Sex
Keen on Keener
You know Catherine Keener is trouble. But you can't stop yourself.
In apparently serious and heartfelt independent movies, where the people are resolutely “ordinary” and where the beauty-resistant rawness of the photography seems determined to avoid “glamour,” people still do the kind of far-fetched things they do in those much more expensive and idiotic fabrications — big pictures. Thus “Lovely & Amazing” (that ampersand is the brave flag of irony and detachment) steadily runs the risk of being cute and unbelievable. Not that I’m saying don’t see it. There are two Catherine Keener pictures around at the moment, this and “Full Frontal,” and the latter is the one to ignore.
In “Lovely & Amazing” there are four women: a mother (Brenda Blethyn) who is having liposuction; her two daughters, Keener and Emily Mortimer; and her black adopted daughter, a child still. Keener is unhappily married with a child and no job. Mortimer has a boyfriend and a very uncertain career as an actress. The very nice suggestion in “Lovely & Amazing” is the several vague yet primal ways in which the older daughters feel like sisters — not least the sense of some shared impediment in their souls so that they do not quite feel beautiful or sexy. And this is simply adjacent to the way their mother (in her 50s) needs liposuction and a doctor to flirt with.
Catherine Keener is the kind of actress made for such independent films. She is no more attractive than anyone with natural intelligence and bad temper can manage. By which I mean to say that she is apparently uningratiating. She has a small pimply lump on her chin in much of the film. It is the kind of natural “flaw” you don’t see on a Julia Roberts. Yet you feel that Keener would trade in her Equity card sooner than have it removed or concealed by makeup. She is in her element as someone being driven in on herself by circumstances and events, losing it, as opposed to turning a sweet, available face to the world. There is a forlorn party scene where she tries that, and where her forced smile begins to look insane.
Being able to do or convey such things is not common and sometimes one has to remind oneself that Keener has elected to act — she isn’t just this difficult, self-destructive (attractive? — go to hell) woman that many men regard as trouble. She wants to act, to tell stories, to be looked at. I have to assume she wants work, to be liked, and so on. But her wonderfully lofty attitude says “fuck off” all the time.
Whereas, her sister, Emily Mortimer, is so eager to be appealing that she picks up stray dogs. She goes to an audition and tries to be “sexy.” Nothing whatsoever about Mortimer’s pretty pathos suggests that capacity. She may turn the actor (Dermot Mulroney) on while on the sofa, but she doesn’t get the part. We know why, but the question torments her — because she keeps saying she has no choice about being an actress. So, later, when she reencounters Mulroney she lets him take her out and fuck her and then, this truly recessive and private young woman gets out of bed, stands full-figure, completely naked, in one of the few warm lighting setups the film has to offer, and asks the guy to comment on her body as if he were a judge at a show.
Well, if you’ve heard about that scene already it’s because it is “the scene.” Not only did I not believe in that woman putting herself on display, I could not help but feeling that this ostensibly genuine, independent film had sold itself out to a big “talking point” nude scene. The story line breaks down. It set me thinking that maybe some kind of reverse scene was required: one in which Mulroney tells Mortimer (against her will) what he thinks about her body and then tells her she just doesn’t have it in her to be an actress. Whereupon she comes to life as a person and amazes him with her sexual intimacy.
For there is a difference between women who can be sexy and beautiful in the dark and in trust and those who can do it for the camera. And that’s what’s special about Keener: The more fiercely she tells us she doesn’t give a fuck, the more fuckable she becomes. Her character gets involved with a 17-year-old kid in a one-hour photo store. It’s unlikely, to say the least; when it rises to her arrest on charges of statutory rape we are in cloud-cuckoo-land. Except that Keener has made it all work in one close-up on her hangdog face as she keeps saying no to the kid but slips into yes. She has the ability to expose her mind, and its insecurity, and that always goes beyond taking off your clothes and having to be judged as a 10, a 9 or a 6.5.
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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