The Slings of Desire

For centuries philosophers from Ptahhotep to, well, Beck have provided us with myriad opinions on the wistful, wishful and sometimes painful state of desire. Not all of them have agreed. For example, do we subscribe to George Bernard Shaw's theory that "there are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart's desire. The other is to gain it"? Or would we prefer to go along with poet William Blake's belief that "he who desires but acts not breeds pestilence"?

To get a more contemporary overview, we've turned to Jamie Lee Curtis and John Cleese, who succumbed hilariously to desire in the popular 1988 film A Fish Called Wanda, and who have just reunited cinematically (along with Wanda cohorts Kevin Kline and Michael Palin) for the new comedy Fierce Creatures. We asked journalist Dick Lochte to sound them out on the pros and cons of the passionate subject.

Playboy: What's the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word desire?

Curtis: Thick hair.

Cleese: Anywhere in particular?

Curtis: How typical of you, John. You know, a lustrous, thick mane, a desired commodity for me because I have thin, wispy, baby-fine hair,

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Cleese: Not as fine as mine.

Curtis: No, and I have a lot more of it.

Cleese: Last time I told my daughter I was going to the barber, she said, "Daddy, is it really worth it?" What she does not realize is that I am not bald at all. I have, in fact, a great deal of hair, but it's too fine for most people to see. You might call it a fine head of hair.

Playboy: What gets your vote as the strongest desire? Is it hunger? Thirst? Passion?

Curtis: Well, for me it would be sleep. I'm completely exhausted; my son hasn't been sleeping.

Cleese: Poor pussycat.

Curtis: It's a difficult time, but we will weather it.

Cleese: And if not, you can always kill yourself.

Curtis: I suppose that's an option.

Cleese: It's the best part about believing in reincarnation. It cheers me up to realize that if I find things too disappointing, I can just top myself and start again. "I'm fed up with this life, so I'll have another one, please."

Curtis: If my husband walked in with the keys to a new car, the most delicious food and a beautiful bottle of red wine on a tray, a stunning outfit hanging on his arm and an alarm clock, I would choose the alarm clock. I would say, "Thanks, Chris," and set it for about eight hours from now and go to sleep. That's my desire.

Cleese: Actually, the desire for sleep has been badly undervalued--almost ignored--throughout the history of Western philosophy. Sleep is quite wonderful in and of itself. This is, as Jefferson would have put it, self-evident. The great thing about sleep is that you just lie down and go to it. If you're awake, you have to think, What should I do now? This explains the point of death. Hasn't it ever struck you that most of the best people are dead? There must be something to it. And it's this: You don't have to make any more decisions. Or do any more annoying interviews.

Playboy: OK, after sleep, what's next on the desire chart?

Curtis: Breakfast.

Playboy: Breakfast?

Curtis: Right. When you wake up.

Cleese: My favorite meal, breakfast!

Curtis: This is the explanation for our friendship. I mean, John and I have nothing else in common. He's this arthritic, bald, elderly Englishman who happens to be very boring. And I'm this youthful, vibrant, vital, terribly modest California supermom. But we have one common link--we're both breakfast freaks.

Playboy: Does this mean you've had breakfast together?

Cleese: Yes. But only at lunchtime.

Playboy: Why didn't you have lunch?

Curtis: Because we prefer breakfast, you dolt.

Playboy: Do you have breakfast at dinnertime, too?

Curtis: Only if I'm hungry. I have been a proponent of breakfast for years. Cereals are my favorite foods.

Playboy: Any specific kind?

Curtis: I go all over the map. Apple Jacks and shredded wheat and Cheerios and Rice Chex and Kix and Golden Grahams and frosted flakes and Corn Pops and----

Playboy: Froot Loops?

Curtis: No. No Froot Loops. One has to draw the line somewhere. But Wheaties and, of course, Rice Krispies, Quaker Oats, raisin bran and cornflakes. Breakfast food is truly my comfort food. If there were nobody around to see me, it's basically all I would eat for the rest of my life. And muesli. Mustn't forget muesli.

Cleese: Ah, yes. muesli. A heaping spoonful of muesli on top of a nice raw pork chop--that is my ideal breakfast.

Curtis: When you die, John, I'll sprinkle muesli over your grave. And maybe even throw in a pork chop.

