Sex
Tender moments
I've been thinking of the opening shot of "Bay of Angels" for the last 40 years.
They do things differently in France. In America, the casino is a strange mixture of stock exchange and brothel, where the customers wear Bermuda shorts and T-shirts proclaiming huge allegiance to unknown universities. But in France — according to the revival of the sublime 1963 movie “Bay of Angels” — the casino is far more like a preparatory funeral home, where clients patiently await their embalmer’s turn; it is like a kind of cathedral, hushed, fragrant, the liturgy known by heart, the gradual clarification of loss and ruin briefly illuminated by the spasm of wins along the way. You could call it a Marxist church, one where the decadent, half-dead rich sign away their last banknotes without protest or nostalgia.
There are tender moments in a life of film-going, and here is one: In 1963, I knew little about Jacques Demy except that he had opened his account with the exquisite “Lola” (also now due for rerelease), and here was his second picture, “Bay of Angels,” a rapture on gambling and romance. Still to come was “The Umbrellas of Cherbourg” and so on. With “Bay of Angels,” which is all of 79 minutes (and richly sufficient), one had the feeling that the young Demy made only perfect films.
For nearly 40 years I recollected the film’s opening shot, with Jeanne Moreau in white hair, walking alone on the Promenade at Nice. She is seen first in an iris circle on the wide screen. Then the screen fills out and the camera tracking back ahead of her hurtles away to the cascading, whirling figures of Michel Legrand’s piano score. The shot is there as I recalled it, and it is still one of the most exhilarating, giddy and frightening moments in cinema history. It may be the screen’s best expression of the madness called gambling. You have to see this film, and have it suck you away.
A young man, the kind of very beautiful young man favored by Demy (he was gay), works in a bank, while living with his strict father. He feels that life is passing him by. So he takes his summer vacation money and goes south, to the Bay of Angels, the Riviera, to Cannes, Nice, Juan-les-Pins and Monte Carlo. He has never gambled; he reckons he can take it or leave it. But he cannot quite resist the tremor he feels in the air around gambling — that intimation that everything might be altered (or rearranged).
He meets an older woman, Jackie (Jeanne Moreau), a divorcée, a woman who is not allowed custody of her own child. It is one of Moreau’s greatest roles. For most of the film she is on high heels, in an elegant, tight, white suit, with hair the color of sand in the sun. But she is a lone wolf, desperate, and a receptacle for all of Moreau’s toughness. I did not see or feel this in 1963, but I think it is clearer, now, that she is nearly a man in drag, a man who takes winning, luxury, the best hotel, new clothes and champagne in her stride, and who ignores losses the way she never notices how she has aged and how decay is waiting behind her black eyes. It is a great performance, and it is one of Moreau’s coups that she never bothers to look, to watch, while the wheel is turning and the ball dithering. She simply waits for the croupier’s flat report of the number. She knows she lives and dies in those tumbling seconds, like a cork bobbing on Legrand’s ecstatic music.
You have to see this film.
The ending is a cop-out, as it always was. It was the young Demy’s way of saying, well, of course, this couple have to be together, for ever and ever. And forever. And of course they’re just a boy and a woman who can walk away from the casino as if they were walking out of the church, married.
No one is fooled. They’ll be back, with their last notes, their last pieces of Pierre Cardin finery, ready to take off their own skins and make a bet with that. There is no cure for gambling, and those of us who do not frequent casinos have only one tricky consolation: that going with that person, putting on that shirt, getting up or not — it is all a game of chance, and all we lack is the lovely pitiless metaphor of the wheel, and the plunging Michel Legrand.
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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