Back to the Kitchen!

Martha Stewart scares me, and I love her for it. But her version of The Apprentice is just a bore.

by Lily Burana

September 27, 2005

There's much ado these days about the fact that The Apprentice: Martha Stewart is a ratings disappointment. Post-incarceration, Martha was supposed to soar into the next phase of her career on the wings of prime-time success, but it ain't happening. While Donald Trump's Apprentice is working its way through a fourth season, it's unclear whether Martha's version will be back after its live season finale on Dec. 21. Trump's Apprentice averages ten million viewers weekly (down four million from last season, which Trump blames on confusion between his and Martha's versions of the show). Stewart's Apprentice draws seven million. Okay, I can't hold it in much longer: it's not a good thing.
No one seems more surprised by the show's lackluster performance than Martha herself. "I thought I was replacing The Donald," Stewart says in the Nov. 14 issue of Fortune. "It was even discussed that I would be firing The Donald on the first show." When asked at what point The Donald was made aware that she planned to nudge him out of the spotlight, she responded "I don't think he ever knew." Neither, it seems, did anybody else. The Donald stayed put, and Martha is

Martha is a stone-solid Yankee biotch, spelled out plainly (but elegantly) on God's very own letterhead.

faltering. As a longtime Martha devotée, I'm not surprised.
     The essential problem is one of misplaced focus. Yes, Martha is a fabulous, savvy executive, but that's not the most captivating aspect of her persona. It's interesting to watch The Donald in mogul mode because he doesn't have any other pursuit that's more engaging (except collecting, then publicly divorcing, hot wives). But watching Martha in the boardroom is a snore compared to watching her cook and craft. Plucked from her homey milieu and plunked into the office, her essential Martha-ness has been occluded.
     I feel a certain loyalty to Ms. Stewart, because she put "gracious living" within my impoverished reach. A decade ago, my idea of home decor was a hand-me-down futon and a boombox atop a Salvation Army desk, complemented with the requisite $29.95 standing halogen torchiere lamp that pretty much screams, "I got no design game." I thought the broke-ass mofo look was hot — Unencumbered! Bohemian! — because I didn't really have much choice. Then I bought my first house, just as her Everyday Living line was taking off at Kmart. Suddenly, thanks to Martha, I could afford Egyptian cotton towels. And her paint! She did this color called "cornmeal" that sent me to the moon. I bought it for my master bathroom, and every time I took a shower I felt like the sexiest bitch on earth. For the first time in my life, my linens matched my walls matched my bathmat. I felt domesticated, foxy, and in some very feminine way, invincible.
     I generally identify myself through my work — a third-wave Rosie the Riveter, if you will — but those Kmart shopping sprees changed my self-perception. I can't deny that when I put together a decent-looking room or a pretty, satisfying meal, I get a shot of power, a feeling of female might, like I'm Eve in an apron. It's the erotic power of tradition, and I owe it all to Martha for turning me on.
     Though her products have added a pleasing kink to my notion of domesticity, I'm ambivalent about the lady herself — I find her creepy-hot and nesty-hot all at once. There's a lockjawed determination to her hostess-ship that

Now that she's a mogul-mamele, I'm bereft. And yawning.

I don't expect from, say, Rachel Ray, the Katie Couric of foodies; or from HGTV's Joan Steffends, the host of Decorating Cents who grins constantly and relies upon the word "whimsy" as if it were oxygen. Martha is a stone-solid, uptight, upscale Yankee biotch, spelled out plainly (but elegantly) in embossed type on God's very own letterhead. You don't get Nice from a home-and-hearth overachiever like Martha. You get Exact. There's a cruelty to her excellence, almost — like you get the sense that if you dissed her tiramisu, she might stab you in the back of the hand with your own Henckels Santoku knife.
     Why that's attractive to me is a frightening depth I don't dare plumb. I suspect it's some domestic inferiority complex mixed with a little masochism. But we don't see that side of Martha on The Apprentice. While The Donald is a vulgar capitalist bastard who gets to be a vulgar capitalist bastard on his show, when Martha's in Apprentice mode, she's neutered — a well-powdered power girl who keeps her edge in check. Now that she's this "help the baby execs up the corporate ladder with tough love" mogul-mamele, I'm bereft. And yawning.
     It's not just the boss-lady shtick that's dragging down Martha's Apprentice. The production of the show is lacking, too. The "This is Drama!" stormtrooper music that underscores every dramatic moment seems odd, given that the show's dramatic moments involve things like wedding cakes, tulips and bunting. The cigar-twiddling Jeeves sidekick has got to go, and as for Martha's daughter, Alexis, on every episode she just looks like she wants to escape.
     Unforgivably, Martha's Apprentice lacks an end-of-episode money shot like Trump's "Your fired!" Martha's dismissals are wimpy, ranging from "I wish you good luck — goodbye" to "I wish you well, but I have to say goodbye." Okay, what the fuck is that? Seriously! If you're going to hammer somebody's ambitions, make it sexy. Snappy. We want a clean, lethal shot. Martha, I know you're too uptight about your post-prison image to say, "You suck," and surely you're above slapping your forefinger and thumb in an "L" against your forehead while trilling, "Loooooooser," but for ratings' sake, honey, please consider it.
     This week, Martha said to the press, "I have learned that I really cannot be destroyed." That's the Martha I kinda love and kinda hate and am turned on by and scared of in a way that makes me think maybe I'd pee a little if I dropped

Martha, I admire you, I fear you, I want to grow older with you.

scone crumbs on her carpet during high tea. But when she proffers a quote like that, I'm assured of her tenacity. I am reminded that she may occasionally make a misstep, but she'll never fall. I envision Martha as the years pass, wizening yet growing ever larger, redecorating entire cities and vanquishing all those who might oppose her, like Gamera with highlights. But her sustainability won't be predicated upon primetime pabulum like The Apprentice. Presenting herself as a corporate diva, while accurate, is a loyalty-distorting angle of the Martha brand and, frankly, a bit of a letdown. No wonder no one's watching her. We can't even recognize her.
On Martha's new daytime show, she's once again featured in the kitchen and at the craft table, and her singularity is allowed to shine. After a wobbly start, it's gaining momentum in the ratings. I think this proves my point: her fans want her back where she started. Sure, behind the hostess-of-steel persona, there's an empire she built herself. But we don't want to see the Martha Machinery at work. We want to see the oatmeal-walnut-raisin cookies expertly baked, the sealing wax impeccably stamped on the party invitation envelope, the seasonal wreath woven from bird's nests, twine and dried lingonberries, all assembled with a chilling WASPy gleam. We want the primal turn-on of homespun Yuppie goodies, not the guts of the enterprise behind them.
Martha, I admire you, I fear you, I want to grow older with you guiding me through life's napkin-folding occasions. So know that I'm sincere when I say that I want you to stick around. Also know that despite any urge you might have to morph your image into something new, your survival depends upon being the woman we knew, the Teflon Traditionalist. In the name of longevity, I implore you: Quit the corporation, stay in the kitchen, and stop playing nice. n°

© Lily Burana and Nerve.com.