Cleese: What more could one ask? God, I love breakfast. I'll give you my top 13 breakfasts. First, obviously, chop de pore, cru, à la muesli. Second, chop de pore, very rare, à la muesli. Third, chop de pore, well done, à la muesli. Four, muesli and ham. Five, muesli and bacon. Six, muesli with anything else derived from pigs. Seven, muesli plain. Eight, ham--plain--and eggs. Nine, bacon--plain--and eggs. Ten, trotters and eggs.

Eleven would be any other combination derived from pigs and hens. Like kidneys and wattles. Or spleens and beaks. Or snouts and claws.

Twelve: cornflakes.

And, finally, lucky 13: battered badgers' brains. It's very English. Incidentally, it's not the brains that are battered. It's the badgers. That's how you get their brains. They obviously aren't just going to hand them over. They're quite fond of them even though they hardly use them.

Playboy: What about muesli and eggs?

Cleese: Don't be silly. They don't go together at all.

Playboy: Speaking of things going together, what about sex and desire? Can you have one without the other?

Cleese: Ah, you see, Jamie, I was right.

Curtis: Absolutely.

Playboy: Right about what?

Curtis: John warned me that if we did an interview with Playboy about desire, sooner or later the question of sex would arrive. He's very intuitive.

Playboy: OK. So the sex card has been played. Any thoughts on sexual desire?

Curtis: Sure. But you have to understand that I've been married a long time. Happily married, I might add. So my idea of sexual desire is very different from when I was single. There's an element of fidelity that is pretty important.

Cleese: I, too, am happily married. And have been many, many times.

Playboy: And fidelity?

Cleese: It's very important. I'm sure of it.

Playboy: Why?

Cleese: Because I once got a fortune cookie that read: "Fidelity is very important." It was this kind of blinding flash. I guess it was my particular road from Damascus. Or road to Damascus. Or road in Damascus. It was definitely Syrian in feeling. Ever since then fidelity has been very important to me. As simple as that. But I am prepared to talk about my sexual proclivities in my early years. And during the intervals between my many marriages.

Playboy: How many marriages have there been, exactly?

Cleese: I forget. My secretary probably knows. Otherwise, if it's important, I suppose I could go back through my diaries. Every wife was an American. I do remember that. Good on energy, bad on geography. Not one of them could read a map. No spatial sense whatsoever. But I digress.

Playboy: We were actually getting to the subject of sex and----

Cleese: I'll tell you an odd thing about sex. Because of it, you discover that you're two different people. There you are, feeling almost uncontrollably--what do Americans say? Libidinous? Concupiscent? Cupidinous?

Playboy: Horny?

Cleese: Yes. But that's a bit on the nose, isn't it? Anything a touch more lyrical?

Curtis: Frisky.

Cleese: Frisky. Good. So there you are with a female friend, feeling almost unbearably frisky. With a strong intuition that if you don't frisk soon, you may explode. And an hour later you're lying there, wondering why it had seemed so important at the time, thinking, I may never need to do that again. And then a few hours pass, and you're back to being the first person again, thinking, All I need to do to achieve the purpose of my existence is to frisk one more time. Immediately. Right now.

So you're these two completely different beings. Different raisons d'être. Different value systems. Different metabolisms. Occupying the same skin. And each one of you is unaware of the other's existence. Which makes planning your life rather difficult.

Playboy: It was simpler before puberty.

Curtis: But not as much fun.

Playboy: Still, there are desires or passions from youth that carry over into adulthood.

Curtis: Like what?

Playboy: Like Citizen Kane's fondness for Rosebud, his boyhood sled.

Curtis: Well, when I was about six, I had this little dildo. A Lost in Space dildo. Now, whenever I see June Lockhart or hear somebody say, "Danger, Will Robinson, danger," it takes me back to that time. I found it in J.J. Newberry's, in the dildo section.

Cleese: There is a very fine dildo department in Harrods. It takes up over half a floor, but, still, you have to know where to look.

Playboy: What about you, John? Any youthful passions?

Cleese: I grew up in Weston-super-Mare, a seaside resort. Actually, a seaside last resort. And there was no sex there. None at all. There was a field hockey festival at Easter, but that was as far as body contact went. The births were all by parthenogenesis, which is why I found much of the New Testament so credible.

Curtis: What did you do for excitement?

Cleese: I played snooker a lot.

Curtis: I beg your pardon.

Cleese: Snooker. It's like pool, only it requires a degree of accuracy.

