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A literate look at the 50 most unforgettable breasts in movie history
She rises from the depths like the Venus of the San Fernando Valley—slicked hair glistening, water dripping from her smiling lipps, dark eyes glittering with libidinal mischief. Then—in a scene that will forever grant an otherwise incomprehensible erotic aura to the Cars—the new-wave chestnut "Moving in Stereo" kicks in as Phoebe Cates begins her slo-mo poolside strut. And boy, do they move in stereo, those pert, secondary sexual characteristics of teenage Phoebe Cates, as—in one breathtaking gesture—she frees her frisky buds from their front-fastening red bikini top to quiver in the balletic perfection of Judge Reinhold's furtive spank dream. The boob shot would soon become stock-in-trade of the Porky's epoch, but it would never be used to such weighty narrative effect. Here, hooters star in a compressed version of the male adolescent's tragic arc: from the soaring heights of erotic fantasia to the bleak depths of sexual humiliation, as the sleek naiad of Reinhold's imaginings actually walks in on him log-flogging to her image. The cable arts channel Bravo included this scene in its Sexiest Moments in Film—in which the model-pundit Roshumba Williams helpfully explained, "In the male world, boobs are huge."
I'd heard it was scary, so I went. It scared me, all right. Scarred me. Before, I'd believed outer space an antiseptic realm soundtracked by strauss. I quickly learned otherwise. Learned that space was cloyingly organic, infected and infectious, rapacious—and that to experience space was to experience not the infinite void but rather the claustrophobic horror of being caged with a sexual predator.
Indeed, Alien teemed, burst, with inner private parts that had no business seeing the light of day. Firstly: that loathsome leathery pod that grew translucent as John Hurt neared, revealing a jellied organ aquiver within. Moments later, thick black lips peeled back to expose—no doubt about it—a glistening, pulsating vagina. Then, in response to Hurt's whispered exclamation ("...organic life!"), that wicked wobbling vagina-squid sprung forth and...raped his face! Clasped its insectoidal legs to his scalp, noosed his neck with its muscled tentacle, and pumped a fleshly funnel down the man's throat, through which it...planted its seed.
Such a filthy movie: exploding retractable jaws; acidic body fluids; a severed droid head whose mouth issued lewd taunts ("perfect organism!") along with a strange milky effluent; a man who gave birth. That birth—is there a more violent, violating moment in filmdom? As Hurt bayed in pain, my dear, sweet, credulous brother, sitting beside me, began to whimper. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. When the spawn emerged from Hurt's chest, spraying gore and squealing triumphantly, he promptly pissed himself—then fled the theater.
They popped up near the end, after the last human standing—Sigourney Weaver's character, Ripley—had blown up the mother ship and escaped in the shuttle. Safe at last, she began to relax. Off came the clothes.
Now, Alien worked on the principle that what can't be seen is always more vivid than what can. (Glimpses of the creature were fleeting at best.) So it was that Ripley's breasts remained sheathed. Whereas the alien had its exoskeletal armor, Ripley had that skimpy white tank top, thin as cheesecloth, which only made her seem more human, more vulnerable. So palpably natural, those breasts, utterly unbuoyed and uninflated. They even seemed a bit forlorn—bewildered little patties blinking and withering in the harsh fluorescent light of the shuttle. The nipples, however, were another story; they'd gone as hard as ski-pole tips. It was both the earthliest and the sexiest image of a woman I had ever seen, and by way of contrast it created the film's most disorienting moment.
Presented with Ripley's tumescent womanhood, I began to let my guard down, to psychologically uncurl myself and to physically sit up straight in my seat, as it were. The movie was just setting me up, of course; the alien had stowed itself in the shuttle. As it came out of hiding, I got my first good look at its proboscis. Which was—gleamingly, drippingly, chitinously, blackly, hugely, undeniably—phallic. I took it as I was meant to take it, as a grotesque mockery of my own arousal. You don't get to have her—it does. Was I manufacturing sexual undertones? No. For as the beast nonchalantly began to stretch its limbs and slide its goo-slicked jaw in and out, in and out, what did Ripley say over and over? Lucky, lucky, lucky. That's right—the perfect organism was gonna get "lucky" with Ripley.
I was 12 years old then. I'd already learned to pair id with dread; I knew well the horror of others banging on the bathroom door as I...took my time. Yet I had never had—and never again would have—the third-rail force of my own sexual desire so vividly and soul-scarringly converted into fear.
Now, twenty-six years later, I only wish I'd pissed and run like my brother. I'd be just a little less fucked-up if I had.—Andrew Corsello
To me, the oddest instutition in Hollywood is the body double. I can understand if an actress, for various reasons, doesn't want to do nudity. But then why let someone else do it for her? If everyone thinks those are your tits, then in some sense they are your tits. I guess a body double simply saves an actress the embarrassment of being ogled by the key grip and the best boy all day. But what the big deal is about showing tits I don't know, unless they aren't such great tits. Which is, of course, a perfectly valid reason for modesty.
