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"I think that she was a remarkable lady, an iconic figure in pop culture who influenced sexuality, taste in fashion, someone who had a tremendous impact on our society." (The notorious) Bettie Page, 1923-2008.
For an appreciation of Page, see TIME's Richard Corliss, who today delivers a tribute as gushing and fanboy in its own way as Peter Jackson's moving remembrance of Forry Ackerman earlier this week. (1916-2008.) "But what everyone remembers about Bettie, aside from her trademark bangs, is her smile. Guileless and guiltless, it conveyed an Edenic sensuality. To her fans and her official detractors, who might have agreed that sex was dirty, Bettie's giddy energy said, 'Heck, no, it's fun!'"
I'm not going to cover all the sordid details of the Spitzer case here -- he's gone, so, politically speaking, there's not much else to say about it (and -- for the moment anyway -- the search for a possible campaign funds connection sounds likes a fishing expedition.) Nevertheless, regarding the news coverage here in the Apple, it -- to no one's surprise, I guess -- has already pushed past prurient to wallow in the tacky. When the feeding frenzy first locked on to "Kristen's" MySpace page (5 million hits in a day), I actually felt sorta bad for the poor girl. (Ok, I know, she's not poor -- she makes $5500/hr. Still.) Prostitution is illegal, true, but she's still basically a troubled kid engaged in a seedy enterprise, and I think it'd be pretty hard for any personal site -- this one included -- to withstand that level of withering, snark-heavy scrutiny from the entire world at large. That being said, from front-page, come-hither portfolios all over NY today to 200 large made on music downloads overnight, I have a feeling the last thing Ms. Dupre needs right now is anyone's pity. Oh well. Milk it, I guess.
Just be clear, I'm not saying the coverage is anywhere near as repellent as the media aftermath to the Virginia Tech killings, and I know sex has sold newspapers since the dawn of the printing press. (I mean, the tabloids caught my attention this morning.) But, c'mon now. In any case, I'm guessing Silla Wall Spitzer is having a truly terrible day.
(By the way, if anyone cares about my own editorial decision to post a pic of Ashley Dupre here, I did so to be fair to Ms. Iseman, of McCain fame. The lesson here seems to be: If you must get caught in a sex scandal (or what the NYT thinks might be a sex scandal), try to keep the seamier-type pics off of the Internets.) Update: Client 9 radio? Um, yeah.
Attempting to be Last Tango in Shanghai by way of Paul Verhoeven's Black Book, or at the very least to cast straight sex in as taboo a light as the gay love of Brokeback Mountain, Ang Lee's Lust, Caution is, the lurid promise of its NC-17 rating notwithstanding, sadly a bit dull. As with most of Lee's oeuvre, the film is ravishingly beautiful throughout, and it recreates WWII Shanghai much more evocatively than, say, Soderbergh's The Good German did Berlin. But, at two hours and forty minutes, the film also feels overlong, and its central conceit -- female agent deep undercover, deep under the covers -- is burdened with entirely too much in the way of backstory. Lust, Caution isn't a bad film by any means, but, its occasional explicitness notwithstanding, it doesn't make for a particularly memorable one either.
As Lust, Caution begins, it's 1942 in Japanese-occupied Shanghai, and four wealthy women, seemingly above the harsh impositions of wartime, exchange gossip and veiled state intel over a friendly game of Mahjong. Among this quartet are Yee Tai Tai (Joan Chen), wife of the secret police chief (Tony Leung), and one Mak Tai Tai (Tang Wei), the young and beautiful spouse of a Hong Kong importer. But, as we soon discover (after she leaves the game and makes a suspicious phone call in an English cafe), Mak Tai Tai does not in fact exist. Rather, we are to learn in a very extended flashback (it's Michael Clayton all over again), she is Wong Chia Chi, a resistance agent whose journey to that Mahjong table began four years earlier, as a displaced schoolgirl in Hong Kong. Falling under the spell of a handsome, earnest young patriot (Wang Lee Horn) then, Wong, a lover of movies, begins appearing in nationalistic plays to much acclaim. And, when it is decided by her schoolyard coterie of six that more drastic action should be taken to fight the Japanese invader, she takes on the role of an importer's wife to lure a key collaborationist, the aforementioned Mr. Yee, to his demise.
But trapping Mr. Yee poses several quandaries for these budding freedom fighters. For one, there is the rather delicate matter of how an inexperienced virgin could pass for a married woman. For another, this Yee is no provincial rube, but a man who's at once deeply careful and extremely untrusting. Most problematic, Mr. Yee is no ugly, oafish lout, but the one-and-only Tony Leung, and hardly anybody in this world looks better smoking artfully in period suits than Tony Leung. Nevertheless, the kids go for it...with mixed results. And, when a spy is needed by the real Resistance to trap Mr. Yee a few years down the line, they find one ready-made in Wong, who takes on her role anew with even higher stakes. Only now, she discovers, Mr. Yee is more cruel than he first lets on, and very much into the rough stuff, sexually speaking. And, more to the point, once the Pandora's Box of her own sexuality has been jarred open by Yee, Wong begins to lose herself in the part, to the detriment of all...
