Imagine that you are watching something that especially moves you—your two-year-old eating profiteroles; Joe Montana moving down the field; dawn at the Canyon de Chelly; or the close of Ugetsu Monogatari, whatever. Your communion 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 technology 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 horizon. In that disaster, the ad—I suggest—should be he 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 celebrity; and a fit vehicle for an unusual kind of serial-killing movie—one in which photography poisons the world.