There is one brilliant reason not to show them, and that is to increase the value of showing them eventually. Halle Berry was rumored to have demanded a six-figure deal for baring nipple in Swordfish, though she denies it. But she was well paid for this box-office-stimulating flash. (I would also deny being paid a premium for nipple exposure. In fact, I do deny it.) Timing is everything, however. Meg Ryan never showed 'em, and then was counting on a surprise appearance of her mammies in In the Cut to uplift her sagging career. Alas, it was too little too late.
One of the best star breast moments in film was the brief but pleasant exposure of Linda Fiorentino's in The Moderns. As someone interested in the art world of the '20s, I just hate pseudo-cool movies like Alan Rudolph's wimpy rendering of the modernist movement, but I loved Linda Fiorentino as the modernist muse and sylphlike sybarite. The one genuinely modern thing in this film is Fiorentino's body. Her breasts are revealed when the crass collector, played by John Lone, performs the obeisance of shaving her armpits, then again when she tub-wrestles with the painter, played by Keith Carradine. She's not exactly androgynous, but streamlined. A woman after Matisse, built for running, not milking. Artemis, not Aphrodite. All in all, a pleasant relief from the glandular excesses of Hollywood and a tribute to the erotic sensibilities of those of us who were happily weaned.—Glenn O'Brien
Like so much transgression, it begins with cigarettes. Titta, Fellini's younger self—living in a tiny town in fascist-era Italy; adolescent, hormones geysering, his days spent in delinquency, yearning, and self-abuse—goes to the tobacconist to buy himself "una nazionale," just one. It is closing time, and he slips in under the iron gate. The proprietress, locking up for the night, is moving large sacks across the floor, and he offers to help. "You couldn't manage," she dismisses him; he is half her size, after all.
She is cartoonishly ample. In her pale blue cardigan, her bust is an unyielding shelf, jutting out in an improbable cantilever worthy of Frank Gehry. An undifferentiated wedge such as this could be known only as a bosom. Amarcord is above all a film of recollection (the title means "I remember" in Italian dialect). It makes sense that these jugs of memory would be outsize, hypertrophic ideals, although Maria Antonietta Beluzzi, the actress playing the part, is real enough.
Titta protests, saying he can lift eighty kilos, can even lift his father. "What do you weigh?" he asks. "I could lift you, too."
"Ah si?" she asks, bored. She takes off her apron, slams down the iron gate, and turns to him, sizing him up. Why not? she must be thinking. Everyone in town is looking for something to break up the monotony. "Vediamo," she dares him.
The transaction is hugely awkward and private. His arms barely make it around her fantastically broad, brown-tweed-clad ass. He lifts her three times in quick succession. He is almost undone by his efforts while her shrieks of laughter give way to a moaning, closed-eyed rapture. Her head brushes against the hanging lightbulb, and she doesn't care. Even when she is back on solid ground, her delirious floating fugue continues, still held aloft by the preconscious memory of weightlessness, nothing more than her birthright, being possessed of such a pair of balloons.
And what balloons they are! Overwhelmed, she unpacks her sweater, releasing only one.
"Drive me crazy, just a little," she tells him, pulling his mouth against the left nipple. He is a baby once again, the breast dwarfing his head. Its right twin manifests in a great, shuddering mitosis. He blows on it. "You have to suck, you idiot," she says, cajoling, still in the moment. She presses his face into the deep cleft between the watermelons. He cannot breathe.
It is over as suddenly as it began. She shoves him away roughly; the cardigan is restuffed. Warm biology becomes angora-clad architecture once more. She is all business now, closing up shop, reminding him of his initial purpose: a Nazionale. She hands him one for free. "Un regalo [a present]," she says, with no trace of affection in her voice. Best not to dwell on the size of the tiny baton. He takes it and walks to the iron gate. Spent, he cannot budge it. She lifts it effortlessly and pushes him out into the night.