Curtis: I know what snooker is, John. I thought you were using it as a code word for something seamy.

Cleese: There was nothing you'd call seamy at Weston-super-Mare. But I did get really excited once a year.

Curtis: I can't wait to hear about this.

Cleese: Actually, I'm talking about Christmas. Do you remember how hard it was to fall asleep on Christmas Eve and how you'd wake up extremely early for no other reason than the insatiable desire to be given things? This is because children are into materialism in a way that makes yuppies seem monkish.

Curtis: It's so in the genes, it's a wonder any of us grow out of it, even a little.

Cleese: Is there anything now, Jamie, that would make you really excited materialistically?

curtis: No. Actually, it's the lack of materialism that makes me happy. I desire a divesting of stuff. The less I've got, the happier I am.

Cleese: I feel the same way, but I thought that was something that came with middle age--when you begin to look at all these things you've surrounded yourself with and find that most of them are clutter. You're much too young for that.

Curtis: It was the last big earthquake that did it for me. We were hit pretty hard and so many things that I'd been hanging on to were damaged. It was surprising how quickly I realized I didn't need or want any of them anymore.

Cleese: I used to desire many, many things, but now I have just one desire, and that's to get rid of all my other desires. Still, I suppose you always want what you haven't got. But at least it's a kind of simplification.

Curtis: I think if you were unattached and unencumbered by material things, the strongest desire would be passion.

Cleese: Sexual passion?

Curtis: Yes. If you could boil it down, get rid of materialism, especially if you were on your own in the world, what you'd look for would be a sexual connection with someone.

Cleese: I don't agree.

Curtis: At your age, you wouldn't.

Cleese: Do you know the talking frog joke? A middle-aged man is walking down the street, and he sees a little frog. The frog looks up at him and says, "Hi. Pick me up and kiss me. I will turn into a beautiful blonde woman and we will make love all night."

The man picks up the frog and puts it in his pocket. The frog complains, "Hey, you didn't kiss me."

"No," the man says.

"Don't you want me to turn into a blonde and have a passionate night?"

And the man says, "No. At my age, I'd rather have a talking frog."

Curtis: OK, that's your desire joke. Here's mine: A guy walks into a bar and he sees a man and a dog, and the dog is telling his owner he'd like today's newspaper. The guy is stunned. He sits down next to them and says, "Wow, is that a talking dog?"

The owner nods.

"That's incredible. I've never seen a talking dog before."

"Well, now you have," the owner says.

"But it's so fantastic."

"Get over it," the owner says. "It's a talking dog. Look, I've got to go to the rest room. Do me a favor and watch him for me."

The guy says, "Sure." And as soon as the owner is gone, he asks the dog to speak.

The dog stares at him and says, "Got a buck for a newspaper?"

The guy looks in his wallet. "All I've got is a five."

"I'll bring you change." The dog bites the five dollar bill and heads out of the bar with it.

The owner comes out of the bathroom, looks around and asks, "Where's my dog?"

"He went out to get a paper."

"He what? You let my one-of-a-kind-in-the-whole-world talking dog walk out of here by himself? Anything could happen to him. He could get hit by a car. Anything."

The owner runs out of the bar and the guy follows. They look up and down the street, but they don't see the dog anywhere. Then they hear this noise and go down an alley. There at the end of the alley is the talking dog, fucking like a----I was going to say like a dog.

The owner runs up to the dog and screams at it, "What the heck are you doing?"

And the dog answers, "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I've had you ten years, and you've never done anything like this before."

And the dog says, "Yeah, but I never had any money before."

Playboy: With all due respect to the way the talking dog handled his passion, what do you do when you feel a strong desire for someone?

cleese: I think there are a lot of things to consider before pressing ahead. First, you have to think: If I consummate this desire, will I acquire a disease that will kill me? Second, if I don't actually die, will I nevertheless acquire a disease that will incapacitate me for the rest of my life? Third, if I consummate this, will I fall in love with the person? Fourth, will they fall in love with me? And fifth, if you live in Britain, will they sell the story to the papers?

Curtis: Sixth, will they buy dinner?

Cleese: Yes, I forgot that. So if you meet, say, 4 million women, this process winnows them down to about five. Then you ask the big question: How easy is it going to be to get my wife to go along with this? Will she say, "Fine, darling, 'cause I do have a busy evening. So you just go ahead, and don't worry about coming in late." Or will she get a bit miffed and beady-eyed? Anything to add, Jamie?

