Flicking through the newspapers recently I was stopped in my tracks by an image of the new Vanity Fair cover. This shows Nicole Kidman — two-time Oscar nominee, one-time winner — with a military cap on her head and an open-mouthed expression. Said expression is, I guess, supposed to be a Monroe-esque pout, but just makes her look completely bloody vacant. Beneath this vacuous visage, for no apparent reason, she is holding her shirt open to expose her white, bra-clad breasts. There is something strangely passionless and perfunctory about the pose — as though, off camera, a doctor has just shown up and told her it’s time for an impromptu mammary examination. (Or, indeed, the magazine editor has just told her she is off the cover unless she gets on with it and gets ’em out.) ”Nicole Kidman Bares All” screams the coverline.
And this image arrives just a few days after the release of photographs from the new Agent Provocateur advertising campaign, featuring another highly lauded actor mugging shamelessly in her scanties: indie favourite and two-time Golden Globe nominee, Maggie Gyllenhaal. The full series of pictures is online as part of a book of ”adventures” called, very cheesily, Lessons in Lingerie, in which Gyllenhaal stars as a character called Miss AP. Those released show Gyllenhaal, variously: reclining in a basic black push-up bra and pants; gazing coquettishly over her shoulder in lacy knickers and a pair of stockings; cavorting in a bubble bath in a striped one-piece; her breasts pushed up in a tight pink corset, looking as awkward and unhappy as Kidman; and, in the most provocative shot, trussed to a strange wooden chair, legs spread wide, in just her bra and knickers.
The general take on the Gyllenhaal pictures so far has been that they are fabulously sexy. So why did I find them — and the Kidman shot — so depressing? It can’t just be because they feature women as sex objects. After all, there’s a constant parade of woman-flesh on the newsstands each day, and while I find the half-clad photos of Big Brother contestants depressing, too, they don’t have the power to surprise these days.
But photographs of genuinely acclaimed actors in their underwear affront me every time, whether it’s Angelina Jolie draped in a silk sheet for US Esquire, or her great rival, Jennifer Aniston, baring her breasts for US GQ. There seemed something sad to me about the controversial GQ cover of Kate Winslet a few years ago, not because of her legs being digitally lengthened, but because I couldn’t understand why the youngest woman to receive five Oscar nominations had to be togged up in a basque. And as for the Vanity Fair cover of Teri Hatcher, in which the story of her childhood sexual abuse was illustrated with a just-out-of-bed shot of her in nothing but a white top and white knickers, well … words fail me.
I think what I find so incredibly discomfiting about these pictures is their suggestion that, no matter how talented a woman is, how many plaudits she has received, how intelligent her reputation, how garlanded she has been for depicting one of the most talented writers of the last century while sporting a huge prosthetic conk on her noggin, at the end of the day, if she wants to stay in the public eye, if she wants the magazine covers and the leading roles, she has to be willing to reduce herself to tits and arse.
One of the most blatant demonstrations of this came last year, when Vanity Fair published its Hollywood issue. Put together by the fashion designer, Tom Ford, the cover featured Scarlett Johansson and Keira Knightley, two talented young actors, completely naked. Rather bizarrely, Knightley was being sniffed by a fully-clad Ford. Inside, it was explained that Ford’s appearance had been a last-minute addition and that a ”certain young actress” had been slated to appear as part of a ”gorgeous female threesome”, but hadn’t understood the nudity requirement and ”bowed out when the clothes started coming off”. Said actor was Rachel McAdams, who, at that juncture, seemed on the brink of stratospheric fame. She had appeared in three successful films in 2005 — Wedding Crashers, Red Eye, The Family Stone — and, some might have argued, was worthy of a fully clad Vanity Fair cover. Since declining to bare all, McAdams’ career has gone strangely quiet, while the fame of Knightley and Johansson has soared. Coincidence? Well, maybe.
That example suggests that it is a simple equation — get your clothes off, see your career rocket — but, of course, it is not. It is a hugely risky business to disrobe (the same people who laud your sexiness will think much less of your talent), and it is a risky business to leave them on (see McAdams, and, no doubt, many other aspiring, principled actors). Actors such as Kidman and Gyllenhaal must recognise this edge of risk, which brings me to another depressing spectre.
For many women, it seems, no matter how successful they are, the need to be pleasing to men, to say, ”However powerful and clever I might seem, I’m just a playful, bra-baring bunny underneath,” trumps everything. Excuse me while I wipe the tears off my keyboard … — Â