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Movies | Doris Day: A Hip Sex Goddess Disguised as the Girl Next Door
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Doris Day: A Hip Sex Goddess Disguised as the Girl Next Door
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The Hollywood Reporter obituary for Doris Day describes her in the headline as “Hollywood’s Favorite Girl Next Door,” which is reasonable enough, if not terribly imaginative. Day, who was 97 when she died on Monday , broke through as a singer in the mid-1940s and crossed over into movie stardom in the next decade. She’s still often remembered as an avatar of the postwar, pre-counterculture pop culture mainstream: wholesome, friendly, sexless. Accordingly, the first adjective applied to her in that article’s summary is “virginal.”
That word evokes a leering one-liner attributed to the musician and wit Oscar Levant, who said he “knew Doris Day before she was a virgin.” Levant’s joke depends on a category mistake, confusing the persona of a star with her person (Day was married four times), even as it misses the joke tucked into the persona itself. The v-word applied to Day signals the acceptance of an alibi that was never meant to be believed in the first place, the literal-minded gloss on a text that was only there to beckon us toward the subtext.
The truth, hidden in plain sight in so many of her movies and musical performances, is that Doris Day was a sex goddess. That’s not a term we use much anymore (for good reason), and in its heyday it was generally applied to actresses who wielded their erotic energies more nakedly, so to speak.
Day wasn’t a glamorous blond enigma like Grace Kelly or Kim Novak — though she did, like both of them, work with Alfred Hitchcock. She was not a Hollywood bombshell in the manner of Marilyn Monroe (or Mamie Van Doren, with whom she competed for Clark Gable’s attention in the 1958 comedy “Teacher’s Pet”). And she certainly didn’t work in the same erogenous zone as European actresses like Brigitte Bardot and Sophia Loren, who promised sophisticated American moviegoers a glimpse of freedom from Puritanical inhibition, and sometimes also from clothes.
But it’s too easy to say that Day was simply the opposite — the prim, prudish, all-American avatar of Eisenhower-era repression, with her hair in a neat chignon and her figure sheathed in a soberly tailored suit. To see her that way is to take at face value an archetype that she did everything in her formidable power to subvert.
Really, though, the whole virgin thing doesn’t even rise to the level of archetype. It’s an artifact of a movie censorship system that was, in the years after the Kinsey Report , rapidly losing touch with the realities of American behavior, and with the rest of popular culture as well.
In the canonical romantic comedies she made with Rock Hudson — “Pillow Talk” and “Lover Come Back” two years later — Day, in her late 30s, played unmarried New York career women.
Jan Morrow in “Pillow Talk” is an interior designer with a thriving, if hectic, business. Her counterpart in “Lover Come Back,” Carol Templeton, is a high-ranking executive in a Manhattan advertising firm. They are (implicitly) virgins by fiat of the production code, but really it’s up to the audience to decide how credible it is that neither one has managed to sleep with anyone until Hudson shows up. (When Hudson and Day reunited for “Send Me No Flowers” in 1964, they were playing husband and wife, and it wasn’t as much fun.)
The simple, sexist premise of these movies — and also of “Teacher’s Pet,” in which Day’s uptight professor is seduced by Gable, her most unlikely student — is that Day needs a raffish he-man to come along and ruffle her feathers with his sheer masculine irresistibility, getting her into bed with the benefit of clergy. But that pursuit is played out by means of a plot that relishes its own ridiculousness. The color schemes and production designs in the Hudson-Day comedies pulsate with whimsy. The atmosphere is pure camp, of the zany rather than the melodramatic variety. Every line sounds like a double-entendre. Every encounter is full of implication and innuendo, every character a collection of mixed signals.
These movies are naughty beyond imagining, and as clean as a whistle. In “Pillow Talk” — in effect the first movie about the pleasures and consequences of phone sex — Hudson and Day take a bath together. It’s a split-screen shot, but still.
The plot of “Lover Come Back” turns on the mass marketing of a powerful, possibly hallucinogenic drug. Heterosexual courtship under the mandate of matrimony has rarely looked so kinky. We’re not even talking about what it means that Rock Hudson is the male lead. The ambiguity is ambient. The deniability is perfect, and perfectly preposterous.
Day is the key to it all, because her presence simultaneously upholds the pretense of virtuous normality and utterly transgresses it. She is a walking semiotic riot with a pert nose and a winning smile, keeper and scrambler of a whole book of social norms and cultural codes.
To see what I mean, consider a scene from “Pillow Talk” in which Jan takes Brad Allen (Hudson’s playboy classical-music composer) to a nightclub. It’s maybe daring for his square sensibilities, which is to say that the music is being performed by black people. (The clientele is all white.) It turns out that his date is familiar with the musicians, and the music. Midway through a song called “Roly Poly,” the pianist and singer (Perry Blackwell) invites Jan to take a verse — “come on Miss Morrow, you know this one” — and pretty soon Brad is clapping along. By the chorus, he and Jan are playing patty cake, and pretty soon the whole joint is singing about the satisfactions of a lover who is built for comfort rather than for speed.
It’s impossible not to interpret this number as a cringe-inducing spectacle of cultural appropriation, pushed to and past the point of parody. The sexual and racial undercurrents eddy and swirl under a surface of pure silliness. In old Hollywood movies, African-American music is a complicated signifier, not least for the white characters who appreciate it. In not-so-old movies, too. When, for example, Ryan Gosling takes Emma Stone to listen to jazz in “La La Land,” he is telling her, and us, something about the kind of guy he is. He’s claiming access to, and a share of, what the music represents. Passion. Authenticity. Sex, too, of course.
In 1959, one name for this transaction — which might look from one angle like a gesture of respect, from another like an act of brazen existential plunder — was “hip.” It was a noun as much as an adjective, and it was not a word that anyone would have thought to apply to Doris Day. Partly because she was too canny to take it seriously, notwithstanding her serious interest in African-American music.
In “Love Me or Leave Me,” a show-business biopic from 1955, she performs a version of Irving Berlin’s “Shaking the Blues Away,” wearing a low-cut bright-blue gown slit up to her thigh. The lyric’s absurd evocation of religious revivals “way down South” gives way to a stageful of male chorines in top hats and tails, as Day belts out a paean to dancing that is a rollicking celebration of … something else. She’s singing the language of rock ’n’ roll at the moment of rock ’n’ roll’s emergence, but what she’s doing is … something else. She’s messing with all our categories. Which was her great and underappreciated gift.