Curtis: Add to what? I'm sorry, I wasn't listening. I was thinking about breakfast.

Playboy: We were discussing being consumed by an overwhelming passion for someone.

Curtis: Someone other than my husband? Forget it.

cleese: Overwhelming passion. Well, if it were truly overwhelming, I suppose the only honorable thing to do would be to have your spouse killed, so that you'd be free of moral obligation.

Playboy: A bit extreme.

Cleese: It's sort of lateral thinking.

Playboy: Let's suppose you opted for a less lethal approach. How would you get rid of the desire?

Curtis: Well, there's a 12-step program for sexaholics. Why not one for desireaholics? One of the steps could be the watching of a truly awful movie, over and over again. Maybe Showgirls. Make the poor desireaholic watch Showgirls four or five times.

Cleese: Once might do it.

Curtis: It would probably extinguish any desire you've ever had or ever will have.

Playboy: If that didn't work, one could always try dancing the macarena.

Curtis: Or listening to political speeches.

Cleese: Or looking at stereopticon slides of skin diseases.

Curtis: Or watching the Russian female weight-lifting team work out.

Cleese: I'd have to think about that one.

Playboy: To return to an earlier question: What about the relationship of sex to desire? Can you, for example, have sex without desire?

Cleese: I thought that's what marriage was.

Curtis: That's nice, John. Your wife will read that, and she's going to hate you.

Cleese: It's OK. My wife can't read. She's from Oklahoma, you see. Though she tells people she's from Texas.

Curtis: Why?

Cleese: Because if you're from Oklahoma, you think it's sophisticated to be from Texas.

Curtis: Well, to get back on track, of course you can have sex without desire. I imagine that hookers do it all the time. I doubt they're in ecstasy with every grunting, sweating pig who buys their time. I can't imagine they somehow find these heaving, hairy, smelly, disgusting men enjoyable.

Cleese: Could you be just a bit more graphic for us, dear?

Curtis: I could, but I need not.

Playboy: Samuel Coleridge wrote that "the desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man." Any thoughts?

Cleese: I'm not sure that the desire of the man is for the woman. Often, I suspect, the desire of the man is for his friends to know that he's had the woman. As for the woman's desire being for the desire of the man, that makes a lot of sense to me because I think women treasure stable relationships more than men do. Therefore, if a woman knows she arouses the desire of a man, that is a promise of stability.

Playboy: Do men and women react differently to the fulfillment of desire?

Cleese: My God, yes. Don't men always go to sleep----?

Curtis: And women get on the phone.

Cleese: In my experience, women are more energetic than that. You're lying on the bed, poleaxed, and they're up there putting new slates on the roof. It's extraordinary. This is part of my theory, which is that men only pretend to want sex because immediately after we can go to sleep.

Curtis: I love the image of the man waking up in this kind of sweaty heap in the wet spot and the woman, wearing a tool belt and humming Put on a Happy Face, pounding away at tiles on the roof. And there's no food left in the house. She's eaten everything.

Cleese: To give her energy for the roof. I have a question, Jamie. What qualities do women desire in men? Money and power?

Curtis: Oh, fuck off. Hairlessness. That's what we look for. Hairlessness and good breath.

Cleese: Hairlessness? Does invisible hair count?

Curtis: No, no. Not on the head. On the body. We like a nice, smooth body, that kind of lovely 17-year-old body. Not particularly muscular, just sort of smooth, hairless and delicious. And nice breath.

Playboy: What do you look for in a woman, John?

Cleese: I like long-waisted women with pointy noses and short top lips. Who are punctual. And who can read maps. Who know where Nigeria is.

Curtis: And who have great tits.

Cleese: That's one thing--two things, actually--I can't stand in a woman. Call me old-fashioned if you like, but great, beautiful, exquisite, firm, succulent breasts--where was I? Oh, yes, great breasts--are a big turnoff for me.

Playboy: Which is more preferable: to desire or to be desired?

Curtis: Being desired doesn't feel like anything. That's the biggest misconception people have about actors--that you get this wonderful feeling because a lot of people fancy you. It's a real nothing.

Cleese: On the other hand, Jamie, given that it's a nothing, it might still be preferable to desiring someone.