WWII spies, steamy, illicit sex...this seems like it should be an enticing concoction, to be sure...obviously it was right up Verhoeven's alley in Black Book. But, as several reviewers have put it, Lust, Caution turns out to be much more cautious than it is lustful. Even if you factor out the extra hour of padding here, that's a problem. Ang Lee's films, among them Crouching Tiger, The Ice Storm, and Brokeback, have always been noted for their delicacy and artful restraint, which is frankly why he may not have been the best choice for this material, about a couple who lose themselves in sexual passion. The much-discussed sex scenes aren't as puritanically minded as the nightmare visions of Requiem for a Dream, but there's a definite coldness and frigidity about them, as if neither participant is having very much fun. They're not so much erotic as they are animalistic, all acrobatic contortions and grunted yelps. I guess you could argue that's the point -- the two are driven not by love at all but by an inexplicable earthy necessity, and Lee even cuts to a growling German shepherd to forward that idea along. But, if that's the case, if it's all just physical -- then why -- spoiler here -- when a key slip-up is made by one of the lovers, doesn't it happen while in the throes of passion, rather than when one is presented with the sight of a shiny (dare I say gaudy?) bauble?
The acting in Lust, Caution is universally good, with special plaudits going to Tang Wei and Tony Leung. And sex is usually handled so sophomorically in films that I feel bad for faulting Lee's unabashed use of it to further the story along here. But take away those few explicit scenes, and you're left with a rather conventional snooze of a cloak-and-dagger movie, however lusciously filmed. And even the sex here could've used some of the sensuous warmth of Shanghai-born Wong Kar-Wai's work. Sadly, when it comes to lust and caution in this film, Lust, Caution pretty much foregoes the red-light, and ends up raising more red flags than a Mao rally.
Apparently Natalie Portman loves her some prequels. In case you're desiring to see Wes Anderson's The Darjeeling Limited, or at the very least more of Ms. Portman than was disclosed in Closer, Anderson's 13-minute short film, Hotel Chevalier, starring Jason Schwartzman and the former Queen Amidala, is now available free on iTunes. Cute...dare I say precious?
"Kinsey's pioneering work is still one-of-a-kind because in all the time since, only a handful of sex researchers have even tried to match his breadth, depth, and scale. For all our obsession with sex, we're skittish about studying it. There's one major exception: a large survey, conducted in the 1990s, that far outdid Kinsey in terms of statistical reliability. It's the most authoritative sexual self-portrait the country has. But you've probably never heard of its author, because unlike Kinsey, he has worked hard to keep it that way. Alfred Kinsey may have gotten the biopic, but according to Slate's Amanda Schaffer, it's the University of Chicago's Edward Laumann we should now be turning to for reliable data on carnal matters. "Kinsey's data aren't the last word on matters sexual, but they're sometimes still the first."
"Shoplifters of the World, unite and take over"...After resigning under strange circumstances last month, former Dubya administration domestic advisor Claude Allen is arrested and charged with felony theft -- i.e., shoplifting, with approximately 25 counts involving $5000 worth of merchandise.(His particular con -- Refund Fraud.) When I first heard the story, I felt kinda bad for Allen -- I mean, couldn't he get on board with Safavian, Federici, and the other Dubya administration crooks and at least make some Casino Jack-levels of swag?
Then I read a little more about him: A former aide to notorious race-baiter and national embarrassment Jesse Helms (No, not yet), Allen accused Helms rival Jim Hunt in 1984 of connections to "'queers,' 'radical feminists,' socialists, and unions." (In Senate testimony in 2003, he claimed -- under oath -- that by "queers" he meant "odd" people.) Moreover, fiercely pro-life and anti-contraceptive, Allen has been one of the administraton's foremost advocates of promoting abstinence programs as the sole way to combat the spread of AIDS and other STDS. ("In February [of 2003] a hundred CDC researchers on sexually transmitted diseases were summoned to Washington by HHS deputy secretary Claude Allen for a daylong affair consisting entirely of speakers extolling abstinence until marriage. There were no panels or workshops, just endless testimonials, including one by a young woman calling herself 'a born-again virgin.'") Well, while we're preaching, Mr. Allen, can I get a witness for the Eighth Commandment? Update: Dubya reacts.