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2014 marks the 100th anniversary of the creation of Charlie Chaplin’s iconic Little Tramp. For the occasion, we hope you’ll enjoy this selection of photographs from the Chaplin archives featuring the famous Tramp costume.

Charlie Chaplin with a Tramp doll. © Roy Export Company Establishment. Scan courtesy Cineteca di Bologna.

Charlie Chaplin and Edna Purviance in The Vagabond (1916). From the archives of Roy Export Company Establishment. Scan courtesy Cineteca di Bologna.

Charlie and his brother, Sydney, on the set of The Immigrant (1917). From the archives of Roy Export Company Establishment. Scan courtesy Cineteca di Bologna.

Douglas Fairbanks, Harry Lauder, Charles Chaplin and Sydney Chaplin, 1918. © Roy Export Company Establishment. Scan courtesy Cineteca di Bologna.

Charles Chaplin and actress Mary Thurman in the Tramp costume. © Roy Export Company Establishment. Scan courtesy Cineteca di Bologna.

Still from The Idle Class (1921). © Roy Export S.A.S. Scan courtesy Cineteca di Bologna.

Paulette Goddard and Charlie Chaplin in Modern Times (1936). Copyright © Roy Export S.A.S. Scan Courtesy Cineteca di Bologna

Publicity still of Charlie Chaplin © Roy Export Company Establishment. Scan courtesy Musée de l’Elysée.

Charlie Chaplin in A Dog’s Life (1918) © Roy Export S.A.S. Scan courtesy Cineteca di Bologna.

