Sex
Jennifer, wasted
What's Jennifer Jason Leigh doing in "The Road to Perdition" -- and why's she missing that despondent, carnal air of hers?
In all the high-class gloom and luster in which the movie “Road to Perdition” sets itself, and in the strenuous boosting that has developed in support of the picture, one intriguing thing gets left out. What the hell is Jennifer Jason Leigh doing there, and what are we to make of her?
Now, this is not simple partiality leaping to the actress’s defense. I admire her well enough, though I’d have to admit that there have been too many occasions when I regarded her as a bit of a pain in the neck. Still, it is Jennifer Jason Leigh playing Tom Hanks’ wife, and Ms. Jason Leigh is, if not quite a star, then what you’d have to call a female lead. When you discover that she’s in the picture, you take it for granted — as she may well have done herself in signing on — that she’s going to have something to do, to say, to register.
Not that she emphatically looks like Jennifer Jason Leigh. But, in fact, when you first see her and you realize all the steps she has taken not to look like herself then you naturally jump to the conclusion that here comes a real acting job — and hence a real role. She looks plainer, older, sadder, half-erased, minus that despondent, carnal air of hers, and saddest of all, deprived of that nagging urge to say awkward, insistent, difficult things that any careerist sweetie-pie would just swallow. In other words, you see you’ve got Jennifer Jason Leigh and you easily conclude that she has some pointed remarks that are not going to go away of their own accord with a kiss and a promise.
Moreover, as the wife to Michael Sullivan and the mother to his sons, it’s quite likely that she’ll be the one to insist on talk, on words, on spelling out those feelings that the men in the family have made a religion of ignoring and burying. You expect a scene where that special whine she has begins to shave the very skin off Tom Hanks’ obdurate face. So it’s right and promising that Ms. Jason Leigh has a pinched and wary look whenever she gazes at her men, serves up their flat dinner or sees their wicked benefactor Mr. Rooney. You could swear she knows it all and may have developed cancer from the knowing — Jason Leigh is that good as an actress.
But she says not a word about the situation or the problem. Indeed, although I’m not going back to the dreary picture to check it out, I doubt that she has as many as a hundred words before she is killed. If you said it was a bare 27, I wouldn’t be calling you a liar. Not that she really gets her death scene so as you’d notice. Though there is a little bit more to see and hear than there is with Hanks’ reaction to the murder of wife and son. All you get in this cripplingly artistic film is the far-away moan and bellow of grief as Hanks, several stories away, discovers the bodies. Indeed, that moment is done with such objectionable refinement that you marvel that Hanks’ agent didn’t sue the makers of the film because of the infernal suggestion that Tom couldn’t play the big distressing moment.
Anyway, that’s the end of Jason Leigh, so you’re left asking yourself why she took the part? Was there more of it once? Come to that, is it in any way fair by the rules of such genre films that she should be executed, as well as the innocent son? Let’s not bother to ask how far such actions conform to the real actions of criminals. This is only a film about films noirs, about criminals on screen. And I think this is unsporting — it’s over the top, and it would earn instant rebuke, even if Mr. Rooney’s nasty kingdom does need to rely on the silence of the older son, the one who saw the business killing. The murder of the wife is gratuitous, yet it’s a way of treating and disposing of awkward and supernumerary women. It’s a way of cleaving to that daftest, deepest urge — that only men count.
Some people have compared this (and other things about “Road to Perdition”) to “The Godfather.” That’s a crock. In “The Godfather,” in two parts at least, Coppola set Kay (Diane Keaton) up as the ignorant, innocent woman drawn into the family and then shut out as she becomes aware and critical. And Kay is not killed — no matter that Michael Corleone knows he can kill anyone. He has to listen to her, just as the audience has to recall the woeful face of Kay being excluded from all those essential, inner family moments. The criticism may be mute, but it is there.
Which is a great deal more interesting than introducing a wife and a mother and a female character (almost the only one in the picture) and then whipping her away before she can do or say anything. “Road to Perdition” is a pretentious, bad movie and one clue to its inner decay is this abject neglect of its female character.
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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