On the couch with Madonna
What happened when the Prince of Patter met the Queen of Hype? As Terry Wogan recalls, it was a match fit to celebrate 1,000 editions of Wogan
The first strong sun of the summer glints on the warm waters that lap the Eden Rocā¦ Eden Roc on the Cap dāAntibes, the Koh-I-Noor in the diadem of precious stones that twinkle on this, the most expensive 50 miles of coastline in the world, the Cote dāAzur. St Tropez, Cannes, Juan-les-Pins, Nice, Villefranche, Menton, Monte Carloā¦ names that reek of money, glamour, sophistication. The Croisette, the promenade des Anglais, the Sporting club, the Hotel de Paris, the Carlton, the Negrescoā¦ But the place to see, and be seen, is Eden Roc. So naturally, Sheās there. And so are we. With a small āwā.
Itās a small suite, as they go, looking out on to a little patio, and then to the white rocks that form a breakwater to the gentle Mediterranean. You canāt see much of the rocks today ā theyāre alive with telefoto-toting paparazzi. Theyāve been there all day, probably all week, straining and scampering for The Shot. The one shot of Her that will go around the world and get some lucky paparazzo on the glossiesā gravy train.
So far though, nada, Zippo. Not a sausage. The only time She emerges from the Stygian fastness of the Roc is early in the morning to jog around the Cap dāAntibes with a hundred minders. And weāve seen all that before.
White flash of provocative nightie, a homely morning cuppa on the patio, cocktails for two as the sun sets over the hills of Provence ā thatās what the public wanna see, boy!
If you have to ask the price of this small sitting-room/bedroom and ballroom, with its view of rocks, sea and scorched cameramen, you canāt afford it. Itās a little crowded at the moment anyway, with cameras, soundmen, monitors, electricians, directors, producers and all the personnel and paraphernalia of filming. For todayās the day. She has graciously consented to be interviewed. Hallelujah!
The atmosphere is anticipatory, tense. Sheās coming. The biggest thing to hit the Cannes Film Festival in years. Itās been dying, slowly, and, in one bound, sheās got the corpse back on its feet, making headlines around the world. Schwarzenegger, De Niro, Eddie Murphy: theyāre all here. And in a normal year, theyād make the tabloids. Not this year. Itās her year.
The Mistress of Hypeās in town. Last night, she went to a party in a corset. Outside her clothes. Wherever she goes, itās a near riot. Even the legendary Bardot never got the French this worked up. They seek her here, they seek her there. Sheās on a yacht, in a helicopter, eating bouillabaisse along the coast. But sheās not. Mostly, sheās in her room with the blinds drawn.
And soon now, sheāll be here. With little olā us. Imagine. We know sheās coming, because her out-riders have been making forays. A formidable American woman has checked four times in five minutes that there are no photographers, the seatingās comfortable, the lights are OK, but mostly that weāre all going to be properly respectful in the Presence.
Iām sitting in the bathroom, out of the way, when suddenly, in a flurry of bodyguards, PR hairdressers, make-up men and assorted best boys and gofers ā sheās here! I go to meet her. Luckily, someone recognises me. āOh, Madonna. This is Terry Wogan.ā The little pale face turns disinterestedly. The eyes flicker. The bee-stung lips part imperceptibly. āHiā says Madonna, and walks past meā¦
The day had started early on the Croisette of Cannes, outside the Carlton. The elegant facade of one of the worldās grandest hotels is obliterated by hoardings advertising the latest cinematic treats. Weāre recording ātrailsā, brief vignettes of television shrewdly crafted to drive the public wild in anticipation of future delights. You ought to try it some time, with the good burghers of Cannes walking determinedly into shot, tourists lolling in the background, urchins charging in for your autograph on the off-chance that you might be somebody famous, and your flies open. The final straw I only discovered after weād finishedā¦
Back to Eden Roc for a reviving noggin. Th representatives of the British Press are hanging about the bar trying to stretch their expenses to another half of lager. Iām manna from Heaven. At last! Something to write about! They buzz around me. āWhat did Madonna say?ā; āWhatās she like?ā; āDid she mention Warren Beatty/Sean Penn/anybody?ā; āWhatās she wearing?ā I hold them down to a dull roar, pointing out that I havenāt met her yet. Iām seeing her at 3.30pm precisely.
Next day. the great British Press rises yet again to the occasion. TERRY WOGAN FUMES AS HEāS KEPT WAITING BY MADONNAā¦
At 3.30pm right on the button, there she is. She sits on the settee, small, not exactly pretty, wary. She gives off no warmth, she doesnāt smile a lot, she doesnāt trust anybody in the whole, wide world. She seems embattled, cornered, caged by a circus of her own creating. Sheās defensive, tough, articulate and honest. You can see that sheās impatient and quick to anger, but we talk for nearly an hour.
Itās 4.30pm and sheās got another nine interviews with TV comperes from all over the world. We make our goodbyes and outside the door is the Australian TV presenter. Heās got a huge bouquet of flowers, heās just flown in from Sydney, and heās getting ten minutes ā¦
Ā© Radio Times
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