Last week’s rant was provoked by a movie and this week it’s a book. A good
friend gave me a copy of Just Desserts (Wm. Morrow, $24, hard), Jerry
Oppenheimer’s ultra-trashy unauthorized biography of mega-famous lifestyle guru
Martha Stewart. Though I’m no particular fan of the ubiquitous Stewart, I tore
through the book like a bunch of poor relations at a catered wedding buffet. In
his introduction, biographer Oppenheimer proudly proclaims his objectivity and
states his book is based on over 400 documented interviews with siblings,
relatives, past and present close friends, current and former associates,
employees, and colleagues. According to the author, most were eager to comply
with interview requests, pleased that “someone was finally going to tell the
true story.” The author was only too happy to oblige. Exposing the dirt on
Martha appears to be a task he accomplished with great relish.
Martha Kostrya Stewart’s life would already seem to be an open book. Her many
best-selling books and magazines are filled with warm, folksy anecdotes about
every aspect of her perfect life from her idyllic New Jersey childhood right
through to her marvelous marriage. Oppenheimer used Stewart’s stories as a
basis for his research and quickly found that Mrs. Stewart’s most artistic and
fanciful creation may well have been the story of her own life. He carefully
debunks as many Martha myths as he can, both personal and professional. The
story really gets juicy in the late Seventies and early Eighties when Stewart
began her catering business in the remodeled 19th century farmhouse at Turkey
Hill Farm in Westport, Connecticut. The house and gardens at Turkey Hill became
the stage set for the ongoing multimedia production that is the “lifestyle” of
Martha Stewart, complete with a cast of characters that include disgruntled
staff members, Stewart’s abused husband, and neglected daughter.
Where Oppenheimer is concerned, there is no story too private or irrelevant
and no grievance too petty to be rehashed in print. Her recipes don’t work,
she’s a control freak who slaps employees and yells at her husband, she charged
KMart $1,000 for tuna sandwiches and lemonade, she benefited personally from
charity events. Blah, blah, blah, on and on. Some of the information is old
news, such as the revelations of recipe plagiarism in her early works and the
fact that her books were (and are) written by real writers who have always had
to fight valiantly for credit and money. It’s obvious Stewart’s path to media
superstardom is quite literally strewn with the discarded bodies of former
friends, partners, and employees who found themselves on the receiving end of
her questionable business dealings and awesome wrath.
The portrait of Stewart that emerges is one of a self-absorbed, driven, and
desperately lonely woman with genuine skills and an overwhelming talent in the
art of self-promotion. The author’s interpretation of the events of her life
often feels calculated to deliver low blows. He speculates that Stewart sought
a hysterectomy at age 41 simply so she could live life with the same freedoms
as a man, and he gleefully reports on her difficulty in finding a lasting
relationship after her divorce, asserting that men find her intensity
frightening.
The book left me feeling vaguely uneasy. I admire Stewart’s drive and many
abilities, while her overwhelming success reiterates to me how often our
culture rewards form over substance. Her biographer’s “ax” was readily apparent
to me, however, and I finished the book with something approaching sympathy for
Martha. It lasted a few hours until I saw her on television with a response to
the “bad press.” Without mentioning the book or its author, Stewart said, “I’m
a journalist, and as a journalist, this kind of writing makes me embarrassed to
be part of a profession that would write such crap.” If that woman is a
journalist, I’m a ballerina. Considering that she is the most successful
purveyor of crap in this country, it’s not surprising she recognizes it when
she sees it.
This article appears in July 25 • 1997 and July 25 • 1997 (Cover).