Publicly, 2002 Timberlake was the sensitive ex–boy bander, a heartbroken heartthrob too genteel to speak ill of his ex but savvy enough to burn her in his songs (without naming her, of course). Simultaneously,
there were rumors that he privately said things like "Dude, smell my fingers" to choreographers to brag about having sex with America's impossible sweetheart: objectified and infantile, the bang-able vestal virgin next door. When Justin admitted to having sex with Britney, it was a significant blow to Spears' brand; at the time, she had told the press she wanted to try to remain celibate until marriage. But only recently has Timberlake's reputation been affected by the way he acted and spoke back then, due in no small part to the popularity of the New York Times film
Framing Britney
The conversation is likely to continue: The Times is releasing a new documentary on Friday, this time focused on Timberlake's infamous Super Bowl incident with Janet Jackson. It's a searing reminder of the part he played in the performance, its fallout, and the media's continued scrutiny of female artists whose sexuality was inextricable from their image. Twenty years later, in a drastically changed
cultural landscape, 2000s-era Justin Timberlake looks a lot different.
Between Britney and Janet, Justin once skated through controversies that had grievous PR effects on the women around him. Fortified by his undeniable musical talent—and make no mistake, he is one of the greatest performers of recent history—Timberlake's boy-next-door identity endured for decades, even in the face of evidence that contradicted it. The new reckoning around him feels like a cultural exorcism, a chance to use the boy band vessel to purge ourselves of the evils he now represents to many. But behind the scenes, he was at once a canny self-marketer and a blank, withholding presence at the hub of conflict, surrounded by publicists and media and managers who were crafting his image, too. Timberlake has become the perfect emblem of a bygone era that rewarded guys exactly like him—until it didn't
slate.com
