I’m not really one for crushes on celebrities. But I make an exception in this case because Sarsgaard is dreamy (those droopy lids, that creamy voice!) and because he is practically a poster boy for my kinda sex.
He won this distinction in his portrayal of Clyde Martin in Kinsey. Sarsgaard played the part as a young bisexual exceedingly comfortable in his own skin—particularly for the mid 1940s—who brought Alfred Kinsey to a greater understanding of queer sex through the acceptance of his own bisexuality.
Bisexuality. Check. Honesty. Check.
When I mentioned my nascent crush to Shelby, she brought me her favorite movie, Garden State. Sarsgaard was again a relaxed figure, in this case a pothead gravedigger with few ambitions or illusions. He was also a man of ambiguous sexuality, inserting himself as an affable third wheel in the romance of Natalie Portman and Zach Braff.
Threesome. Check.
I had the bug pretty bad by this point. Todd loaned me Center of the World, in which Sarsgaard played a computer geek who falls hard for a freckled stripper.
Obsession. Commercial sex. Love. Check, check, check.
Sarsgaard and sex—he just keeps punching my buttons.
Apparently, he is heterosexual. But get this: his main squeeze is Maggie Gyllenhaal, who played the titular role in Secretary, about a young woman who discovers happiness as a submissive.
Kink. Check.
So you see, even when Sarsgaard ventures away from being the man for me, he steps right back in my home turf. Go right ahead, straight boy. You match yourself with that starlet of the kink set, and I’ll still be here.
For his efforts, Sarsgaard was nominated as the actor I would select to play me in the movie version of my life.
You know, if anyone asked.
A while back, Viviane asked me if I would like to be her guest for the New York premiere of Sarsgaard’s new film, The Dying Gaul.
“There will be lots of celebrities there,” she said. “Including your own Peter Sarsgaard.”
“Count me in!”
“You will have to wear a suit or a tux . . . “
“I have both! Bring me to Peter Sarsgaard!”
On the night of the premiere, Viviane and I dolled up. We had drinks at my place then walked over to the theater.
Sure enough, it was a swank crowd. And sure enough, Peter Sarsgaard was there to introduce the film, along with the director and screenwriter, Craig Lucas.
Sarsgaard stood at the dais holding a Corona.
“He really does have that voice,” Viviane whispered.
“Shh!” I admonished. “But, uh, yeah, he does.”
In the film, set in the year 1995, Sarsgaard plays a young gay playwright whose lover has recently died of AIDS. His lover’s life and death become the material for a script that is purchased by a movie producer (Campbell Scott) on one condition; the main characters must be recast as a heterosexual couple.
Faced with a million dollar advance, the playwright reluctantly accepts the change—and wrestles with the guilt of betraying the memory of his lover.
He is also soon wrestling naked with the producer, a bisexual married man.
This fuels more guilt, as the playwright is befriended by the producer’s wife (Patricia Clarkson).
Things get complicated when the wife adopts an online persona to meet the playwright in gay chat rooms, gradually culling details about her husband’s infidelity.
Great stuff for me, right? Hot boy-on-boy action, bisexuality, online sex . . . right up my alley. That Sarsgaard sure can pick ‘em.
The film is well acted, clearly a labor of love for the three leads.
Alas, there are a unfortunate holes in the script. We don’t understand why or how the two men became lovers in the first place. We don’t understand how the wife obtains information used to create her online persona.
In the end—which I don’t want to give away—the bisexual producer suffers the sort of fate once reserved for gays in pre-Stonewall cinema, whereas the gay playwright prospers. Why? No apparent reason, except that by virtue of being openly gay, the playwright is presumably more sympathetic than the closeted producer.
Never mind that the producer is a pretty innocuous fellow—despite his adultery and oily Hollywood business ethos—whereas his wife and playwright undertake actions deliberately designed to cause harm.
Is the gay playwright behind this film, Craig Lucas, trying to say something about bisexuality?