Curtis: Being desired is simply too passive.

Cleese: I disagree. I would much rather be desired. Although it's not an experience I've ever had.

Curtis: I was about to say----

Cleese: But I'm entirely sure if I ever were desired, it would make no demands on my time. Whereas, if you desired someone, you'd probably have to start rearranging your day.

Curtis: But isn't that the whole point of desire?

Cleese: Exactly.

Playboy: What about passion?

Cleese: Passion, like desire, stands in the way of getting on with your life. I think that's why a lot of people have these turbulent relationships where they're scrabbling and making up and having great sex and then fighting a lot and then making up. And having great sex----

Curtis: The way you describe it, John, it sounds really fun.

Cleese: I knew it would appeal to you, Jamie.

Curtis: Not the reality, just the way you describe it. It sounds like a really great way to spend your life.

Cleese: If you haven't got anything better to do. That's the point. People like that haven't. Otherwise they might just have to sit down and read a book or make a fretwork model of St. Patrick's Cathedral or something. But if you're always either desperate about how you're going to repair a relationship or enjoying the delights of having just repaired it, or hating the other person and trying to figure out how on earth you're going to get rid of them before you make up again, that just fills the days.

Playboy: Do the British deal with desire differently from Americans?

Cleese: We're both equally immature as people, but Americans make no pretense whatsoever that they're not. They readily admit that their desires have to be immediately satisfied or they'll fly into a rage and start saying "Make my day" or "Get a life." Whereas we British pretend that we are more mature and therefore constantly postpone gratification despite the fact that it makes us depressed and irritable. Basically, once you've seen Brief Encounter, you understand everything.

Playboy: Could you desire someone who didn't desire you?

Cleese: When I was young and inexperienced, I could watch people from afar and think how attractive they were. Now, by and large, if there isn't some kind of mutual buzz going on, I don't find I'm attracted.

Curtis: Well, I've never let myself get into a situation of pining away for someone or something I couldn't have. And actually, if I've really wanted something, I've gotten it.

Playboy: And once you've gotten it?

Curtis: I like having it again. I don't mind a whole meal of it. I'm kind of repetitive by nature. A creature of habit. You might even say I'm addictive on some level. I usually get what I want and then get it again. And again. And again.

Playboy: When you say you've always gotten everything you've desired, does that include roles in films?

Curtis: That's a little different. There have been things I haven't gotten, but never anything I had to have. The idea of striving for the unattainable has never interested me.

Playboy: Regarding movies, how well do they handle the subject of desire?

Curtis: Badly. That's how they handle it. Look at Four Weddings and a Funeral, generally perceived as being one of the best movies about romantic desire. It was a big hit. People loved it. I hated it because I didn't believe any of it. I simply couldn't stand the Hugh Grant character. I'm totally uninterested in that sort of unrealistic, thin-ankled, sloppy-socked, baggy-shorted guy quoting David Cassidy songs. He doesn't exist in real life. Real people don't act the way people do in that movie. They don't make out in the rain; they make out inside, where it's comfortable.

Cleese: I love it when you go off on rants like this.

Curtis: But it's true. You want to yell, "Get out of the fucking rain."

Playboy: But you do like action-adventure movies, which don't have a lot of reality.

Curtis: I don't like action-adventure movies!

Cleese: I thought True Lies was autobiographical.

Curtis: True Lies is funny. It does not pretend to be real. It's a domestic comedy blown up to epic proportions. It's hilarious, just as Fierce Creatures is hilarious. This is a movie about what happens when an American conglomerate takes over a London zoo with the idea of making it much more commercial.

Cleese: With hilarious consequences. And, to bring us back on point, the movie is positively brimming with desire. Because Kevin Kline won the Academy Award for Wanda, we had to give him two roles--one character desires high status without responsibility, while the other craves nothing less than world conquest. Jamie's character desires success, but has to settle for mere happiness. My character desires, well, Jamie's character, as usual.

Playboy: Do you get her?

Cleese: Of course. I wrote the script.

Curtis: On that note, I really do have this tremendous desire that I can no longer resist.

Cleese: Really?

Curtis: I've got to get to sleep. Goodnight, all.

Cleese: Sweet dreams, pussycat. When I polish off my morning pork chop and muesli, I'll be thinking of you.

God, I love breakfast. I'll give you my top 13. First, obviously, chop de porc, cru, à la muesli.