Sex
Introducing … Julia Roberts?
There is a new Julia, and she's less sexy than lean, tight and anxious.
In all the slovenly, cynical mess called the new “Ocean’s Eleven,” the most barefaced dishonesty is that Danny Ocean (George Clooney) is doing it all for Tess (Julia Roberts). She is the wife he lost in a life patently devoted to fraud of all kinds — stealing large sums from others, and passing off all degrees of lie on those who might once have trusted him. In a slick way that seems indistinguishable from Clooney’s fatuous self-love, Danny wonders if Tess doesn’t miss the ways he used to make her laugh. No, says Tess, and I don’t miss the ways you made me cry.
It’s the one moment of emotional truth in the entire mercenary proceedings, and it made me notice how lean, tight and anxious Roberts looks now. Her credit on Steven Soderbergh’s film is “And introducing Julia Roberts,” the kind of sophomoric joke that might have been considered and abandoned by wiser heads. As it is, the credit only draws woeful attention to the way Roberts is wasted here — and, worst of all, to the way she looks. Who knows, down the road, if “Ocean’s Eleven” may not look like the occasion on which she was first shown the exit door.
The idea prevails now that after “Erin Brockovich” a rapport exists between Soderbergh and Miss Julia so that they would do any kind of movie together. Beware of such sentiment. The only movies worth doing are the ones you’d do with someone you loathe. Years ago, Angie Dickinson played the same role — Danny Ocean’s miserable wife — in the original “Ocean’s 11.” She may have taken the job by telling herself that she and Frank Sinatra were old chums. Better that she had noticed how far “Ocean’s 11″ was a sprawling benefit for the Rat Pack, a project that would have been dismissed out of hand if those cool thugs hadn’t had such clout. So Angie sat around looking wan, and the idea grew that she might be a stooge.
All that happens in the new “Ocean’s Eleven” is that you have time to ask yourself whether Julia isn’t beginning to lose her looks. You had the same suspicion in “The Mexican” and “America’s Sweethearts”? Me too. This is a face now that has spent too many late nights reading scripts, trust fund reports and the Wall Street Journal. The eyes have narrowed. She wears her hair tight in this film, and that’s a disaster, for you notice that her head is small. And whereas in the age of “Pretty Woman” she was naturally slender and yet fleshy at the same time (that awesome spring in a young woman’s life), I’d guess that she is having to work much harder now at keeping the weight off. That shows not just in the severity of her cheeks, but in the bad temper behind her eyes. There are those of us who do not enjoy dieting, endless workouts and the joylessness of self-discipline. So we cannot keep the feel of hatred out of our expression. It’s there now in Julia, and you feel she’s learned too much about self-sacrifice to give us that complete, gushing, rapturous smile again.
She has her Oscar. She’s very rich. She has reputation and respectability. But all of those are now things she might lose. And you feel that dread tightening its grip on the extraordinary sexy generosity without which she would be an unknown still.
All the more reason not to take parts like Tess that give her so little to do except look edgy, unhappy and … hungry. Not that she has a lot to do in “Ocean’s Eleven,” but she has two scenes where Tess goes into a very swank Las Vegas dining room and is about to have dinner. Now, these days, you can see beneath the veneer of Tess, or whomever, that for Julia dinner is a big thing. Her subtext shows. You feel anticipation, hunger, need. But then the plot is so arranged that Danny interrupts her. She doesn’t get so much as a breadstick. And something in Julia Roberts’ being seems to contract; a witchy gauntness sets in that is much more frightening than Steve Soderbergh noticed.
Then there is her walk. In “Ocean’s Eleven,” Julia has to walk a lot, and all of a sudden you notice that she walks badly. Is it that old heels problem, or something about her balance? There seems to be some load slipping from side to side. She rolls. She’s awkward, ungainly, when there is so little going on in the picture that the best you can hope for is the chance to sit back and say, isn’t she graceful? Isn’t she lovely?
I know, Julia Roberts is only 34, and to be as rich, famous and beautiful as she is at 34 is an American dream. But somehow I get the feeling that her blithe, happy days are over. She can’t really play kids anymore — and coltishness was so much her thing. One day soon, not too far ahead, someone’s going to say what about Julia as the villain.
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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