Viviane and I were talking about this afterwards, as we made our way to the reception following the premiere.
“Hang on, Viviane, I need to hit the restroom.”
“Me too. Meet you back here in five.”
As I stepped into the restroom, Peter Sarsgaard was stepping out of a stall.
We nodded as we passed, and I took the vacated stall.
Locking the door, I made a startling discovery.
Peter Sarsgaard had failed to flush.
Is he a slob, I wondered? A misophobe unable to touch the handles of public toilets?
I tried flushing the toilet. It was broken.
Nothing to do but urinate into Sarsgaard’s piss.
A rather intimate introduction.
I washed my hands—did Sarsgaard? I don’t know—and rejoined Viviane.
We made our way to the reception.
It was a small crowd, filled with famous faces. Campbell Scott, Alec Baldwin, Mary-Louise Parker, Craig Lucas, Patricia Clarkson and Joan Allen, all fending kind words from admiring cinema buffs.
“Are you going to say hello to the actor destined to play you in the biopic?” Viviane teased as we noshed and sipped vodka.
“I wonder,” I replied, my eyes watching Sarsgaard just over Viviane’s shoulder. Fans were telling him how much they enjoyed his movies. He was nodding and thanking them.
I supposed I could suffer him my own banal accolades. But that seemed such a waste of breath when I could be chatting with Viviane.
“Perhaps you could mention that you have a great movie script for him?” Viviane offered.
“Yeah, wonder if he’s ever heard that one. Anyway, I don’t have a movie script. I have a blog he hasn’t read—a blog that would be damned hard to envision as a movie.”
“Unless it was a porn film.”
“Or an arthouse sizzler!”
It was fun playing “my life: the movie” with Viviane as we ogled the celebrities. She had pulled a few strings to get us into this room, which was a very cool thing to do purely to feed a friend’s fixation on a movie star.
But it just goes to show you. If you are nice to people, they may just be nice back at you.
And that, in turn, may get you in a room with the actor who will one day play you.
“Oh, to heck with it,” I said. “I’m getting his autograph.”
“Really?”
“Sure, it’s dorky, but let’s do this.”
We borrowed a pen and found a program.
I walked a few steps to stand at Sarsgaard’s elbow as he chatted with an attractive blonde.
His eyes caught mine.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I smiled. “But may I bother your for an autograph?”
“Sure, no problem,” he nodded. I handed over my pen and paper.
“My name is Jefferson.” He wrote “To Jefferson,” and looked at me expectantly.
“Your name is Peter Sarsgaard. Two ‘a’s at the end.”
“Oh,” he grinned. “I know that. Anything special you want it to say?”
“Anything you like.”
“Check it out,” he said to his publicist as he wrote. “This is how I sign autographs now. I stole it from Patti Smith.”
He handed me the autograph.
I put my hand on his back and thanked him.
Viviane and I walked away casually. Then we laughed.
“Check it out!” I said, handing her the program.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
Peter Sarsgaard
Craig Lucas
The Dying Gaul
6 comments:
Nicely done Jefferson. And Shelby has great taste, Garden State is an awesome movie (and soundtrack). But honestly, Peter's voice kinda creeps me out!
I <3 the Garden State soundtrack. Introduced Jefferson to it back when it was still snowing outside. I used to listen to it on the trainride home from NYC.
Peter Sarsgaard is hot. Threesomes with him are most welcome. Hot.
'A Paean to a Gaul'. Sigh. He is better looking in person. Patricia Clarkson looks damn fine (she's older than you), and was gracious when I complimented her on her work.
That autograph was better than the goody bag!
It's true, we do get a cock shot in Kinsey.
It's . . . nice.
Maybe we can order up a prosthetic, as in "Boogie Nights?"
Will bisexuals become the new villains in cinema because they won't choose? We need groups to demonize, especially after "bi fems" have been so hot recently on the boob tube and silver screen.
This is precious. I miss you! I'll get in closer touch this week. No pun intended, really. Reeeally.
-D
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