Sex
Where is the naked ape?
Why was the new "Planet of the Apes" afraid of cross-species sex?
In the delirium known as keeping up with those phantoms called major current events, I recall some low-level advertising on the making of the new “Planet of the Apes.” It described how many hours the stars of the picture — those in simian roles — had to sit patiently while their makeup was applied. I’m sure I saw Tim Roth complaining that it took another 40 minutes to have the latex and the et cetera removed. Which only left me thinking how relatively untaxing, and liberating, it was in “The Wings of the Dove” for Helena Bonham Carter to take off her clothes. (I’m all for economical filmmaking.)
America went to see “Apes” last weekend to the extent of $68 million at the box office. If you were there, and came away happy, so be it — premature burial is back in vogue. I thought the film was not just a dismal disappointment for the Tim Burton enthusiasts, but a prolonged ordeal for anyone fond of the original series and its sense of fun. Is this truly the best modern screenwriting can do with the satirical potential in man meets ape? Doesn’t anyone see or feel the begging parable on race, class and the alleged norms of sexual conduct?
Bonham Carter’s role on her planet is odd, yet fetching. Not for her the vulcanized armor favored by most of the apes. Instead, she drifts around in a kind of hippy pajama suit. Her head is full of vague liberal ideas, to which she’s happy to add a sniff of newcomer Mark Wahlberg. She has a nose — squashed flat and spread wide — for sex, and she tells Mark she finds him “sensitive.” Of course, like a good American, he reacts as if stung, or as if he’s always dreaded that possibility. Strike one against the dumb movie: that it can’t see how smart and amusing these apes could be.
It’s her jaw that gave me the clue, but Ms. B.C. could be the Virginia Woolf of the apes, with a little Bloomsbury salon up in the caves, and visions of indolent, indulgent, cross-species sex with a Mr. Wahlberg who resembles no one as much as spaceman Dirk Diggler.
I don’t mean to be a spoilsport: In a two-hour movie there’s ample space for battles and the very nice bounding linebacker style employed by Roth and his thugs. But there was always in the original series (it was there in the chatter of the Kim Hunter and Roddy McDowall characters) a feeling for play and interplay as one species of ape took it for granted that it was superior to another. As long ago as “Gulliver’s Travels,” real satire saw the stupidity of that sort of assumption, and the “Apes” franchise is rich for such work.
After all, isn’t it inane that Wahlberg’s lost spaceman is automatically attracted to the routine pouty babe in a ragged bikini? This happens to be Estella Warren (featured in a lot of the advertising) who has only one stunned look that says How did I get in a movie? I share her incredulity, just as I’m dismayed to realize that Wahlberg isn’t much drawn to the idea of seeing Bonham Carter naked. He does plant one kiss on her ledgelike upper lip. But then his libido seems arrested by all that makeup.
This “Planet of the Apes” should have allowed for a more complete imagining of the ape’s body, and it should have given Bonham Carter the chance she earned in “Wings of the Dove” and “Fight Club” to flaunt it.
But I can hear all the squeamish laments about how that would be … dirty, or unnatural. Isn’t that exactly the sportiveness that the Apes idea sets up? And isn’t it why the most immediate subtext of the parable is about the adventurous mingling of blacks and whites? But someone has reasoned that if “Planet of the Apes” was going to do $68 million in its first weekend, it had to be PG-13, which means all the battles you like but rein in the sex.
It’s one more sign of the times — that we are reckoned to be incapable of handling adult material. To which I will only add that in my ideal remake Ms. Bonham Carter has a hideaway cave where she watches “King Kong” and falls asleep dreaming of Fay Wray’s clothes blown away by the warm breath and leaping imagination of that first great movie ape.
David Thomson is the author of "A Biographical Dictionary of Film" (new edition just published), "Rosebud: The Story of Orson Welles" and "In Nevada." More David Thomson.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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