Sex
Mail-order bride
In "Birthday Girl," Nicole Kidman is confidently sexy playing a Russian femme fatale with trashy clothes, exposed midriff and a lanky insouciance.
This is a moment in the movie year when audiences can easily be fooled by the weight of Oscar advertising. So “Birthday Girl” is getting squeezed off the pages (and maybe out of theaters). That master of Academy promotion, Miramax, would be happy to see the best actress Oscar go to someone in one of “its” films — Sissy Spacek in “In the Bedroom” or Judi Dench in “Iris.” So it’s not exactly pushing another of its films, the small, modest, sly, English “Birthday Girl” (in part because it could draw attention to another Oscar rival, Nicole Kidman in “Moulin Rouge”). But dont be misled. There’s nothing around at the moment (not even Halle Berry in “Monster’s Ball”) as piquant, sexy and starry as “Birthday Girl.”
Berry is tremendous in “Monster’s Ball.” But having gone back to that strange picture again, I saw her performance soaring above a series of woeful narrative implausibilities. I feel for her in the film, but I don’t believe too much else of what I’m seeing. Whereas “Birthday Girl” is a smart, witty trifle so arranged and contrived as to showcase the fact that Nicole Kidman is now an authentic star — and one of the very few we have. Not much about “Birthday Girl” asks you to summon or bother with belief. It doesnt matter; youre having too good a time. All the picture has in mind is to show us that Kidman can now get away with, or carry, anything.
A sad and lonely young man, a pillar of the bank where he works in provincial St. Alban’s, in England, has bestirred himself to consider a mail-order bride from Russia. He collects her at Heathrow, and there she stands, a divine creation of trashy clothes, exposed midriff and lanky insouciance. She’s Lolita doing Anna Karenina — a slut goddess, an instant alarm bell, yet a monster of seduction despite the plastic clothes, the sulky come-on behind the teenage makeup and the wonderful playfulness that quickly takes us over as we ask ourselves whether that is really Aussie Kidman doing the melodious, conspiratorial Russian voice.
Of course it is, and of course it’s her. The masquerade is as much a part of the fun as it was when Garbo “did” Ninotchka in 1939. And, as it turns out, Kidman’s “Birthday Girl” will have a very similar mix of hard and soft, cold and warm, within her. It all goes to show that no matter how much glasnost there is, we still prefer the Lubitsch-like romance about Russian girls.
“Birthday Girl” is a self-declared fantasy. The English boy and the Russian girl share not one word of common language. No matter. She knows where a banker’s emotional vault is, and when she discovers his cache of pornographic videotapes she knows just the act to run for him — whereupon, we get that brief gift of naked Kidman that we (and she) have come to expect. Of course, like all fantasies, there is an inner intrigue yet to break open — it comes in the sudden arrival of two guys from Russia, old pals and rascals. I won’t spoil the story by going any further, but I will add that “Birthday Girl” is one of the few modern movies I know that both deserves and requires a sequel.
The reason to see “Birthday Girl” is to enjoy Kidman stretching and expanding in a simple exercise. (There are other virtues, including Ben Chaplin as the boy.) But no one has been vain or foolish enough to get in Kidman’s way or interfere with her scheming over the infinite variations on the tart with a heart. The sexiness is now so confident, so gentle even, that you know Kidman has reached that point of trusting her own gradual emergence as a real woman wrapped up in femme fatale trappings. You feel how far she has intuitively grasped her own rapport with cameras, the way they like her naughtiness and her naiveté. And theres no strain or awkwardness in balancing the two.
As you may recall, this is her third opening in less than a year: “Moulin Rouge” and “The Others” were the other two. The range is astonishing, and I do not think Academy voters will fail to notice that. “Birthday Girl” may get passed over in some places; it is far more entertaining than the advertising discretion would suggest. But it is the film voters may be seeing as they cast their ballots. Maybe that’s chance. Or maybe it’s one more sign that Nicole Kidman now knows exactly what she’s doing.
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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