Sex
Our private places
Reflections on Isabelle Huppert's sadomasochistic mysteries in "The Piano Teacher."
It’s not that I think Michael Haneke’s “The Piano Teacher” is a great film — or even, beyond doubt or argument, a good one. Still, it will be released on VHS and DVD in early November, and it seemed to me as I watched it alone (as it were), in my room as opposed to a public space, that it had become an intriguingly different film. Then, as I thought about the very strange and rather aloof ways in which it hovers over such topics as high art and pornography, soaring romantic love, and abnormal sexual behavior, I began to see it as a model for the way sex can (and cannot) be handled in modern cinema.
So this is the first of two reflections on “The Piano Teacher” — coming to your private place soon.
Erika Kohut lives in Vienna but speaks French — like all the film’s characters. In one synopsis of the film, I saw that Erika was said to be “pushing 40.” But since Erika is, in every shot as far as I could see, Isabelle Huppert, then I’m bound to conclude that Erika is 45, which was Huppert’s age when the film was released. And it’s not just that she is Isabelle Huppert — she also looks like Huppert. By which I mean to say that Erika has graciously yielded to the stardom and what you might call the severe, or the austere, or the harsh, or the numb beauty of Isabelle Huppert. We can leave that decision for the moment, I think, but it is clearly important that Erika is a movie star.
What else do we know about Erika? Well, she has a father, but he is dying and he is apparently insane — though nothing is offered as to the coloring of his disturbance. Erika has a mother, with whom she lives in a small apartment. I’m not sure that it is technically small, but it is not large enough for the emotions of these two women. There is a quiet but raging animosity between them. At the same time, nothing begins to explain why Erika has not moved away to live on her own. This omission is all the more apparent in that, spiritually, Erika seems to have such a need to be solitary or removed. So her mother is a daily ordeal, and a denial of privacy.
Erika teaches piano — not just children whose parents yearn for the gentility of pianistic skill in their young ones, but at the Vienna Conservatoire. She teaches people who may become great pianists. She is strict, humorless, demanding in all of this, and she seems to identify with the immaculate rendering of such masters as Schubert and Schumann, models to whom all students must aspire. The look on her face when the music is being played — and this is Ms. Huppert’s eloquent, graven face — is sublime but unrelenting, like that of an implacable nun.
On the other hand, Erika has a strange, furtive “private” life. In the bathroom of their apartment, while her mother is shouting out that dinner is ready, Erika, in her robe, steps into the bath, and then using a mirror, she applies a razor blade to her sexual parts. We do not see where or what she cuts. But afterwards there is blood in the tub that she must clean away, scrupulously, before dinner.
Then in her own time (as it were), after days at the Conservatoire, and before nights at the apartment, she visits pornographic establishments (this is Vienna) and at a drive-in movie hunts for a young couple making love in their car. She crouches down beside the vehicle and apparently works at some rite of self-gratification, something between masturbation and urination. She runs away when she is discovered.
These things are observed without any attempt at explanation or moralization — of course, this tends to make them all the more private or insular. But we are in something like the same privacy, watching in our room, and we are likely to wonder why Erika is like this. Or whether she is happy or unhappy.
She has a new student, Walter. He is a promising student, but all he promises Erika is to say that he loves her and desires her. She is prepared to deny access, but then she gives him a letter in which she says that he can have her if he will follow exactly the several instructions she gives him for her masochistic satisfaction. He is offended, or shocked. He refuses the contract. But he is too much drawn to her and, very soon, will attempt to find a way to negotiate his love and her relentless code of sadomasochism.
We are going to have to watch. (To be continued.)
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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