Sex
Inner life
Production director Richard Sylbert created the erotic spaces in "Chinatown," "The Graduate" and "Carnal Knowledge."
In a movie (as in life), what you know and when you knew it can make a very sexy equation. Take “Chinatown,” for instance. Early on in the action this rather cocky, know-it-all private eye, Jake Gittes, has done a little bit of divorce work. Or so he thought. Only the people he was watching turned out to be a lot more than what he reckoned. He didn’t know enough, soon enough. But for the moment, he is entirely pleased with himself, and he is just back from the barber shop with a dirty story he’s bursting to tell his associates.
Jake has an inner and an outer office (like most of us). And what he does is tell his pouting secretary, Sophie, to “go to the little girls room for a minute,” so he can share the story with Duffy and Walsh. Sophie does as she is told, but Duffy and Walsh are trying to give Jake the “shut up” sign. Nothing works. He is so full of this story, about “screwing like a Chinaman,” that he lets it all out, without ever realizing that the knockout Evelyn Mulwray has come up behind him (from his inner office), so as to hear the lewd story, endure his schoolboy laughter and then drop a subpoena on Jake and his naughty dick because, after all, she’s Evelyn Mulwray — which is the name the woman used on the divorce job when she hired Jake. “Have we ever met?” is all she asks Jake. He doesn’t think so. He’d remember. Bingo, here are your legal papers. Her extreme sexual attractiveness is given a huge lift of superiority by the way she has been able to observe his silly pleasure. Their relationship has begun so badly we start to guess they are meant for each other. If they realize it in time.
You know the scene, and you have every reason and right to say that it works because of the way it’s written (Robert Towne), because of the lovely offset between Nicholson’s merriment and Faye Dunaway’s cool, and because of the way director Roman Polanski grasps how far to take a comic scene in a film noir. Add a little more praise for Richard Sylbert, the production designer, the man who actually created and made the inner and the outer office, the genius who established the kind of erotic space that Polanski could photograph.
Why praise Richard Sylbert now? Because last week, during the heavy storms that brought us the deaths of Dudley Moore, Milton Berle, Billy Wilder and even Britain’s Queen Mother (her being the topper was a Billy Wilder joke), Richard Sylbert also passed away and didn’t get a lot of notice. He was 73, and one of the nicest, smartest people in Hollywood. He became a studio executive late in life at Paramount, and did well in the job. But he was a production designer, what used to be called an art director, and his pictures included “Baby Doll,” “Splendor in the Grass,” “The Manchurian Candidate” (remember the way the North Korean indoctrination session keeps blending in with the ladies club talking about hydrangeas), “Long Day’s Journey Into Night,” “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” “The Graduate,” “Rosemary’s Baby,” “Carnal Knowledge,” “Reds,” “Frances,” “The Cotton Club,” “Tequila Sunrise,” “Dick Tracy” and “Mulholland Falls.”
And “Chinatown.” Of course, a great deal of art direction can be found in the screenplay. But if you look at “Chinatown” carefully, with Sylbert in mind, you’ll pick up a pattern of inner and outer rooms, of the secret lurking behind the facade and of people being placed or moving in ways that indicate different levels of knowledge. I’m talking about something that goes way beyond the nifty re-creation of the 1930s period — the clothes, the car, the Deco look (though all of those things would come under Sylbert’s control). I’m talking about the way the action is shaped — the way Gittes prowls the water system, learning stuff, only to have the great rush of knowledge and water sweep him off his feet; the way so much plot stuff is revealed in a trip to the office of the deputy to Hollis Mulwray, on the wall, in photographs; the way Gittes is forever knocking on doors, pushing the open door aside, going in, finding something out and then being trumped or tapped by further revelation.
In short, what I mean is the way “Chinatown,” that paranoid state of mind in the film’s Los Angeles, begins to affect and betray every spatial relationship. Of course, this is the deepest way of preparing us for the film’s great shock: that once upon a time, in a gentle paternal way, a father came up behind his young daughter and fucked her — the Chinatown way.
It amounts to an erotic tension in the décor and the way it is seen, and such assistance would have been blunter and duller if not for the grace of Richard Sylbert.
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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