The Video
Published in the Austin American-Statesman (XLent), February 10, 2000
The video.
It begins quite innocently with a close up of R&B singer D'Angelo's flawless visage; we see his sexy, cornrowed hair, his bedroom eyes, those full, luscious lips.
Sigh.
And as he croons, the camera slides down his neck, reveals his collarbone, his broad man-shoulders. Then it pulls back to expose the most perfect set of pecs I think I've ever beheld.
Sigh.
And all the while D'Angelo is singing with this Marvin Gaye-esque expression on his face that asks “hey baby, do you want to see more?”
But before you can answer, the camera is moving again — constantly moving. It backs out and the wide angle reveals D'Angelo's tattooed upper arms in all their chiseled glory and an abdomen so ripped that by now the fact that he's singing is of no immediate significance whatsoever. It's about here that your brain, being the control freak that it is, sets your body into autopilot, forcing you to exhale lest you blow a serious internal gasket.
But the camera is merciless.
It carefully slips even more southward — I'm talking belly button and beyond — and you ask yourself, why is this man even singing; he's got so much . . . potential.
As I watched the video, I was well aware of my thoughts and the fact that I was experiencing the very thing I've always despised — wanton male lust. Countless times I have berated my male counterparts for being sexually charged pigs perpetrating the pathetic plague that is our society's obsession with physical perfection. In my endorphin-happy stupor, I recognized my transgression and immediately experienced a sense of chagrin.
Yet there was D'Angelo's glistening, rock-hard body enticing me with that “hey baby, do you want to see more?” appeal. and there I was, breathlessly uttering “yeah . . . uh huh . . . yeah.”
The same thing happened to me at the movies recently: “Any Given Sunday” was the film du soir. Because of the clips I'd seen, I was anticipating an action-packed drama/comedy about the nuances of football. I'll admit that I was equally excited about seeing two hot superstars, comedic genius Jamie Foxx and rapper LL Cool J, on the big screen in those fashionable little football tights the players wear.
As I watched, I found I was pretty satisfied with an occasional shot of a bare chest here or a glimpse of a powerful biceps there.
But I was totally unprepared for — drumroll here — the locker room scene.
The camera cascaded me into a “bad girl's utopia,” for lack of a better term, filled with 100-percent-naked men.
I'm talking full frontal male nudity for at least 7 seconds!
Shocked silence in the theater was broken by a harmonious GASP! followed by a procession of pubertal goosey giggles. And there I was, emerging from my own phallus-charged fog, absentmindedly nibbling on air; 10 buttery popcorn kernels were resting where I had apparently dropped them on my lapel after having missed my mouth completely.
As you can tell, I've given all of this some serious thought, and I won't apologize for my behavior. In fact, I'm tickled that the media are finally promoting equal exploitation for men. Women have been fully exposed purely for entertainment purposes on the big screen for decades (remember “Basic Instinct” and “Showgirls”?) while the exhibition of the naked male body is still somewhat taboo. Sure, there was Bruce Willis and his naked underwater antics in the unfortunate blunder “Color of Night,” and I vaguely recall Harvey Keitel stripping down to his birthday suit in the film “The Piano.”
But get real!
These men are not the physical counterparts of the Sharon Stones and Elizabeth Berkleys of Hollywood; Bruce and Harvey, while extremely gifted actors, don't have bodies that speak volumes, or even sentences, about men and their naked bodies.
Not like D'Angelo does, anyway.
Call me a pig, but this evening I plan to curl up on the couch with a cold Wild Cherry Pepsi and a big bag of Lay's potato chips. I'm going to watch Midnight Love videos on B.E.T. with the hopes that I'll be seduced once again by that hair, those eyes, those lips, those arms, those abs.
Sigh.
(R.I.P. D’Angelo. 1974-2025)