One summer five years ago, I signed up for an aquagym class at a municipal swimming pool. You know, that exercise they do in the movies to laugh a little at the loss of psychomotor skills in older women. I gulped a lot of water because my companions, tanned and strong, stroked me madly. When class was over, I followed them, dizzy from exhaustion, to the changing rooms, where, with an enviable alacrity, they stripped off their bathing suits and gathered as God brought them into the world. Those women who had already lost the tightness of the waist, had saggy breasts from childbirth and years, located all that fat in the upper body and made themselves look like happy chickens, made cultural and gastronomic plans, they were now smearing cream on their ass , praying in the belly, with energy and skill. I watched modestly from my semi-open box office what was undoubtedly a memorable spectacle, for if it is true that literature and cinema always put the pensive woman in front of a mirror, here, in this scene of the city’s dressing room, the conviviality removed every trace of selfishness or self-pity. It was appreciated that those gathered were seated with their backs to the large mirror, irrefutable proof that they had overcome this phase of observing their own bodies and those of others that life so absurdly embitters us.
I’m seeing the full nude of Emma Thompson in Good Luck Big Leo this week. I see it and read Cristina Fallarás’s column that worries this nudity. I also. What a sensitivity of the director in the presentation. I’m irritated by the hypocrisy of the film industry, which on the one hand pulls the “intimacy coordinator” job out of its sleeve, awkwardly negotiating every shot that requires a naked (basically young) woman to appear, and on the other hand he finds it brave that a 63-year-old Actress with the face “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the worst moment of my life” steps in front of the mirror. And in the case that concerns us, it wasn’t the character that was shown to us, but the actress herself who has always been frightened by the sight of her nudity. We live in such a strange moment regarding the display of the body that we can go from extreme modesty to an outrageous surrender of the most intimate. I can’t understand how it’s liberating to undress in public when it’s not fun.
It is not Thompson’s body that is disturbing, but her face, the face of a woman who is ashamed of her figure
Brave, brave, brave, they cheered her on. I wonder what that courage is for and why it is liberating to cross the barrier of legitimate humility to appear before others in an act of sacrifice. It’s not Thompson’s body that’s troubling, it’s her face, the face of a woman who is ashamed of her aging figure and is trying to gain some kind of recognition for daring to admit her concern. I would like to take her by the hand, take her and others, these young girls tormented by the irrelevant orange peel skin, myself, and they, us, to this women’s changing room at a municipal swimming pool, where a gang of women, brave, horny , happy, uninhibited, without knowing it, ignoring the applause for a heroism they don’t consider, to teach us life’s best lesson: that maybe it’s lucky to reach a certain age while being healthy and Victory overcomes years of apprehension. We may have been taught to ironically comment on milestones and failures in sex life without the matter always reaching elements of victimhood and melodrama.
What can I say about the character in the film? It strikes me that since the lady in the story is only about five years older than me, she’s sad that she’s never enjoyed an orgasm, and if she has, it’s not just clumsiness on the man’s part, it’s incompetence by two or by her alone, because the women of this generation already knew what the fingers of the hand are for. It also seems to me a typically male dream to alleviate sexual frustration by resorting to a prostitute who has mastered the arts of love and is understanding: this is what old male literature called good whores.
Own and sad from this time of extreme display where everything is naked and confessing, even at the expense of showing what we would like to hide. Maybe the only secret to relieving anxiety is looking at yourself in the mirror one damn less, even if it costs us something.
All the culture that suits you awaits you here.
Subscribe to
Babelia
The literary news analyzed by our top critics in our weekly newsletter
GET IT
Subscribe to continue reading
read limitless