility of shocking or hurting them, but remembering her teen talent show, I doubt it. Nor will I ask her. Since the “Lucky Star” video, we have had little contact, and this evening is not exactly the right moment in which to start. Apart from working ceaselessly to become an even bigger star, she is about to fall in love deeply and, some say, for always.

  On the L.A. set of the “Material Girl” video, as Madonna is sashaying down a staircase, decked out in a fuchsia satin replica of the Travilla gown Marilyn wore in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, she comes face-to-face with hot actor Sean Penn.

  He is twenty-four, she is twenty-six, their birthdays are just one day apart, and—for both of them—it is love at first sight. Afterward, she will claim that Sean reminds her of pictures she’s seen of our father when he was young.

  After the video shoot, Sean goes to a friend’s house. The friend is reading from a book of quotations, turns to a page, and reads out the following random quote: “She had the innocence of a child and the wit of a man.” As Sean later remembered it, “I looked at my friend and he just said, ‘Go get her.’ So I did.”

  On February 13, 1985, she and Sean go on their first date together. After that, for both of them, there is no question that they want to be together, for now and always.

  THE Like a Virgin album sells 3.5 million copies in just twelve weeks, is the first solo album by a female artist ever to be certified for sales of 5 million copies, and knocks Bruce Springsteen off the top of the charts and stays there. And not long after, “Crazy for You” will become America’s number one single, as well. My sister is now a pop phenomenon. I think back to our games of Monopoly and conclude that she could now probably afford to buy Park Place for real.

  Meanwhile, I am enjoying my job at the art gallery and am happy with my life in Manhattan with Danny.

  That is, until my sister comes calling again.

  “Come out to L.A., Chris. Come work, be my assistant. It’ll be so cool. I’m going out on tour soon, and you can be my dresser.”

  Her dresser? “Why not dancer, Madonna?” I say, somewhat flummoxed.

  “I can get a thousand dancers, but only one brother to dress me.” Well, I may be gay, but taking on the role of dresser seems a step too far, and I tell her so.

  “But, Chris, I don’t want any fucking stranger seeing me naked. You’re my brother. You’re the only person I trust. I need you.”

  My big sister needs me.

  The next morning, much to my boyfriend’s dismay, I fly to L.A.

  FOUR

  For there is no friend like a sister in calm or

  stormy weather.

  Christina Rossetti

  TWO MONTHS BEFORE the Like a Virgin tour begins, I move out to Los Angeles and stay with Madonna and Sean at his home on Carbon Mesa Road, Malibu—a single-level, white stucco Spanish hacienda with a tile roof, built in a dry, arid canyon.

  The first thing I notice is that the entire property, small as it is, is fenced in by a big wall topped by metal spikes. As I approach the house via a center courtyard with a disused fountain in the middle. I see that the front door is open and walk in. The living room is furnished with clunky, hand-painted and hand-carved Mexican furniture. Nothing fancy, no particular style at all. Typical of the owner of the house, Sean Penn, my future brother-in-law, who is not into home interiors and wants you to know it. Madonna is at a meeting in Burbank, but Sean sets about making me feel comfortable.

  First, a firm handshake. Definite, manly. Different from that of Madonna’s second husband, Guy Ritchie, whose handshake is a trifle unsure. Apart from that, husband number one and husband number two have one marked similarity—Guy and Sean are both middle-class boys from comfortable homes and yet are prone to present themselves as tough street kids. My sister, I believe, has always played the identical game. After all, she is a middle-class girl who propagates the myth that she landed in Times Square with just a pair of ballet shoes and $35. Perhaps this partially explains Madonna’s attraction to both Sean and Guy. That and a mutual love of guns.

  But unlike Guy in the future, Sean does his best to make me feel comfortable, to be brotherly. A beer? A pizza? A shot of tequila? I opt for the tequila, wanting then, and always, to be more one of the guys than I am. Not that Sean is homophobic. Or if he is, as an accomplished actor he disguises it masterfully.

  HE SPENDS A great deal of time away from the house, and so does Madonna, so I am often left to my own resources. I’m not particularly comfortable at the house, where my room is Spartan in the extreme, with just a bed, a table lamp, no artwork, no drapes. Madonna doesn’t seem particularly at home in the house either. She tells me that she feels isolated, and I don’t blame her. She’s a city girl, and being stuck out in Malibu—however beautiful the place may be—feels strange to her.

  Sometimes we watch movies together, but rarely with Sean, who is usually off somewhere filming. If he is home, he and Madonna never have guests over to the house. From the first, I get the distinct impression that Sean is reclusive and feels happiest hiding out at home with Madonna alone. I stay out of their way as much as I can, except that now and again I cook dinner for her and Sean.

  One night, soon after I arrive at the house, I roast a couple of chickens for us all. Halfway through the meal, Sean leans over to Madonna and takes a piece of chicken from her plate.

  “Just stop that, Sean,” she says, and slaps his hand.

  Sean grins at her and takes another piece.

  I am starting to deconstruct my sister’s attraction to Sean. He is a dead ringer for our father as a young man, is middle-class like Madonna but with a street-kid persona, and presents himself as a bad boy and is a rebel—just like our brothers. Patently a recipe for disaster.

  MY JOB AS Madonna’s assistant is varied and far more interesting than working at Fiorucci. I return calls for her, keep her
diary, make her appointments—some of which are with mogul David Geffen, who continually proposes that my sister marry him, whereupon she always refuses.

  One of my regular tasks is feeding Hank. Half-Akita, half-wolf, Hank is a gift to Sean from Madonna. When I first arrive at the house, I am confident that feeding him will be easy. I’ve only heard his bark and haven’t yet seen him. But I’m curious why he is always outside the house, in a fenced-off area behind a gate.

  Sean quickly enlightens me.

  He hands me a heavy black leather suit, a big coat and big gloves, along with a warning: unless I run to the gate and quickly slip Hank’s bowl of raw meat through a crack, he’ll probably bite me.

  Bite me? I take one look at Hank, hurtling toward me like the hound of the Baskervilles on speed, and know that he’ll definitely kill me. Easily, and with one chomp. He is massive. Fearsome. A wild animal, not remotely domesticated. But Sean adores him. And he makes no secret of just loving it that Hank scares the shit out of everyone who comes within a mile of him. If he didn’t, Hank would long since have been put down.

  Sean also loves his friend the writer Charles Bukowski, who lumbers into the house, day or night, blind drunk and puking. The moment he arrives, my sister escapes into the bedroom, disgusted. Strangely enough, Madonna and Bukowski are born on the same date—different years—and she usually admires good writers, but she loathes few things more than an undisciplined drunk. Or a gun collector. Perhaps she, too, has never forgotten Marty and Anthony menacing us with BB guns when we were kids.

  As the son of director Leo Penn and his wife, actress Eileen Ryan, Sean is minor Hollywood royalty. Years later, he will reveal that both his parents drank heavily once the children were in bed at night, but never showed any evidence of drunkenness in the morning. In retrospect, I conclude that perhaps with Bukowski, who was almost forty years his senior, Sean was reliving some of the dynamics of his relationship with his father.