"The disturbing material in Grand Theft Auto and other games like it is stealing the innocence of our children and it's making the difficult job of being a parent even harder." It's Dem Mods v. dem mods as Senators Hillary Clinton and (surprise, surprise) Joe Lieberman decide to sic the FTC on Rockstar Games for Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, namely for the "Hot Coffee" PC mod which may or may not have been included in the original source code. (FYI, you can see the controversial game-clip here -- It's not safe for work, but it's basically two pixellated characters having explicit sex in various positions, a la the puppets in Team America.)
As with most PMRC, V-Chip, and/or anti-Hollywood-style scapegoating for easy moderate bonus points, I don't particularly think this type of sophomoric tomfoolery in an M-rated (17 and over) game is the central reason for the Decline and Fall of America's Wayward Children. (And several wry Slashdotters have already pointed out the ridiculousness of the argument being made about GTA here: "I don't care if my child carjacks a senior...[or] if he takes a golf club and starts clubbing to death pedestrians. But he may never, over my dead body, have adult on adult, consensual sex!") But Sen. Clinton's proposed remedy -- adding teeth to the ratings system by potentially fining stores who sell M or AO-games to minors -- doesn't sound like the end of the world either. Update: Rockstar fesses up. Update 2: "Maybe she'd be wiser to focus on issues that matter to these people -- say, the fighting and dying in Iraq -- than on the fighting and the dying in the fake, fun world of 'Grand Theft Auto.'" Slate's Farhad Manjoo calls out Clinton.
As both a path-breaking porno flick and a Nixon-felling secret informant, it may have been surprisingly successful. But, unfortunately, as a documentary, the one-sided Inside Deep Throat is a superfluous and self-congratulatory tale that's more frustrating than fulfilling. Forgoing any attempt at analytic rigor, the movie seems designed mainly to make the audience feel enlightened and blue-state cosmopolitan just for showing up. The most you can say for it is that it's Kinsey without the nuance.
In the opening moments, the documentary tries to establish its serious pedigree with a motley crew of left-leaning talking heads remembering their "first time" at Deep Throat: Norman Mailer, Erica Jong, Camille Paglia, Bill Maher, Dick Cavett (looking very well-preserved), Hef, Gore Vidal, John Waters, etc. Ok, so far, so good. But, then the interminably smug Dennis Hopper voiceover kicks in, and the movie begins its slow lurch into irredeemable goofiness.
By the end, that lurch has become a full-on tailspin. The upshot of the film seems to be this: Deep Throat was no mere skin flick. It was about art, freedom, liberating female sexuality, and breaking restrictive social barriers...in short, it was about America.(Conversely, all subsequent porn, particularly in the post-Boogie Nights VHS-era, has been about commerce, exploitation, degradation, and, well, you know.) Moreover, the release of Deep Throat marked an epochal moment in the burgeoning culture wars, and this movie leaves no doubt which side it's on -- various would-be moral arbiters straight out of right-wing central casting are interviewed at times, and naturally they all make Ken Starr look like Larry Flynt. Meanwhile, the admittedly-dubious conviction of Deep Throat-star Harry Reems is treated like the worst threat to constitutional liberty in decades, a cross between the Hollywood Ten and the trial of Sir Thomas More.
While I think Deep Throat's artistic merits are vastly overrated here -- it's a ludicrous porno that improbably tapped into the zeitgeist and fell ass-backwards into crossover appeal, no more, no less -- I'm generally sympathetic to the case being made in this documentary about First Amendment freedoms and the snickering, adolescent way our culture handles adult sexuality most of the time. But Inside Deep Throat's bullheadedly partisan and hyperbolic tone does a disservice to its central arguments. In other words, like the stereotype of the industry it sought to illuminate, Inside Deep Throat turned out to be breathless and brainless...you'd probably be better off watching whatever's on Skinemax.
Schindler, Rob Roy, Darkman, Qui-Gon, Kinsey...why not Honest Abe? Liam Neeson is apparently in talks to play Lincoln in a Spielberg-directed biopic, to be based on Doris Kearns Goodwin's forthcoming book, The Uniter. Ok, that's not bad...but hopefully this project turns out better than Amistad.
Also in loosely related Lincoln-by-way-of-Kinsey news, Salon's Andrew O'Hehir casts a troubled eye at C.A. Tripp's Intimate World of Abraham Lincoln. As he ably points out (as does George Chauncey in the excellent Gay New York), "the difficulty with assessing Lincoln's private life (or that of anyone else who lived before the 20th century) is that the nature of private life has changed dramatically from his time to ours, and the distance between us distorts the view...Whether [Lincoln and Joshua Speed's, with whom Lincoln shared a bed] relationship had a sexual component or not, it belongs to a vanished world of intimate male friendships of a kind almost unrecognizable to us." In other words, sexual orientation is an historically dynamic idea. Homosociality does not necessarily imply homosexuality, and one cannot simply read 19th century sources and infer a 20th century mindset. You have to delve a little deeper. Update: Columbia's David Greenberg also weighs in for Slate.
