Sex
The all-American pervert
Even as he sank into a fatal sexual morass, Bob Crane remained a blandly wholesome nice guy.
I’m writing about “Auto-Focus” for several reasons — it will be playing at an important film festival over the Labor Day weekend; I think it’s a picture that deserves and will receive a lot of talk; and because I can’t get it out of my head. Not that it’s an obvious turn-on or inducement. Indeed, I heard that someone else who saw it early came away with the shuddering remark, “It’s a film that leaves you never wanting to have sex again!” Well, I don’t quite share that view, though I can understand it. After so many decades of pictures that serve as titillation or foreplay, perhaps we’ve lost touch with the whole question of fear and loathing?
There is an odd way in which “Auto-Focus” is akin to aversion therapy. Though something larger than just sex, I think, is being undermined. It’s likability.
This is the story of Bob Crane, a rather mild, smooth, empty actor and a very likable guy — or so he wanted us to believe. I’ll go further: I think he was desperate to believe it himself. The story is set in the ’60s, at which time Crane has just come off a modest success in the “Donna Reed Show,” playing — what else? A very likable guy. Bob is happily married in “Auto-Focus” in the way people in “The Donna Reed Show” or its intervening commercials were happily together. By which I mean to say that no stone is ever allowed to disturb the bland surface of their life.
Well, Bob has a big break coming up: He is offered the lead role in “Hogan’s Heroes,” a situation comedy set in Stalag 13, a German prisoner-of-war camp. There are some worries at the network that the show could be in bad taste, but we know long in advance that “Hogan’s Heroes” is going to be a solid five-year hit and the making of Bob Crane.
As he rises in the ratings, he meets John Carpenter, a rather goofy studio hanger-on who is always offering the latest in camera and then video equipment. He hits on Bob in a hero-worshipping kind of way, and their friendship slips very gradually into the easygoing pornographic sessions John likes to shoot. Indeed, Bob is John’s star: a stud and a celebrity who will attract Playboyish babes, and the color in John’s drab life. It’s a touching friendship in which the closest Bob’s bland surface comes to realizing John’s true feelings is when he sees John’s reaching hand in one of their films getting very close to Bob’s private parts.
Bob’s marriage and family life are wiped out by his mounting obsession. A second, sexpot wife can’t ring the bell. It isn’t that Bob is exactly sex-crazed as that he doesn’t have the time, the energy or the likability left for the real thing. After “Hogan’s Heroes,” there’s less of Bob Crane — he’s seen as a dissolute “celeb” guesting on daytime cookery shows and doing dinner theater. He’s going nowhere, and shows no sign of deserving better — for his own notion of a likable guy is exactly the kind of empty, easy good looks that no one really wants to see twice (unless they get elected president — and even then?).
Technically, I believe the murder of Bob Crane in 1978 (he was just 50) is unsolved. All we see in the movie is bludgeon, Bob’s head and a spray of blood on the wall, before the tabloid shot of the ex-star dead in his bed. In the movie’s structure, there’s no doubt that the killer was John Carpenter, miffed that Bob was going to try to give up pornography for good — whatever that is.
The ending is by far the weakest part of Paul Schrader’s brilliant picture because no john in his right mind would believe that Bob was capable of, or wanted to try, getting out of the sweet hole he had dug for himself. The most stunning thing about “Auto-Focus” — and here I must praise Greg Kinnear as Crane (and Willem Dafoe as John) as much as Schrader — is the portrait of a kind of soulless amiability that is too feeble for anything else in life, yet also too conservative, too prim, too pious to ever think of recognizing itself as perverted, depraved or a sex fiend! Bob Crane is thoroughly all-American, and the thing that I find so arresting in this film is the oblique but merciless portrait it provides of just how derelict a regular American guy can be.
There will be some who say that “Auto-Focus” is very nasty and dark and prurient. But it’s not, really it’s not. How could it be when the style, the attitudes and the ideology are all from regular ’60s network television? Unless you’re going to decide that sort of thing was … sick? “Auto-Focus” is a great departure for Schrader in that, in its icy, Day-Glo way it is a comedy, in which all the acid is ironic. So Bob Crane doesn’t burn in hell (and Schrader has used hell before), he just goes serenely sour — like creamy milk.
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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