Charlie Chaplin’s Tramp Costume. © Roy Export Company Establishment. Scan courtesy Cineteca di Bologna.
You can also check out our previous photo archive posts:
February 28th, 2013: A selection of Chaplin photographs
March 29th, 2013: From the Chaplin archives
June 25th, 2013: Photos: Chaplin and Animals
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'I was passed around like sex toy at 13 by paedophiles who said I was too old for them'
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WARNING: DISTRESSING CONTENT Samantha Owen's childhood dreams were shattered when aged just 13, she was brought to houses full of predatory paedophiles by her 'best friend' Amanda Spencer
As a child, Samantha Owens would dream of being a vet to 'fix broken animals' while brushing her My Little Pony's rainbow mane.
But her childhood dreams were shattered when aged just 13, she was pushed into prostitution - and dumped in strange houses with predatory paedophiles - by her 'best friend' Amanda Spencer.
For three years, she was systematically raped, often multiple times a day, by much older men at 'parties' in Sheffield.
Amanda plied her with alcohol and drugs while keeping the money paedophiles paid to abuse Samantha.
At just 13, Samantha had not yet reached puberty when she was raped for the first time.
But despite her child's body, she remembers men telling her she was 'too old' for them.
One man viciously raped her after she told him that she was just 11-year-old.  
She was so small and undeveloped that she was ripped open by the repeated rapes, often left screaming in pain afterwards, yet the horrifying abuse contiued.  
In her new book Pimped , which lifts the lid on an infamous sex ring in Sheffield, Samantha remembers: "With my head down I was led into the bedroom by my wrist, only daring to glance up through my hair once the door was closed.
"I winced as he lay on top of me, his weight crushing my chest, but I didn’t dare tell him.
"How could I? I knew by now there was no use fighting it. My scrawny frame would be no match for the various older men who were skulking around the house.
"Instead I lay in silence as he tugged at my knickers. His stubbly beard was rough and itchy against my face and I noticed he had a hole in one of his bottom teeth. He was disgusting and I shivered as he writhed around on top of me, goosebumps crawling up my arms.
"The drunken haze I was in helped my mind to drift and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the nightmare to be over.
"Finally on my own, I curled myself into a ball. I could hear footsteps outside the bedroom door, laughter echoing around the house. I flinched, praying they wouldn’t come in.
"I was just a child and I had no idea where I was, having been directed to the godforsaken place hours earlier. "
Samantha said that she went on jobs for Amanda almost every day but would only be given £20-£80 each time while Amanda pocketed the rest.
She remembers how Amanda, who was two years older than her, once said: "‘You’re so young, Sammy, and the younger you are, the more money you get.’"
"I had thought about what it would be like to lose my virginity, imagining it on a beach somewhere, with candles and roses. It was childish but, at thirteen years old, I held onto that fantasy," she said.
But instead, she was brought in an alcoholic haze to a house full of strange, much older men, where she was abandoned by Amanda and her horror began.
Samantha said that many of the men she met were paedophiles, and she remembers how one man "grabbed at the flat skin on my chest and I think he liked the fact that I didn’t have breasts.
"‘How old are you?’ one guy asked me. He had pinned me down on the bedroom floor of a random house Amanda had sent me to.
"‘Sixteen,’ I muttered. His ugly face was inches away from mine and I squirmed, trying to look anywhere but directly at him.
"‘Liar,’ he sneered, smiling and grabbing at the cup of my bra. I still had no breasts to fill it but Amanda had given it to me to wear. ‘I know you’re not sixteen.’
"‘Right,’ I admitted without looking at him. ‘I’m thirteen.’ I didn’t know what difference it would make knowing my real age but the man still wasn’t satisfied with my answer and he grabbed me by the shoulders.
"‘No you’re not,’ he protested. ‘You’re younger.’ I turned to stare back at him.
"‘I’m eleven,’ I lied, and his evil grin made me feel sick. I knew he thrived off the idea of me being young. Paedophile, I thought to myself, as he raped me.
"I was so small that he tore me and I lay with my eyes squeezed shut as the excruciating pain coursed through me."
Samantha remembers another man hitting her in the face face and making her call him 'Daddy' while he raped her.
She said that many men were rough, with one repeatedly punching the floor by her head as he raped her.
She said: "As he raped me, he punched the floor next to my head. His fist was so close that I could feel his knuckles graze my ear as they smacked the floor with a thud.
"Scared, I lay frozen, terrified to move in case he hurt me. He thumped the floor over and over again, and each time I winced as his hand moved closer.
"My crotch tore and I knew I would be in agony for days. Afterwards I curled up alone on the laminate floor, dabbing the tears from the corners of my eyes.
"All of the days were starting to blur into one. I was sore all of the time, so I got as drunk as I could to mask the pain.
"I’d get so intoxicated that it wouldn’t be until the next morning that the pain would hit me like a ton of bricks and I’d writhe in agony, wondering what had happened to me the night before.
"A lot of the time I was too drunk to remember what was happening but there were some nights I wished I could forget.
"For three years my supposed best friend took me to places around Sheffield to be abused.
"I was passed from house to house like a toy and, with nowhere else to turn, I came to expect the treatment I received."
And although Samantha said that Amanda never physically forced her to have sex, she manipulated her emotionally, calling her 'sister' and making the vulnerable, lonely child feel like she was part of her 'tribe.'
This control was so absolute that Samantha remembers once, while she was at a house with Amanda: "out of nowhere, this guy grabbed me and forced me onto the floor. I lay still as he raped me on the floorboards, thinking over and over again how proud Amanda would be of me."
Samantha later realised that Amanda was her pimp, not her friend. And while jailed for stealing baby clothes, she met another of Amanda's victims - and vowed to get justice for them all.
Police built up a case and Amanda, now 26, was jailed for 12 years in 2014, having been found guilty of 14 counts of arranging or facilitating child prostitution, and two counts of causing or inciting child prostitution.
In April 2017, Spencer was served an additional sentence of three years for four counts of arranging or facilitating child prostitution between 2005 and 2012.
Four men, Taleb Bapir, and three brothers Christopher, 23, Matthew, 25, and Shane Whiteley, 30, all of Hackenthorpe, were also jailed for their roles in the sex ring.
But Samantha, now 25 and a mum-of-two, pulled through, and wants to use her experiences to help other people who have been groomed know that they are not alone.
She lives with her partner and their two little boys, who she is hugely protective of.
“I just hope I don’t have a daughter as I really don’t want a girl,” Samantha told Sun Online .
“I know men and boys get abused but I’d be absolutely terrified. I would never let her out of the house.”
Pimped by Samantha Owens is published by John Blake, click here to buy a copy .
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