Hoo boy, the Red Staters obsessed with "moral values" out there are just gonna love Kinsey. With its unflinching recognition of myriad forms of human sexual behavior, its intimations of bisexuality and wife-swapping among team Kinsey, and its occasionally graphic (albeit antiseptic and not at all titillating) depictions of the act of coitus (to channel Maude Lebowski), Bill Condon's biopic of Indiana's famous sex statistician is the closest movie we have this year to a Passion of the Christ for science-minded free-thinkers. In fact, the film seems almost genetically designed to get under the skins of the abstinence-firsters and moralist types who've decried Kinsey's studies for fifty years.
That being said, the strength of Kinsey, and what elevates it to being a better-then-average biopic, is the way it ultimately gets under everybody's skin. Alfred Kinsey is not simply white-washed as a martyr to science and a hero of sexual enlightenment (although, in its most conventional moments, such as the last ten minutes, the movie hammers those particular points pretty hard.) Rather, Kinsey is portrayed as a man whose relentless pursuit of sexual knowledge often leads him down some troubling and morally ambiguous roads. Even the most open-minded libertines in the audience may find themselves feeling that things seem to have gotten a little out-of-control around the home office in Indiana by the end, and get extremely discomfited when Liam Neeson's Kinsey sits down with an even creepier than usual Bill Sadler, a pedophile and sexual predator who's taken some notes of his own.
Kinsey is at its best when it rides this razor's edge, honoring the professor's undeniable contributions to science and society while recognizing that his dispassionately treating sexual behavior as he earlier treated gall wasps ultimately opened the door to immense personal pitfalls, particularly for the men and women around him who had trouble maintaining such a scientific distance. Speaking of which, while Neeson is solid and Laura Linney is Laura Linney as usual, the supporting character work in Kinsey is particularly good. Special marks go to a fearless Peter Saarsgard as Kinsey's #2 (Watch out, Ewan - you've got a competitor now for the full-frontal roles), John Lithgow for his bleary final scene as Kinsey's father (which redeemed an otherwise one-note character), and Dylan Baker as the long-suffering Rockefeller Foundation point person (who must partly have been picked here for his memorable role in Happiness.)
In sum, although it ends with a rather bland huzzah for the march of science, Bill Condon's Kinsey is for the most part an intelligent, nuanced, and multifaceted appreciation of one man's probing (and occasionally perilous) quest to illuminate humankind's most intimate frontier. (And as such, it'll probably go over like a lead balloon in American Pie country.)
"'It is a pattern that has built up over time,' said Dr Jason Wilder, from the University of Arizona in Tucson, USA. 'The norm through human evolution is for more women to have...children than men. There are men around who aren't able to have children, because they are being out-competed by more successful males.'" One of my high school roommates -- now a biologist at Arizona -- unearths genetic evidence that prehistoric Lotharios really got around, while Beta Cavemales have always had it bad. I dunno, I always thought Barney Rubble did pretty well for himself...
The full trailer for Bill Condon's Kinsey biopic is now up, and while Laura Linney still has a huge debt to pay for her last film on academia and sex (The Life of David Gale), it looks like Liam Neeson will nevertheless be backed up by solid character work from Peter Sarsgaard, Timothy Hutton, John Lithgow, Oliver Platt, Dylan Baker...and Chris O'Donnell?
Via Quiddity, academics fret about attractive professors garnering better student evaluations. Well, beauty is power in any endeavor these days...so I'd be surprised if academia were any different. Still, after three hours of lecture a week over the course of a term, I'd think many students' evaluations would bypass professorial sex appeal in favor of the more central question: Was the class interesting?
Fresh after making his pitch for the Sox, Seth Stevenson tries to wrap his mind around manga. "As for the animated porn I did watch in hopes of gleaning some insight into the Japanese id? I have this to say: Go away, Japanese id! You are scary! I am scared of you!"
Woe are the writers of Salon, who've soured on both sex and the cinema of the 00's. C'mon, y'all, the New Millennium ain't all that bad.
Y'know, I've been waiting to hear this type of news for years. Apparently coho salmon and quail males also affect an ironic distance and disaffected world-weariness that make them the apple of females' eyes.
Speaking of ancient rock formations, a former professor of obstetrics and gynecology believes Stonehenge to represent a large vulva, in honor of the fecundity of the Earth Goddess. Sure, I buy it.
"The jargon he'd used at the consultation had become bewitching love-talk: ... dislocation of the second MTPJ ... 'titanium hemi-implant .... 'Yes!' she whispered back." Wendy Perriam win this year's Bad Sex Award and, as per usual, it's pretty bad.
Hey, she needed the stones. (Via Webgoddess.)
