Mixed signals.
Received the April issue of Vanity Fair (No. 548) in the mail three days ago, and I read -- against my better judgment -- the ballyhooed cover story-cum-interview with actress, new author (her book Burnt Toast: And Other Philosophies of Life is due out in May) and, judging by her recent talk show appearances, professional ditz, Teri Hatcher; Ms. Hatcher first rose to fame as one of the title characters in the TV dramedy Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, and is currently enjoying a mid-career revival as one of the titular (emphasis on "tit;" *rim shot*) characters in Desperate Housewives.
Ms. Hatcher already made a splash in VF nearly a year ago, thanks to a kerfuffle over the ensemble cover shoot supposedly caused by her publicist ("Teri Hatcher is not in the middle!"), and here she is again, causing an even bigger stir for much more serious reasons: she reveals, apparently without forethought, that she was sexually molested by an uncle (who was the husband of one of her mother's sisters) when she was a girl.
It took her reading of a teenaged girl's suicide in her hometown, and of her former uncle (her aunt had divorced him some years ago) being prosecuted in connection with the girl's death, to prompt Ms. Hatcher to break her silence of over thirty years and approach the police and district attorney, testify as a "silent witness," thereby enabling her now geriatric molester to at last be convicted and sent to prison.
Apparently it was this -- as well as a particularly bad case of being on the wrong end of a "hump 'n' dump" -- that led to Ms. Hatcher telling her story to her interviewer, Leslie Bennetts; Ms. Hatcher expressed the hope that by sharing her story, she might serve as a positive example for other victims of child sexual abuse: a case-in-point that life does not have to end with one's abuse, that one does not have to define one's self solely as a victim.
All very commendable. I have, however, just one minor quibble:
What the bloody HELL was she thinking when she allowed herself to be photographed in such suggestive/provocative poses in the same edition of the magazine in which she graphically discusses being molested as a child?!?
Oh, sure, the editors of VF should be flogged 'round Rockefeller Center with several yards of soggy udon; but Teri Hatcher is the one I'm really concerned about. Didn't she even once wonder if she ought to be pictured in an open shirt and panties (with a double-diamond navel hanger, no less), or reclining in an open blouse, breeches and riding boots, casually holding what appears to be a bamboo cane, to illustrate the story in which she relates her forcibly precocious knowledge of the adult human male's sexual response?
Obviously, Ms. Hatcher's Svengaliesque publicist aside (whom she blames for the VF/Desperate Housewives photoshoot contretemps, which inspired a Saturday Night Live skit last season), she didn't. But she should've. She really, really should've.
'Cause, Teri? You gettin' all dishabille and décolleté (with riding boots and a cane, oh my...) while pouring your heart out about a horrific childhood trauma? It illustrates not only the perniciousness of childhood sexual abuse itself but why it's apparently so goddamned fascinating to the American media: it's abuse, sure, but it's also sex, or can lead to same, which is almost as good; as witness your declaration near the end of the interview, ""Now I want sex: trusting, deep, fabulous, open -- did I say trusting? -- wild, crazy sex, with the same person, over and over. Without a marriage license!"" (Vanity Fair, April 2006; p. 244)
Ms. Hatcher, you certainly shouldn't wear sackcloth and ashes; but it might've been nice -- appropriate -- if you didn't garb (or nearly so) yourself in a variety of fetish costumes and "make love to the camera." At least for this issue of this particular magazine.
'Cause, Teri? You've revealed more than your inspiring story of how you've overcome adversity and finally helped mete out justice to your molester; you've also shown us your Freudian slip. Oooh, big time.
Ms. Hatcher already made a splash in VF nearly a year ago, thanks to a kerfuffle over the ensemble cover shoot supposedly caused by her publicist ("Teri Hatcher is not in the middle!"), and here she is again, causing an even bigger stir for much more serious reasons: she reveals, apparently without forethought, that she was sexually molested by an uncle (who was the husband of one of her mother's sisters) when she was a girl.
It took her reading of a teenaged girl's suicide in her hometown, and of her former uncle (her aunt had divorced him some years ago) being prosecuted in connection with the girl's death, to prompt Ms. Hatcher to break her silence of over thirty years and approach the police and district attorney, testify as a "silent witness," thereby enabling her now geriatric molester to at last be convicted and sent to prison.
Apparently it was this -- as well as a particularly bad case of being on the wrong end of a "hump 'n' dump" -- that led to Ms. Hatcher telling her story to her interviewer, Leslie Bennetts; Ms. Hatcher expressed the hope that by sharing her story, she might serve as a positive example for other victims of child sexual abuse: a case-in-point that life does not have to end with one's abuse, that one does not have to define one's self solely as a victim.
All very commendable. I have, however, just one minor quibble:
What the bloody HELL was she thinking when she allowed herself to be photographed in such suggestive/provocative poses in the same edition of the magazine in which she graphically discusses being molested as a child?!?
Oh, sure, the editors of VF should be flogged 'round Rockefeller Center with several yards of soggy udon; but Teri Hatcher is the one I'm really concerned about. Didn't she even once wonder if she ought to be pictured in an open shirt and panties (with a double-diamond navel hanger, no less), or reclining in an open blouse, breeches and riding boots, casually holding what appears to be a bamboo cane, to illustrate the story in which she relates her forcibly precocious knowledge of the adult human male's sexual response?
Obviously, Ms. Hatcher's Svengaliesque publicist aside (whom she blames for the VF/Desperate Housewives photoshoot contretemps, which inspired a Saturday Night Live skit last season), she didn't. But she should've. She really, really should've.
'Cause, Teri? You gettin' all dishabille and décolleté (with riding boots and a cane, oh my...) while pouring your heart out about a horrific childhood trauma? It illustrates not only the perniciousness of childhood sexual abuse itself but why it's apparently so goddamned fascinating to the American media: it's abuse, sure, but it's also sex, or can lead to same, which is almost as good; as witness your declaration near the end of the interview, ""Now I want sex: trusting, deep, fabulous, open -- did I say trusting? -- wild, crazy sex, with the same person, over and over. Without a marriage license!"" (Vanity Fair, April 2006; p. 244)
Ms. Hatcher, you certainly shouldn't wear sackcloth and ashes; but it might've been nice -- appropriate -- if you didn't garb (or nearly so) yourself in a variety of fetish costumes and "make love to the camera." At least for this issue of this particular magazine.
'Cause, Teri? You've revealed more than your inspiring story of how you've overcome adversity and finally helped mete out justice to your molester; you've also shown us your Freudian slip. Oooh, big time.