Wish fulfillment can make all men briefly stupid, and still we chase after the chance to make idiots of ourselves. At that age, instinct would probably desert us, too, and we would also blow when faced with the heaving udders of La Tabaccaia—so confusingly, simultaneously liquid and solid. From rigid cardigan to flesh and back to cardigan once more. In science such a thing is known as a non-Newtonian liquid. Cornstarch and water, for example, will dribble freely over an open palm, but clench your fist and it seizes up into a firm handful. Relax again and back it flows. Fellini has another word for something that can switch states so rapidly, providing ever changing and equal measures of give and resistance, opprobrium and succor: Mommy.—David Rakoff
There's a rather grand school of thought—peddled, in the main, by former film stars in their sixties and seventies—that "it's far sexier to see less than more!" Tell this to a few 11-year-old boys and they will brutally laugh, if not actually beat you down. By the age of 11, I'd had my mind blown by dozens of _Playboy_s, but I had yet to behold the miracle of a celluloid mammary. That would come in Fred Zinnemann's The Day of the Jackal. The film follows an enigmatic assassin (Edward Fox) trying to kill Charles de Gaulle; there's an indiscreet cabinet official who natters away to his mistress (an agent of the assassins) about the progress of the Jackal manhunt.
While seeing the film, I was having as good a time as an 11-year-old ever has. Fox was ruthless and sophisticated; he wore cool disguises and strangled unsavory people. He drove an Alfa Romeo and painted it between murders. He hid a rifle in a crutch. So my plate was full. I hadn't counted on a mammary-related Big Moment—but I got one. In the scene, it was night. The mistress-mole was slipping furtively out of bed to make a call. This was something I'd seen before, movie characters using telephones. But then the unthinkable happened: The sheet dropped. It was impossible, and it was glorious. We saw areola, we saw—was this happening?—nipple. Then we saw it again. This is what the Lumière brothers, also French, should have filmed with that very first camera of theirs instead of the fucking train rolling into the station. (What could those guys have been thinking? A train. Look at the train, 11-year-old boy! Here comes the train. Jesus.)
I am fairly certain that women shed their clothes before 1973, though I can only judge this from easy-to-doctor still photographs. In Jackal, I was suddenly viewing solid film evidence that females were willing and able to walk around, even slink around, without clothes. Billions of electrical impulses exploded across the synapses of my brain. From that moment alone, I might easily have been doomed to a life of seedy clubs, hookers, and a grim, spiraling sexual addiction. That breast, that redhead's breast—it was right there, available to the deeply spiritual part of me that could float out of my body, as a pure soul departs the flesh, then screw her.
Actually, there's a decent chance this film did pervert me. I mean, the mistress was working to assassinate a world leader—and she was the light of my life. Let's face it: We were all rooting for the assassins, especially the naked one. It was like spotting the Olsen twins in the Zapruder film: Nothing good could come of it. Still, I'm grateful that my first cinematic breast didn't belong to a murdered girl on a slab or something, because you never know where that's going to lead.
All that said, if I could have, I gladly would have leapt into The Day of the Jackal and given my all for the de Gaulle conspiracy. That's how powerful, how atomic, the moment was. Anything to cross that last tactile frontier. My chance to murder de Gaulle has passed (which is sad, really—unlike others, I learned from Edward Fox's mistakes). And for all I know, the nude redheads of my cinematic youth are now a brood of 67-year-old screeching hags living in Dallas—women I'd beg to keep a fierce grip on the sheets, for all our sakes. I probably wouldn't chase down their breasts right now. I wouldn't get grabby. These days, I can get a better assassin-tit fix off Milla Jovovich.—Marshall Sella
A moment—not a scene, really, but a scene-stealer—that i'll always remember is in Carnal Knowledge. Jack Nicholson, the lucky bastard, is on a date with Ann-Margret. Nicholson plays a certified public accountant who also happens to be a certified pussy bandit, and Ann-Margret is...Ann-Margret. On the date, they do not even have precious little to talk about...they have absolutely nothing to talk about. But Jack's thoughts are our thoughts; his eyes are on the prize, just where ours are, too. As they wine and dine, he offers, just for the sake of some first-date gratuitous touching, to read Ann-Margret's palm.
A-M (I, like millions of others, had been deeply moved years before by her teenage titty-shaking work in Bye Bye Birdie) puts her arms together so that Jack can gain access to her hand. When she shifts, the Earth stops, because in doing so, she forms one of the most awe-inspiring, majestic, stupendous cleavages ever to bubble up on the silver screen. I will never forget it, because I was a teenager when I saw it. The movie had been out for a year already, and the theater was mostly empty. But when A-M formed that wonderful canyon ("Go ahead, jump in," it beckons, and the viewer is tempted, Sherlock Jr.-style, to make the attempt), a combination gasp-and-sigh rose in unison from every male in that theater, the sort of gasp you hear when O. J. Simpson or Robert Durst is acquitted, the sort of sigh you let out when a friend—but not you—wins $10 million in the lottery.
Carnal Knowledge, despite those few seconds, is not a cheery movie. If that were the only movie you ever saw that depicted the arc of a man's sexual life, you would think that we're all MCI and Enron. The depressing truths about love, marriage, and sex in the movie went way, way over my feverishly lusting,
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Boobs Scene
