Make Films Horny Again

It may be best to think of the perennial topic “sex in the movies” as a parasite that will only die when its host – Twitter – is itself laid to rest, presumably some time in autumn 2023. “Sex in the movies is extraneous” hungrily feeds off the central Twitter organism, sucking in so many quotes and retweets, leeching off gif replies, returning again and again when you thought it had finally been killed off, and all the while excreting “conversations” and opinion pieces, like this one. 

How it goes is as follows: Some unfortunate youth still disgusted by the mechanics of sex writes that they hate sex in movies, as it makes everybody uncomfortable and more often than not detracts from the storyline, whereupon film critics and elders in their droves fall upon this comment as symptomatic of a wider ill. We are given to understand that there is a mounting prudish vein among teens and young adults; that the people who are disgusted by couples with an 18 month age gap are not just a handful of online blowhards, but the norm; that the young, whose mental health we are already worried about because of that article we read last week, are increasingly loath to bang. A piece in Salon suggests that young people might be turned off sex because of economic woes, social media and changing technology, and simply feeling like time is lacking; the Atlantic similarly finds that a perfect storm of porn, hook-up culture, changing social mores and values may have dented young people’s willingness to get down on the good foot and do the bad thing. 

Of course, these studies all point to a wider societal trend. On the fringes of those statistics, there are still, mercifully, plenty of teenagers and young adults getting pissed up on cheap booze and having horrible sex with each other. But the anti-sex thing crops up alarmingly often, too often to be a coincidence: We really must face the fact that there is a bunch of people out there who don’t want to see the hot stuff in films. 

A quick consideration of that viewpoint: to the usual charge that sex scenes are “unnecessary” as they don’t demonstrate character or serve the plot, thousands of sex scenes throughout cinema offer an obvious rebuttal. Look at how Sharon Stone fucks Michael Douglas in Basic Instinct – enticing him, taking possession of him, and playing on his fears, on her own power over him, in order to scramble his mind. Or watch the handjob in BPM (Beats Per Minute) – for my money, the best sex scene in film history – where one young man restores humanity and joy to his dying lover, shows him kindness and desire, and displays their mutual disregard for the strictures of the straight world, by beating him off on his hospital bed while nobody is looking. Everything you need to know about those men is here. 

Sex scenes are so key to a film that this writer can even think of some films in recent years that don’t have one, and perhaps should have. In Todd Haynes’ Carol, the camera retreats after some rather tame, deeply romantic overtures. It seems evident that we could have gained a great deal from seeing how these women interact sexually, particularly as their relationship develops in surprising ways throughout the movie. Phantom Thread is a flawless masterpiece, but a lot of its tension rests on the sexual charge between its leads – I am fascinated by what Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) is into, but it may be that his willingness to cede control to his young wife tells us enough on that subject. As for Brokeback Mountain: It needs at least eight times as much sex.

More than providing clues, though, sex in films is about pleasure and delight. The BPM handjob scene is sexy, but it’s also charming and funny. Movies are not edifices made out of building blocks; they aren’t a bridge to get from A to B. Stopping, and taking time to luxuriate in pleasure – whether that is the pleasure of being frightened or the pleasure of laughter, or whether it is the joy of revelling in visual beauty, or of getting turned on – is a radical act, and it is absolutely central to the art of cinema. 

What could be more gorgeous than a completely gratuitous sex scene – a lovely birthday present to the audience, of a bit of beautiful nudity? Ralph Fiennes and Kristin Scott Thomas sloshing about in a bath in The English Patient; Gael García Bernal pulling jeans over his wet, pants-free body in Bad Education; all of the silly sexy nonsense involving Neve Campbell and Denise Richards in Wild Things, or the beautiful and meaningful sex between Kim Min-hee and Kim Tae-ri in The Handmaiden: These scenes are there to enjoy. You are so lucky. Film stars are so much more attractive than you, and they did this for you! Say thank you! 

Enjoying a film, drinking in its beauty, is radical because it takes time out of our lives, and reconfigures the world as a place where we aren’t looking for clues, trying to find answers, heading somewhere, making money. Sex – the act of having it, especially, but also the act of watching it in films – runs counter to a society that wants us to produce all the time. 

(Incidentally, it’s not coincidental that, should you dare say online that you enjoy a sex scene, or indeed sex itself, you may find yourself besieged with people accusing you of showing off about having sex, or opining that you’re too ugly to have had sex, or some other high-school barb. These are the same people who are always astonished when Pete Davidson sleeps with someone “out of his league” or when a celebrity cheats on their partner with someone technically less hot. Do they really not understand how sex works? That Boris Johnson is a known lothario should shut everyone up on the subject for all eternity.) 

Beyond these considerations of what a sex scene is for (to develop character, advance the story, procure radical enjoyment), there remains the question of dealing with sex as part of the process of growing up. It’s surely germane that the rise in people complaining about sex in movies has come amid a growing infantilisation of culture, with Marvel and Disney fare now occupying a spot in the culture formerly taken by mid-budget films about adults doing adult things. Watching sex in movies used to be a fun, occasionally uncomfortable rite of passage. Seeing sex scenes in films that your parents are also watching may give you the ick, but life is about getting over that, and coming to terms with the fact that your parents also have sex and are therefore also humans who are not totally bound by reason. 

It may be that aversion to sex in films is symptomatic of a growing dislocation, in which sex has its allotted place – in the bedroom, under strict rules; in porn, on your private phone – and is not required to interfere in other spheres. The interruption of sex into other domains is then treated like an attack, because it was so unexpected. But learning to deal with surprises is needed in order to navigate this world; developing a taste for things that you didn’t enjoy before is how children learn to enjoy vegetables; getting over your fear is how you once learned to walk. 

Film – especially in cinemas – is still a communal experience, which can challenge us in meaningful ways, and help us to understand the humanity of those around us. It can stop the world’s demands for two hours, while you savour the pleasures of landscape, music, flesh and beauty. 

A final note: In the last scenes of John Cameron Mitchell’s Shortbus – which is absolutely full of sex – all the queers come together in song and joyous lubricity at a sex club, during a power shortage, as Mx Justin Vivian Bond sings “we all get it in the end”. The main character, who has been unable to achieve orgasm throughout, finally cums, and the camera pans out, through the windows and over the city, as the life-force of her pleasure restores electricity to the whole of New York. You can be her, and surrender to pleasure, or you can sit in your apartment in the dark, waiting, waiting for the lights to come back on.