I’m watching this on TCM right now. 1963, right on the closing edge of the code, and the way it rides the rail dividing the immediate past and the immediate future is INSANE. Jane Fonda plays a suburban girl––twenty-something, smart, dryly quippy, dishy but naive––who takes the train into Manhattan on a Sunday afternoon with the apparent goal of losing her virginity before she leaves. She picks up obvious cad Cliff Robertson and, when a sudden rainstorm sends them running from Central Park, they repair to her airline pilot brother’s split-level bachelor pad. Jane promptly slips into something a little more comfortable, plies Cliff with multiple drinks, and all but tugs his collar until he’s flattened her on the couch. Then there’s an elipsis, and when we come back, our young lovers are in bathrobes, and pissed. After about ten minutes of quadruple-entendre laden conversation that couls have been ripped from a script from thirty years before, we finally get the hint: she told him she was a virgin, like a second before penetration, and he wouldn’t go through with it. Ten minutes later, Cliff is pretending to be her brother in order to cement Jane’s engagement to an obviously-drippy Albany suitor. Drippy suitor “doesn’t drink,” and much is made of how this makes him even drippier. There’s 50 minutes left to go, but it’s clear what’s going to happen: Jane’s gonna lose the drip and stay in New York to be with Cliff. Moral of the story: drinky sluts find domesticity together—thereby nuetralizing the threat of two drinky sluts roaming around the city seperately. The “racy” 60s antics have just enough room to mildly titilate, but in the end, the morals get laid on thick, and no one goes home unmarried. This is having the Code and eating it too, and it’s why the 70s had to happen. 

I’m watching this on TCM right now. 1963, right on the closing edge of the code, and the way it rides the rail dividing the immediate past and the immediate future is INSANE.

Jane Fonda plays a suburban girl––twenty-something, smart, dryly quippy, dishy but naive––who takes the train into Manhattan on a Sunday afternoon with the apparent goal of losing her virginity before she leaves. She picks up obvious cad Cliff Robertson and, when a sudden rainstorm sends them running from Central Park, they repair to her airline pilot brother’s split-level bachelor pad. Jane promptly slips into something a little more comfortable, plies Cliff with multiple drinks, and all but tugs his collar until he’s flattened her on the couch. Then there’s an elipsis, and when we come back, our young lovers are in bathrobes, and pissed. After about ten minutes of quadruple-entendre laden conversation that couls have been ripped from a script from thirty years before, we finally get the hint: she told him she was a virgin, like a second before penetration, and he wouldn’t go through with it.

Ten minutes later, Cliff is pretending to be her brother in order to cement Jane’s engagement to an obviously-drippy Albany suitor. Drippy suitor “doesn’t drink,” and much is made of how this makes him even drippier. There’s 50 minutes left to go, but it’s clear what’s going to happen: Jane’s gonna lose the drip and stay in New York to be with Cliff. Moral of the story: drinky sluts find domesticity together—thereby nuetralizing the threat of two drinky sluts roaming around the city seperately. The “racy” 60s antics have just enough room to mildly titilate, but in the end, the morals get laid on thick, and no one goes home unmarried.

This is having the Code and eating it too, and it’s why the 70s had to happen.