Sex
Doomed
Femme fatale Jane Greer had a scent about her that was sweet, but with a hint of death.
“I go there sometimes,” says Kathie Moffat, as an afterthought, to Jeff Bailey. They have met, as if by chance, in a cafe in Acapulco next to a small movie house. She has strolled in out of the day’s last sunlight in a pale dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat. In fact, he’s been sent to find her, and maybe she knew that or guessed it already. Knowing things seems to be her trade. Still, she tells Jeff about this other place, where they play American music, and the way she says it — “I go there sometimes” — makes it one of the more mysterious lines in American film. Somehow, you have the worst thoughts about the other things she does. Yet you know you’re doomed to find out.
This is a 1947 film, called “Out of the Past.” Jeff is Robert Mitchum, and Kathie Moffat is Jane Greer, who died this week. No matter that she was one of those dark-eyed, dark-haired girls noticed by Howard Hughes, given a contract and offered much more, she didn’t really have a movie career. Only a few years after she’d begun, she settled down with a second husband to have a family. But when you learn that the first husband was Rudy Vallee (23 years her senior, and wild), you realize how close she came to the kind of craziness that tangles the life of Miss Moffat.
I can’t really say that Jane Greer was a great actress, or that she might have been, given better opportunities. Chances are not, or she’d have stuck at it. But she had a lethal smile, long floppy hair and eyes like large blueberries floating in cream — you wanted to play bobbing for eyes. She was one of those women you could smell, even on film. Have you noticed that? There are some actresses who have a fragrance, or a scent. And with Jane Greer it was very sweet and sophisticated, until you got the aftertaste — and there was something like death in that.
You could say she was lucky. “Out of the Past” is a very good film: Jacques Tourneur knew how to direct such pulp so that it seemed poetic, she had Nicholas Musuraca to gather the shadows around her pale face, she had yards of tart dialogue and she had Robert Mitchum to play off.
But give her credit. Just as she made it absolutely evident why Jeff would do the stupidest things for her, without really doing anything more erotic than getting soaked in the rain in one scene, she made it quite clear — in the sense of don’t tell me I didn’t warn you — that she was treacherous, spiteful and entirely selfish.
No matter how many times I see the film, I can’t give up wondering on those other things Kathie Moffat does. In the story, you see, she has run away with $40,000 of Kirk Douglas’ money. And she has ended up in Acapulco where she has a little house that probably rented for $125 a year then. And she takes a drink occasionally. But she’s hardly extravagant. As well as going to this bar sometimes, what does she do? There’s something about her that makes me feel she knows how dangerous she is so that she’s made a pact with herself to be alone as much as possible.
So I see her (this is 1947, after all) listening to Charlie Parker records, reading “The Sheltering Sky” and cutting the legs of spiders to practice her fine touch. And being bored until she could scream. So then, at witching hour, the witch puts on that wide-brimmed hat that throws such cute shadows, and goes out looking for the next feeble hunk.
Acapulco was much too crowded. She should have kept going south — to those jungles where the insects are big enough to fight back.
Except that all of the above is what you might call a classic femme fatale scenario, and femmes fatales were usually the creation of men who were afraid of women or hated them. Those guys always knew in their jittery hearts that a femme fatale would betray them, sooner or later. Whereas, if you look at the phrase “femme fatale,” maybe it just means a woman who is going to die — or one who can’t shake that knowledge. So maybe she stayed at home, read a little Jane Austen or listened to Ravel, and wondered how she might manage not to be bored by self-dramatizing men. “I go there sometimes.”
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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